“My cousin was most insistent. I doubt I can help, but, as God wants.” “As God wants.” McIver had been watching him carefully, trying to read him, and could not explain the immediate dislike he took great pains to hide. “First, there’s a rumor that all joint ventures are suspended, pending a decision of the Revolutionary Komiteh.”
“Pending a decision of the government,” Kia corrected him curtly. “So?” “How will that affect our joint company, IHC?”
“I doubt if it will affect it at all, Mr. McIver. Iran needs helicopter service for oil production. Guerney Aviation has fled. It would seem the future looks better than ever for our company.”
McIver said carefully, “But we haven’t been paid for work done in Iran for many months. We’ve been carrying all lease payments for the aircraft from Aberdeen and we’re heavily over-committed here in aircraft for the amount of work we have on the books.”
“Tomorrow the banks… the Central Bank is due to open. By order of the PM - and the Ayatollah, of course. A proportion of the money owed will, I’m sure, be forthcoming.”
“Would you conjecture how much we can expect, Minister?” McIver’s hope quickened.
“More than enough to… to keep our operation going. I’ve already arranged for you to take out crews once their replacements are here.” Ali Kia took a thin file from a drawer and gave him a paper. It was an order directed to Immigration at Tehran, Abadan, and Shiraz airports to allow out accredited IHC pilots and engineering crews, one for one, against incoming crew. The order was badly typed but legible, in Farsi and English, and signed on behalf of the komiteh responsible for IranOil and dated yesterday. McIver had never heard of him.
“Thank you. May I also have your approval for the 125 to make at least three trips a week for the next few weeks - of course only until your international airports are back to normal - to bring in crews, spares, and equipment, replacement parts, and so on, and,” he added matter-of-factly, “to take out redundancies.”
“It might be possible to approve that,” Kia said.
McIver handed him the set of papers. “I took the liberty of putting it into writing - to save you the bother, Minister - with copies addressed to Air Traffic Control at Kish, Kowiss, Shiraz, Abadan, and Tehran.” Kia read the top copy carefully. It was in Farsi and English, simple, direct, and with the correct formality. His fingers trembled. To sign them would far exceed his authority but now that the deputy prime minister was in disgrace, as well as his own superior - both supposedly dismissed by this still mysterious Revolutionary Komiteh - and with mounting chaos in the government, he knew he had to take the risk. The absolute need for him, his family, and his friends to have ready access to a private airplane, particularly a jet, made the risk worthwhile.
I can always say my superior told me to sign it, he thought, keeping his nervousness away from his face and eyes. The 125 is a gift from God - just in case lies are spread about me. Damn Jared Bakravan! My friendship with that bazaari dog almost embroiled me in his treason against the state; I’ve never lent money in my life, nor engaged in plots with foreigners, nor supported the Shah.
To keep McIver off balance he tossed the papers beside the introduction almost angrily. “It might be possible for this to be approved. There would be a landing fee of $500 per landing. Was that everything, Mr. McIver?” he asked, knowing it was not. Devious British dog! Do you think you can fool me?
“Just one thing, Excellency.” McIver handed him the last paper. “We’ve three aircraft that’re in desperate need of servicing and repair. I need the exit permit signed so I can send them to Al Shargaz.” He held his breath. “No need to send valuable airplanes out, Mr. McIver; repair them here.” “Oh, I would if I could, Excellency, but there’s no way I can do that. We don’t have the spares or the engineers - and every day that one of our choppers’re not working costs the partners a fortune. A fortune,” he repeated.
“Of course you can repair them here, Mr. McIver, just bring the spares and the engineers from Al Shargaz.”
“Apart from the cost of the aircraft there’re the crews to support and pay for. It’s all very expensive; perhaps I should mention that’s the Iranian partners’ cost - that’s part of their agreement … to supply all the necessary exit permits.” McIver continued to wheedle. “We need to get every available piece of equipment ready to service all the new Guerney contracts if the Ay - if, er, the government’s decree to get oil production back to normal is to be obeyed. Without equipment…” He left the word hanging and again held his breath, praying he’d chosen the right bait. Kia frowned. Anything that cost the Iranian partnership money came partially out of his own pocket now. “How soon could they be repaired and brought back?”
“If I can get them out within a couple of days, two weeks, maybe more, maybe less.”
Again Kia hesitated. The Guerney contracts, added to existing IHC contracts, helicopters, equipment, fixtures, and fittings were worth millions of which he now had a sixth share - for no investment, he chortled deep inside. Particularly if everything was provided, without cost, by these foreigners! Exit permits for three helicopters? He glanced at his watch. It was Cartier and bejeweled - a pishkesh from a banker who, two weeks ago, had needed a private half an hour access to a working telex. In a few minutes he had an appointment with the chairman of Air Traffic Control and could easily embroil him in this decision.
“Very well,” he said, delighted to be so powerful, an official on the rise, to be able to assist the implementation of government oil policy, and save the partnership money at the same time. “Very well, but the exit permits will only be valid for two weeks, the license will” - he thought a moment - “will be $5,000 per aircraft in cash prior to exit, and they must be back in two weeks.”
“I, I can’t get that money in cash in time. I could give you a note, or checks payable on a Swiss bank - for $2,000 per aircraft.” They haggled for a moment and settled on $3,100. “Thank you, Agha McIver,” Ali Kia said politely. “Please leave downcast lest you encourage those rascals waiting outside.”
When McIver was once more in his car he took out the papers and stared at the signatures and official stamps. “It’s almost too good to be true,” he muttered out loud. The 125’s legal now, Kia says the suspension won’t apply to us, we’ve exit permits for three 212s that’re needed in Nigeria - $9,310 against their value of 3 million’s more than fair! I never thought I’d get away with it! “McIver,” he said happily, “you deserve a Scotch! A very large Scotch!”
IN THE NORTHERN SUBURBS: 6:50 P.M. Tom Lochart got out of the battered old cab and gave the man a $20 note. His raincoat and flight uniform were crumpled and he was very tired and unshaven and dirty and felt soiled, but his happiness at being outside his own apartment building and near Sharazad at long last took away all of it. A few flakes of snow were falling but he hardly noticed them as he hurried inside and up the staircase - no need to try the elevator, it had not worked for months.
The car that he had borrowed from one of the pilots at Bandar Delam had run out of gas yesterday, halfway to Tehran, the gas gauge defective. He had left it at a garage and fought onto the next bus and then another and, after breakdowns and delays and diversions, had reached the main terminal in Tehran two hours ago. Nowhere to wash, no running water, the toilets just the usual festering, clogged, flyblown holes in the ground. No cabs at the cab rank or on the streets. No buses running anywhere near his home. Too far to walk. Then a cab appeared and he stopped it even though it was almost full, following custorn, he pulled open a door and forced his way in, beseeching the other passengers to allow him to share their transport. A reasonable compromise was reached. They would be honored if he would stay and he would be honored to pay for all of them, and be last, and to pay the driver in cash. American cash. It was his last bill. He got out his keys and turned the lock but the door was bolted from the inside, so he pressed the bell, waiting impatiently for the maid to open the door; Sharazad would never have opened it herself. His fingers drummed a happy beat, his heart filled with love for her. His excitement grew as he heard the maid’s footsteps approach, the bolts being pulled back, the door inched open. A strange chadored face stared at him. “What do you want, Agha?” Her voice was as coarse as her Farsi.