“That’s all he said, except he sounded checker.”
“I’ll inform Captain McIver and call you back as soon as possible.” JeanLuc leaned forward and Pettikin let him take the mike.
“This’s JeanLuc, Freddy, please call Scot and tell him I’ll be back as planned tomorrow before noon. Good to talk to you, thanks, here’s Charlie again.” He handed the mike back, all of his bonhomie vanished. “Will do, Captain Sessonne. Nice to talk to you. Next: the 125 picked up our outgoings along with Mrs. Starke, including Captain Jon Tyrer who’d been wounded in an aborted leftist counterattack at Bandar Delam…” “What attack?” JeanLuc muttered.
“First I’ve heard of it.” Pettikin was just as concerned. “… and, according to plan, will bring back replacement crews in a few days. Next: Captain Starke.” They all heard the hesitation and underlying anxiety and the curious stilted delivery as though this information was being read: “Captain Starke has been taken into Kowiss for questioning by a komiteh…” Both men gasped. “… to ascertain facts about a mass helicopter escape of pro-Shah air force officers from Isfahan on the thirteenth, last Tuesday, believed to have been piloted by a European. Next: air operations continue to improve under close supervision of the new management. Mr. Esvandiary is now our IranOil area manager and wants us to take over all Guerney contracts. To do this would require three more 212s and one 206. Please advise. We need spares for HBN, HKJ, and HGX and money for overdue wages. That’s all for now.”
Pettikin kept scribbling, his brain hardly working. “I’ve, er, I’ve noted everything and will inform Captain McIver as soon as he returns. You said, er, you said ‘an attack on Bandar Delam.’ Please give the details.” The airwaves were silent but for static. They waited. Then again Ayre’s voice, not stilted now: “I’ve no information other than there was an anti-Ayatollah Khomeini attack that Captains Starke and Lutz helped put down. Afterward Captain Starke brought the wounded here for treatment. Of our personnel only Tyrer was creased. That is all.”
Pettikin felt a bead of sweat on his face and he wiped it off. “What… what happened to Tyrer?”
Silence. Then: “A slight head wound. Dr. Nutt said he’d be okay.” JeanLuc said, “Charlie, ask him what was that about Isfahan.” As though in dreamtime. Pettikin saw his ringers click on the sender switch. “What was that about Isfahan?”
They waited in the silence. Then: “I have no information other than what I gave you.”
“Someone’s telling him what to say,” JeanLuc muttered.
Pettikin pressed the sending button, changed his mind. So many questions to ask that Ayre clearly could not answer. “Thank you, Captain,” he said, glad that his voice sounded firmer. “Please ask Hotshot to put his request for the extra choppers in writing, with suggested contract time and payment schedule. Put it on our 125 when they bring replacements. Keep… keep us informed about Captain Starke. McIver‘11 get back to you as soon as possible.”
“Wilco. Out.”
Now only static. Pettikin fiddled with the switches. The two men looked at each other, oblivious of Sayada who sat quietly on the sofa, missing nothing. “‘Close supervision’? That sounds bad, JeanLuc.” “Yes. Probably means they have to fly with armed Green Bands.” JeanLuc swore, all his thinking on Zagros and how young Scot Gavallan would cope without his leadership. “Merde! When I left this morning everything was five by five with Shiraz ATC as helpful as a Swiss hotelier off-season. Merde!” Pettikin was suddenly reminded of Rakoczy and how close he had come to disaster. For a second he considered telling JeanLuc, then decided against it. Old news! “Maybe we should contact Shiraz ATC for help?” “Mac might have an idea. Mon Dieu, doesn’t sound too good either for Duke - these komitehs’re breeding like lice. Bazargan and Khomeini better deal with them quickly before the two of them’re bitten to death.” JeanLuc got up, very concerned, and stretched, then saw Sayada curled up on the sofa, her untouched cup of tea on the small table beside her, smiling at him. At once his bonhomie returned. There’s nothing more I can do for young Scot at the moment, or for Duke, but there is for Sayada. “Sorry, chérie,” he said with a beam. “You see, without me there are always problems at Zagros. Charlie, we’ll leave now - I’ve got to check the apartment but we’ll return before dinner. Say 8:00 P.M.; by then Mac should be back, eh?” “Yes. Won’t you have a drink? Sorry, we’ve no wine. Whisky?” He offered it halfheartedly as this was their last three quarters of a bottle. “No thanks, mon vieux.” JeanLuc got into his coat, noticed in the mirror that he was looking as dashing as ever, and thought of the cases of wine and the tins of cheese he had had the wisdom to tell his wife to stock in their apartment. “A bientot, I’ll bring you some wine.”
“Charlie,” Sayada said, watching both of them carefully as she had done since the HF came to life, “what did Scotty mean about the helicopter escape?”
Pettikin shrugged. “All sorts of rumors about all sorts of escapes, by land, sea, and air. Always ‘Europeans’ supposed to be involved,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing. “We’re blamed for everything.”
And why not, you are responsible, Sayada Bertolin thought without malice. Politically, she was delighted to see them both sweating. Personally, she wasn’t. She liked both of them and most of the pilots, particularly JeanLuc who pleased her immensely and amused her constantly. I’m lucky to be Palestinian, she told herself, and Coptic Christian - of ancient lineage. That gives me strengths they don’t have, an awareness of a heritage back to biblical times, an understanding of life they could never reach, along with the capacity to dissociate politics from friendship and the bedchamber - as long as it is necessary and prudent. Haven’t we had thirty centuries of survival training? Hasn’t Gaza been settled for three thousand years? “There’s a rumor Bakhtiar’s slipped out of the country and fled to Paris.” “I don’t believe that, Charlie,” Sayada said. “But there’s another that I do,” she added, noticing he had not answered her question about the Isfahan helicopter. “It seems your General Valik and his family fled to join the other IHC partners in London. Between them they’re supposed to have salted away millions of dollars.”
“Partners?” JeanLuc said contemptuously. “Robbers, all of them, whether here or London, every year worse than before.”
“They’re not all bad,” Pettikin said.
JeanLuc said, “Those cretins steal the sweat of our brow, Sayada. I’m astounded Old Man Gavallan lets them get away with it.”
“Come off it, JeanLuc,” Pettikin said. “He fights them every inch of the way.”
“Every inch of our way, old friend. We do the flying, he doesn’t. As for Valik…” JeanLuc shrugged with Gallic extravagance. “If I was an Iranian of wealth, I would have gone months ago with all I could collect. It’s been clear for months that the Shah was out of control. Now it’s the French Revolution and the Terror all over again but without our style, sense, civilized heritage, or manners.” He shook his head disgustedly. “What a waste! When you think of all the centuries of teaching and wealth we French’ve put in trying to help these people crawl out of the Dark Ages and what have they learned? Not even how to make a decent loaf of bread!” Sayada laughed and, on tiptoe, kissed him. “Ah, JeanLuc, I love you and your confidence. Now, mon vieux, we should go, you’ve lots to accomplish!” After they had left, Pettikin went to the window and stared out at the rooftops. There was the inevitable sporadic gunfire and some smoke near Jaleh. Not a big fire but enough. A stiff breeze scattered the smoke. Clouds reached down the mountains. The cold from the windows was strong, ice and snow on the sills. In the street below were many Green Bands. Walking or in trucks. Then from minarets everywhere muezzins began calling to afternoon prayer. Their calls seemed to surround him.