Suddenly he was filled with dread.
AT THE MINISTRY OF AVIATION: 5:04 P.M. Duncan McIver was sitting wearily on a wooden chair in a corner of the crowded antechamber of the deputy minister. He was cold and hungry and very irritable. His watch told him he had been waiting almost three hours.
Scattered around the room were a dozen other men, Iranians, some French, American, British, and one Kuwaiti wearing a galabia - a long-flowing Arabian robe-and headband. A few moments ago the Europeans had politely stopped chatting as, in response to the muezzins’ calls that still came through the tall windows, the Muslims had knelt, faced Mecca, and prayed the afternoon prayer. It was short and quickly over and once more the desultory conversation picked up - never wise to discuss anything important in a government office, particularly now. The room was drafty, the air chilly. They all still wore their overcoats, were equally weary, a few stoic, most seething, for all, like McIver, had long overdue appointments. “Insha’Allah,” he muttered but that didn’t help him.
With any luck Gen’s already at Al Shargaz, he thought. I’m damned glad she’s safely out, and damned glad she came up with the reason herself: “I’m the one who can talk to Andy. You can’t put anything into writing.” “That’s true,” he had said, in spite of his misgivings, reluctantly adding, “Maybe Andy can make a plan that we could carry out - might carry out. Hope to God we don’t have to. Too bloody dangerous. Too many lads and too many planes spread out. Too bloody dangerous. Gen, you forget we’re not at war though we’re in the middle of one.”
“Yes, Duncan, but we’ve nothing to lose.”
“We’ve people to lose, as well as birds.”
“We’re only going to see if it’s feasible, aren’t we, Duncan?” Old Gen’s certainly the best go-between we could have - if we really needed one. She’s right, much too dangerous to put in a letter: “Andy, the only way we can safely extract ourselves from this mess is to see if we can come up with a plan to pull out all our planes - and spares - that’re presently under Iranian registry and technically owned by an Iranian company called IHC…”
Christ! Isn’t that a conspiracy to defraud!
Leaving is not the answer. We’ve got to stay and work and get our money when the banks open. Somehow I’ve got to get the partners to help - or maybe this minister can give us a hand. If he’ll help, whatever it costs, we could wait out the storm here. Any government’s got to have help to get their oil up, they’ve got to have choppers and we’ll get our money…
He looked up as the inner door opened and a bureaucrat beckoned one of the others into the inner room. By name. There never seemed to be a logic to the manner of being called. Even in the Shah’s time it was never first come, first served. Then it was only influence. Or money.
Talbot of the British embassy had arranged the appointment for him with the deputy prime minister and had given him a letter of introduction. “Sorry, old boy, even I can’t get into the PM, but his deputy Antazam’s a good sort, speaks good English - not one of these rev twits. He’ll fix you up.”
McIver had got back from the airport just before lunch and had parked as near as he could to the government offices. When he had presented the letter, in English and Farsi, to the guard on the main door in plenty of time, the man had sent him with another guard down the street to another building and more inquiries and then, from there, down another street to this building and from office to office until he arrived here, an hour late and fuming.
“Ah, don’t worry, Agha, you’re in plenty of time,” the friendly reception clerk said, to his relief, in good English, and handed back the envelope containing the introduction. “This is the right office. Please go through that door and take a seat in the anteroom. Minister Kia will see you as soon as possible.”
“I don’t want to see him,” he had almost exploded. “My appointment’s with Deputy Prime Minister Antazam!”
“Ah, Deputy Minister Antazam, yes, Agha, but he’s no longer in Prime Minister Bazargan’s government. Insha’Allah,” the young man said pleasantly. “Minister Kia deals with everything to do with, er, foreigners, finances, and airplanes.”
“But I must insist th - ” McIver stopped as the name registered and he remembered what Talbot had said about Kia and how remaining IHC partners had implanted this man on the board with an enormous retainer and no guarantees of assistance. “Minister Ali Kia?”
“Yes, Agha. Minister Ali Kia will see you as soon as possible.” The receptionist was a pleasant, well-dressed young man in a suit and white shirt and blue tie, just like in the old days. McIver had had the foresight to enclose a pishkesh of 5,000 rials in the envelope with the introduction, just like in the old days. The money had vanished.
Perhaps things are really getting back to normal, McIver thought, went into the other room, and took a chair in the corner and began to wait. In his pocket was another wad of rials and he wondered if he should refill the envelope with the appropriate amount. Why not, he thought, we’re in Iran, minor officials need minor money, high officials, high money - sorry, pishkesh. Making sure no one observed him, he put some high denomination notes into the envelope, then added a few more for safety. Maybe this bugger can really help us - the partners used to have the court buttoned up, perhaps they’ve done the same to Bazargan.
From time to time harassed bureaucrats hurried importantly through the anteroom into the inner room, papers in their hands, and came out again. Occasionally, one of the men waiting would be politely ushered in. Without exception they were inside for just a few minutes and emerged taut-faced or red-faced, furious, and obviously empty-handed. Those who still waited felt more and more frustrated. Time passed very slowly.
“Agha McIver!” The inner door was open now, a bureaucrat beckoning him. Ali Kia was seated behind a very large desk with no papers on it. He wore a smile, but his eyes were hard and small and McIver instinctively disliked him.
“Ah, Minister, how kind of you to see me,” McIver said, forcing bonhomie, offering his hand. Ali Kia smiled politely and shook hands limply. “Please sit down, Mr. McIver. Thank you for coming to see me. You have an introduction I believe?” His English was good, Oxford-accented, where he had gone to university just before World War II on a Shah grant, staying for the duration. He waved a tired hand at the bureaucrat beside the door. The man left.
“Yes, it, er, it was to Deputy Minister Antazam, but I understand it should have been directed to you.” McIver handed him the envelope. Kia took out the introduction, noticed the amount of the notes exactly, tossed the envelope carelessly onto the desk to indicate more should be forthcoming, read the handwritten note with care, then put it down in front of him. “Mr. Talbot is an honored friend of Iran though a representative of a hostile government,” Kia said, his voice smooth. “What particular help can I give the friend of such an honored person?”
“There’re three things, Minister. But perhaps I may be allowed to say how happy we are at S-G that you’ve considered giving us the benefit of your valuable experience by joining our board.”