His excitement vanished and left a sickening hole. “Who’re you?” he said, as rudely. The woman started to close the door, but he put his foot out and shoved it open. “What’re you doing in my house? I’m Excellency Lochart and this is my house! Where’s Her Highness, my wife? Eh?”
The woman glowered at him, then padded away across his hallway toward his living room door and opened it. Lochart saw strangers there, men and women - and guns leaning against his wall. “What the hell’s going on?” he muttered in English and strode into his living room. Two men and four women stared up at him from his carpets, cross-legged or leaning against his cushions, in the middle of a meal in front of his fireplace, a fire burning merrily, eating off his plates that were spread carelessly, their shoes off, their feet dirty. One man older than the other, in his late thirties, had his hand on an automatic that was stuck in his belt.
Blinding rage soared through Lochart, the presence of these aliens a rape and a sacrilege. “Who’re you? Where’s my wife? By God, you get out of m - ” He stopped. The gun was pointing at him.
“Who’re you, Agha?”
With a supreme effort Lochart dominated his fury, his chest hurting him. “I’m - I’m - this is - is my house - I’m the owner.”
“Ah, the owner! You’re the owner?” the man called Teymour interrupted with a short laugh. “The foreigner, the husband of the Bakravan woman? Yo - ” The automatic cocked as Lochart readied a lunge at him. “Don’t! I can shoot quickly and very accurately. Search him,” he told the other man who was on his feet instantly. Expertly this man ran his hands over him, pulled the flight bag out of his hands, and looked through it.
“No guns. Flight manuals, compass - you’re the pilot Lochart?” “Yes,” Lochart said, his heart pumping.
“Sit down over there! Now!”
Lochart sat in the chair, far away from the fire. The man put the gun on the carpet beside him and took out a paper. “Give it to him.” The other man did as he was told. The paper was in Farsi. They all watched him carefully. It took Lochart a little time to decipher the writing: “Confiscation Order. For crimes against the Islamic State, all property of Jared Bakravan is confiscated except his family house and his shop in the bazaar.” It was signed on behalf of a komiteh by a name he could not read and dated two days ago.
“This’s - this’s ridiculous,” Lochart began helplessly. “His - His Excellency Bakravan was a huge supporter of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Huge. There must be some mistake!”
“There isn’t. He was jailed, found guilty of usury, and shot.” Lochart gaped at him. “There… there’s got to be a mistake!” “There’s none, Agha. None,” Teymour said, his voice not unkind, watching Lochart carefully, seeing the danger in him. “We know you’re Canadian, a pilot, that you’ve been away, that you’re married to one of the traitor’s daughters and not responsible for his crimes, or hers if she’s committed any.” His hand went to the gun, seeing Lochart flush. “I said ‘if,’ Agha, control your anger.” He waited and did not pick up the dull, well-kept Luger, though completely ready. “We’re not untrained rabble, we’re Freedom Fighters, professionals, and we’ve been given these quarters to guard for VIPs who arrive later. We know you’re not a hostile, so be calm. Of course this must be a shock to you - we understand, of course we understand, but we have the right to take what is ours.”
“Right? What right do y - ”
“Right of conquest, Agha - has it ever been different? You British should know that more than any.” His voice stayed level. The women watched with cold, hard eyes. “Calm yourself. None of your possessions have been touched. Yet.” He waved his hand. “See for yourself.”
“Where is my wife?”
“I don’t know, Agha. There was no one here when we arrived. We arrived this morning.”
Lochart was nearly demented with worry. If her father’s been found guilty, will the family suffer? Everyone? Wait a minute! Everything confiscated “… except his family house,” wasn’t that what the paper said? She’s got to be there… Christ, that’s miles away and I’ve no car…
He was trying to get his mind working. “You said, you said nothing’s been touched - ‘yet.’ You mean it will be touched soon?”
“A wise man protects his own possessions. It would be wise to take your possessions to a safe place. Everything of Bakravan stays here, but your possessions?” He shrugged. “Of course you may take them, we’re not thieves.” “And my wife’s possessions?”
“Hers too. Of course. Personal things. I told you we aren’t thieves.” “How - how long do I have?”
“Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow.”
“That’s not enough time. Perhaps the day after?”
“Until 5:00 P.M. tomorrow. Would you like some food?”
“No, no, thank you.”
“Then good-bye, Agha, but first please give me your keys.” Lochart flushed in spite of his resolve. He took them out and the other man who was nearby accepted them. “You said VIPs. What VIPs?” “VIPs, Agha. This place belonged to an enemy of the state; now it is the property of the state for whomever it chooses. Sorry, but of course you understand.”
Lochart looked at him, then at the other man and back again. His weariness weighed him down. And his helplessness. “I, er, before I leave I want to change and - and shave. Okay?”
After a pause Teymour said, “Yes. Hassan, go with him.”
Lochart walked out, hating him and them and everything that was happening, the man Hassan following him. Along the corridor and into his own room. Nothing had been touched though all the cupboards were open, and the drawers, and there was a smell of tobacco smoke but no sign of a hasty departure or of violence. The bed had been used. Get yourself together and make a plan. I can’t. All right, then shave and shower and change and go to Mac, he’s not far away, and you can walk there and he’ll help you, he’ll lend you money and a car and you’ll find her at her family house - and don’t think of Jared, just don’t.
NEAR THE UNIVERSITY: 8:10 P.M. Rakoczy moved the oil lamp nearer to the bundle of papers, diaries, files, and documents he had stolen from the upstairs safe in the U.S. embassy, continuing to sort them out. He was alone in a small tenement room - one of a warren of similar rooms, mostly for students, that had been rented for him by Farmad, the student Tudeh leader who had been killed the night of the riot. The room was dingy, without heat, just a bed and rickety table and chair and one tiny window. The panes were cracked and half covered with cardboard.
He laughed out loud. So much achieved and at so little cost. Such good planning. Our covering riot perfectly staged outside the embassy gates; - then sudden firing from the opposite rooftops, creating panic, quickly breaking down the gates and rushing the compound - our only opposition marines armed with shotguns and even then ordered not to fire - just enough time before Khomeini supporters could arrive to subdue the riot, kill us, or capture us. Covered by the pandemonium, rushing around the back of the building, smashing the side door, then up the back stairs alone while my cadre outside created more diversions, firing into the air, shouting, careful not to kill anyone but lots of noise and screaming. One landing and then the next, then running along the corridor shouting at the Americans, two frightened old women and a young man, “Get on the floor, lie down, or you’ll all be killed!”