Zataki took the manifest and jerked a thumb at Hogg. “Out!” “If you don’t mind, I’m responsible for the aircraft, sorry,” Hogg said. “Last tune. Out.”
Starke said, “Get out of your seat a moment, Johnny. He just wants to see if there are any guns. Excellency, it would be safer if the pilot was allowed to stay in place. I will vouch for him.” “Out!”
Reluctantly John Hogg eased himself out of the small cockpit. Zataki made sure nothing was in the side pockets, then waved him back into the seat and studied the cabin. “Those are the spares you need?”
“Yes,” Starke said, and politely made room on the landing where Zataki shouted for some of his men to carry the crates onto the tarmac. The men did this carelessly, banging the sides of the doorway and the steps, making the pilots wince. Then Zataki searched the aircraft carefully, finding nothing that irritated him. Except the wine on ice and the liquor in the cabinet. “No more liquor into Iran. None. Confiscated!” He had the bottles smashed on the tarmac and ordered the crates opened. One jet engine and many other spares. Everything on the manifest. Starke watched from the cabin doorway, trying to make himself inconspicuous.
Zataki said, “Who are these passengers?” The second officer gave him the list of names. It was headed in English and Farsi: “Temporarily redundant pilots and mechanic, all overdue leave and replacement.” He began to scrutinize it, and them.
“Duke,” Johnny Hogg said cautiously from the cockpit, “I’ve some money for you and a letter from McIver. Is it safe?”
“For the moment.”
“Two envelopes in my inside uniform pocket, hanging up. The letter’s private, Mac said.”
Starke found them and stuffed them into his inner parka pocket. “What’s going on in Tehran?” he asked out of the side of his mouth. “The airport’s a madhouse, thousands trying to get on the three or four planes they’ve allowed in so far,” Hogg said rapidly, “with at least six jumbos stacked in a holding pattern aimlessly waiting for permission to land. I, er, I just jumped the queue, peeled in without a real clearance, and said, Oh, so sorry, I thought I was cleared, picked up my lot, and scarpered. Hardly had time to chat with McIver - he was surrounded by trigger-happy revs and an odd mullah or two - but he seems okay. Pettikin, Nogger, and the others seemed okay. I’m based at Al Shargaz for at least a week to shuttle back and forth as I can.” Al Shargaz was not far from Dubai, where S-G had its HQ that side of the Gulf. “We’ve permission from Tehran ATC to bring in spares and crew to match those we intend to take out - looks like they’re going to keep us more or less one for one and up to strength - with flights scheduled Saturdays and Wednesdays.” He stopped for breath. “Mac says for you to find excuses for me to come here from time to time - I’ m to be kind of a courier for him and Andy Gavallan till normality re - ” “Watch it,” Starke said, behind his hand, seeing Zataki glance up at the airplane. He had been watching him inspect the passengers and their documents. Then he saw Zataki beckon him and he went down the stairs. “Yes, Excellency?”
“This man has no exit permit.”
The man was Roberts, one of the fitters, middle-aged, very experienced. Anxiety etched his already-lined face. “I told him I couldn’t get one, Cap’n Starke, we couldn’t get one, the immigration offices’re still all closed. There was no problem at Tehran.”
Starke glanced at the document. It was only four days past expiration. “Perhaps you could let it go this time, Excellency. It’s true that the off - ”
“No correct exit permit, no exit. He stays!”
Roberts went white. “But Tehran passed me and I’ve got to be in Lon - ” Zataki grabbed him by the parka and jerked him out of line to send him sprawling. Enraged, Roberts scrambled to his feet. “By God, I’m cleared an - ” He stopped. One of the Green Bands had a rifle in his chest, another was behind him, both now ready to pull the triggers.
Starke said, “Wait by the jeep, Roberts. Goddamnit, wait by the jeep!” One of the Green Bands roughly shoved the mechanic toward it as Starke tried to cover his own worry. Jon Tyrer and Manuela did not have up-to-date exit papers either.
“No exit permits, no exit!” Zataki repeated venomously and took the next man’s papers.
Genny, next in line, was very frightened, hating Zataki and the violence and the smell of the fear surrounding her, sorry for Roberts who needed to be back in England as one of his children was very ill, polio suspected, and no mail or phones and the telex sporadic. She watched Zataki slowly going through the pilot’s papers next to her. Rotten bastard! she thought. I’ve got to get on that plane, got to. Oh, how I wish we were all leaving. Poor Duncan, he simply won’t look after himself, won’t bother to eat properly and he’s bound to get his ulcers back. “My exit permit’s not current,” she said trying to sound timid, and let some tears glisten her eyes. “Nor mine,” Manuela said in a small voice.
Zataki looked at them. He hesitated. “Women are not responsible, men are responsible. You two women may leave. This time. Go aboard.” “Can Mr. Roberts come too?” Genny asked, pointing to the mechanic, “He’s rea - ”
“Get aboard!” Zataki shouted in one of his sudden, maniacal rages, blood in his face. The two women fled up the stairs, everyone else in momentary panic, and even his own Green Bands shifted nervously.
“Excellency, you were right,” Starke said in Farsi, forcing himself to be outwardly calm. “Women should not argue.” He waited and everyone waited, hardly breathing, the dark eyes boring into him. But he kept his gaze level. Zataki nodded and, sullenly, continued examining the papers in his hand. Yesterday Zataki had come back from Isfahan and Esvandiary had authorized a flight for tomorrow afternoon to carry him back to Bandar Delam again. The sooner the better, Starke thought grimly. And yet he felt sorry for Zataki. Last night he found him leaning against a helicopter, his hands pressed to his temples, in great pain. “What is it, Agha?”
“My head. I - it’s my head.”
He had persuaded him to see Dr. Nutt and taken him privately to the doctor’s bungalow.
“Just give me aspirin, or codeine, Doctor, whatever you have,” Zataki had said.
“Perhaps you’d let me examine you and th - ”
“No examine!” Zataki had shouted. “I know what’s wrong with me. SAVAK is wrong with me, prison is wrong with me…” And later, when the codeine had taken away some of the pain, Zataki had told Starke that about a year and a half ago he had been arrested, accused of anti-Shah propaganda. At the time he was working as a journalist for one of the Abadan newspapers. He had been jailed for eight months and then, just after the Abadan fire, released. He had not told Starke what they had done to him. “As God wants, pilot,” he had said bitterly. “But since that day, I bless God every day for one more day of life to stamp out more SAVAKs and Shah men, his lackey police and lackey soldiers and any and all who assisted his evil - once I supported him, didn’t he pay for my education, here and in England? But he was to blame for SAVAK! He was to blame! That part of my vengeance is just for me - I still haven’t started on my revenge for my wife and sons murdered in the Abadan fire.”
Starke had held his peace. The how or why or who of the arson that had caused almost five hundred deaths had never come to light. He watched Zataki work slowly and laboriously down the line of would-be passengers - how many more with incomplete or not current papers Starke did not know, everyone tense, a brooding pall over them. Soon it would be Tyrer’s turn and Tyrer must go. Doc Nutt had said to be safe Tyrer should be examined at Al Shargaz or Dubai as soon as possible where there were marvelous hospital facilities. “I’m sure he’s all right, but it’s best for him to rest his eyes for the time being. And listen, Duke, for the love of God, keep out of Zataki’s way and warn the others to do the same. He’s ripe to explode and God only knows what’ll happen then.” “What’s the matter with him?”