In the car McIver drove, Gavallan was beside him, Genny in the back. “Mac, let’s talk about Iran.”
They went through their options. Each time they came back to the same gloomy conclusion: they had to hope the situation came back to normal, the banks reopened, they got the money owing to them, that their joint venture was exempt and they weren’t nailed.“You just have to keep going, Mac. While we can operate, you’ll have to continue, whatever the problems.” McIver was equally grave. “I know. But how do I operate without money - and what about the lease payments?”
“Somehow I’ll get you operating money. I’ll bring cash from London in a week. I can carry the lease payment on your aircraft and spares for another few months; I may even be able to do the same with the X63s if I can reschedule payments but, well, I hadn’t planned on losing so many contracts to IH - maybe I can get some of them back. Whichever way, it’ll be dicey for a while but not to worry. Hope to God Johnny gets in; just have to get home now, there’s so much to do. …”
McIver narrowly avoided a head-on collision with a car that charged out of a side street, almost went into the joub, and came back onto the roadway again. “Bloody twit! You all right, Gen?” He glanced into the rearview window and winced, seeing her stony face.
Gavallan felt the icy blast too, started to say something to her but thought better of it. Wonder if I could get hold of Ian - perhaps he could guide me out of the abyss - and, thinking of that, reminded him of David MacStruan’s tragic death. So many of them, the Struans, MacStruans, Dunrosses, their enemies the Gornts, Rothwells, Brocks of ancient days, had died violent deaths or vanished - lost at sea - or died in strange accidents. So far Ian’s survived. But how much longer? Not many more times. “I think I’m up to my eighth, Andy,” Dunross had said the last time they met. “What now?”
“Nothing much. Car bomb went off in Beirut just after I’d passed by. Nothing to worry about, I’ve said it before, there’s no pattern. I just happen to have a charmed life.”
“Like Macao?”
Dunross was an enthusiastic racer and had driven in many of the Macao Grand Prix. In ‘65 - the race still amateur then - he had won the race but the right front tire of his E Type blew out at the winning post and shoved him into the barricade and sent him tumbling down the track, other cars taking evading action, one careening into him. They had cut him out of the wreckage, everything intact, unhurt but for his left foot missing. “Like Macao, Andy,” Dunross had said with his strange smile. “Just an accident. Both times.” The other time his engine had exploded but he had been unscathed. Whispers had it that his engine had been tampered with - the finger pointed at his enemy Quillan Gornt, but not publicly.
Quillan’s dead and Ian’s alive, Gavallan thought. So am I. So’s Linbar; that bastard will go on forever…. Christ Almighty, I’m getting morbid and stupid - got to stop it. Mac’s worried enough as it is. Got to figure a way out of the vise. “In an emergency, Mac, I’ll send messages through Talbot, you do the same. I’ll be back in a few days without fail and by then I’ll have answers - meanwhile I’ll base the 125 until further notice - Johnny can be a courier for us. That’s the best I can do for today….” Genny, who had not uttered a word and had politely refused to be drawn into the conversation though she listened attentively, was also more than a little worried. It’s obvious there’s no future for us here, and I’d be quite very glad to leave - provided Duncan comes too. Even so, we can’t just meekly run away with our tails between our legs and let all of Duncan’s work and life’s nest egg be stolen, that’d kill him as certainly as any bullet. Ugh! I do wish he’d do what he’s told - he should have retired last year when the Shah was still in power. Men! Bloody stupid, the whole lot of them! Christ Almighty! What fools men are!
Traffic was very slow now. Twice they had to divert because of barricades erected across the roads - both of them guarded by armed men, not Green Bands, who angrily waved them away. Bodies here and there among the piled refuse, bumed-out cars and one tank. Dogs scavenging. Once there was sudden firing nearby and they took a side street, avoiding a pitched battle between what factions they never found out. A stray bazooka shell plastered a nearby building but without danger to them. McIver eased his way around the burned hulk of a bus, more than ever glad that he had insisted that Genny evacuate Iran. Again he glanced at her in the rearview mirror and saw the white face under the hat and his heart went out to her. She’s damn good, he thought proudly, so much guts. Damn good, but so bloody-minded. Hate that bloody hat. Hats don’t suit her. Why the hell won’t she do what she’s told without arguing? Poor old Gen, I’ll be so relieved when she’s not in danger. Near the airport, traffic almost came to a standstill, hundreds of cars crammed with people, many Europeans, men, women, and children, going there on the rumor that the airport had been reopened - enraged Green Bands turning everyone away, crude signs scrawled in Farsi and misspelled English nailed to trees and to walls: AIRPRT FORBIDUN NOW. AIRPRT OPEN MONDAY - - IF TICKUT AND EXIT PURMIT.
It took them half an hour to talk their way through the barrier. It was Genny who finally managed it. Like most of the wives who had to shop and to deal with servants and day-to-day living, she could speak some Farsi - and though she had not said a word all the way, she leaned forward and spoke to the Green Bands pleasantly. At once they were waved through. “My God, Gen, that was wonderful,” McIver said. “What did you tell that bastard?”
“Andy,” she said smugly, “please tell Mr. McIver I told them he was a suspected smallpox carrier who was being sent out of the country.” More Green Bands were on the gate that led to the freighting area and their office, but this time it was easier and clearly they were expected. The 125 was already on the runway, surrounded by armed Green Bands and trucks. Two motorcycle Green Bands motioned them to follow and roared off onto the tarmac, leading the way.
“Why are you late?” the mullah Tehrani said irritably, coming down the 125’s steps, two armed revs following. Both Gavallan and McIver noticed he was wearing new glasses. They caught a glimpse of John Hogg inside the cabin, one of the revs at the head of the steps with a leveled submachine gun. “The aircraft must take off instantly. Why are you late?”
“So sorry, Excellency, the traffic - Insha’Allah! So sorry,” McIver said carefully. “I understand from Captain Lane your work for the Ayatollah, may he live forever, was satisfactory?”
“There was not enough time to complete all my work. As God wants. It is, er, it is necessary to go tomorrow. You will arrange it please. For 9:00 A.M.” “With pleasure. Here is the passenger crew manifest.” McIver gave him the paper. Gavallan, Genny, and Armstrong were on it, Armstrong as going on leave.
Tehrani read the paper easily now, openly ecstatic with his glasses. “Where is this Armstrong?” “Oh, I presumed he was aboard.”
“There’s no one aboard but the crew,” the mullah said irritably, the vast pleasure of being able to see overcoming his nervousness at having allowed the 125 to land. But he was glad he had, the glasses were a gift of God and the second pair promised by the pilot next week a protection against breakage and the third pair just for reading… Oh, God is Great. God is Great, all thanks to God for putting the thought into the pilot’s head and for letting me see so well. “The aircraft must leave at once.”
“It’s not like Mr. Armstrong to be late, Excellency,” Gavallan said with a frown. Neither he nor McIver had heard from him since yesterday - nor had he come to the flat last night. This morning Talbot had shrugged, saying that Armstrong had been delayed, but not to worry, he would be at the airport on time. “Perhaps he’s waiting in the office,” Gavallan said. “There is no one there who should not be there. The aircraft will leave now. It will not wait. Aboard, please! The aircraft will leave now.” “Perfect,” Gavallan said. “As God wants. By the way we’d like clearance for the 125 to come back Saturday and clearance for a 206 to go to Tabriz tomorrow.” With great formality he handed him the papers, neatly filled out. “The, er, the 125 may return but no flights to Tabriz. Perhaps Saturday.” “But, Excellency, don’t y - ”