“Christ Almighty!” Armstrong felt as though he’d been smashed in the stomach. Abrim Pahmudi was one of three lifelong friends of the Shah who had been to school with him in Iran and later in Switzerland, who had risen to become high in the Imperial council, SAVAK, and, it was rumored, after the Shah’s family, his most-sought-after counselor - and who right now was supposed to be in hiding, waiting an opportunity to negotiate with the Bazargan government on the Shah’s behalf a constitutional monarchy and the Shah’s abdication in favor of his son Reza. “Christ Almighty! That explains a lot.”
“Yes,” Hashemi said bitterly. “For years that bastard’s been part of almost every crucial military or political meeting, every head of state conference, every secret agreement, and in the last days part of every important meeting with the U.S. ambassador, U.S. generals, every important decision of the Shah, of our generals, and present every time a coup d’état was discussed - and turned down.” He was so angry that tears ran down his cheeks, “We’re all betrayed. The Shah, the revolution, the people, you, me, everyone! How many times have we reported to him over the years together, and me dozens of other times? With lists, names, bank accounts, liaisons, secrets that only we could find out and know. Everything - everything in writing but one copy only - wasn’t that the rule? We’re all betrayed.”
Armstrong felt chilled. Of course Pahmudi knew all about his involvement with Inner Intelligence. Pahmudi had to know everything of value about George Talbot, about Masterson, his CIA opposite number, Lavenov, his Soviet opposite number, all our short and long contingency planning, invasion planning, operations to neutralize the CIA’s top secret radar sites with men like young Captain Ross.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, at the same time furious that their own sources had not forewarned them. Pahmudi, suave, intelligent, trilingual, and discreet. Never once over the years had there been the slightest suspicion against him. Never. How could he have escaped cleanly, even from the Shah who was constantly having his top associates checked and double-checked and rechecked. With every right, he thought. Five assassination attempts against him, bullets in his body and face, wasn’t he ruler of a people known for violence toward and from their rulers?
Christ! Where will it all end?
IN THE SAME TRAFFIC: 9:15 A.M. McIver was inching along, well to the south, heading for the bazaar area where Jared Bakravan’s family house was, Tom Lochart beside him.
“It’ll all work out,” McIver said, sick with worry.
“Sure, Mac. No sweat.”
“Yes, not to worry.” When McIver had got back home to his apartment from Ali Kia and the Ministry, elated, Tom Lochart was there, arrived just moments before. His even greater joy at finding Tom Lochart safe was dashed at once by the look of him and by the news Pettikin gave him about Freddy Ayre’s relayed radio call from Scot Gavallan at Zagros, and about Starke being taken by the Kowiss komiteh for questioning about “the Isfahan escape.” “It’s all my goddamn fault, Mac, all of it,” Tom Lochart had said. “No, not your fault, Tom. We were both trapped - anyway I okayed the flight, not that it helped Valik. Were they all aboard; how the hell did you get out? Tell us what happened, then I’ll call Freddy - you’d like a drink?” “No, no, thanks. Listen, Mac, I’ve got to find Sharazad. She wasn’t home, I’m hoping she’s at her folks’ house and I’ve got t - ”
“She’s there, I know she’s there, Tom. Erikki told me just before he left this morning for Tabriz. Did you hear about her father?”
“Yes, I have, awful, bloody awful! You’re sure she’s there?” “Yes.” McIver walked heavily over to the sideboard and fixed himself a drink as he continued: “She hasn’t been at your flat since you left and she was fine until… Erikki and Azadeh saw her day before yesterday. Yesterday they…”
“Did Erikki say how she was?”
“He said she was as well as could be expected - you know how close Iranian families are. We don’t know anything about her dad other than what Erikki told us - that he had been ordered to the jail as a witness, and the next thing the family was told to pick up his body, he’d been been shot for ‘crimes against Islam.’ Erikki said they picked up the, er, the body and, well, yesterday they were in mourning. Sorry, but there you are.” He took a deep swallow of the lovely, peat-tasting drink and felt a little better. “She’s safe at home - first tell us what happened to you, then I’ll call Freddy and we’ll go and find Sharazad.”
Quickly Lochart did so. They listened, appalled. “When Rudi told me that this Iranian Air Force officer, Abbasi, was the one who shot down HBC I almost went mad. I, I kinda collapsed and the next thing I remember was the next day. Abbasi and the others had gone by then and it was all SOP. Mac, Charlie’s idea about a ‘hijack’ - that’s not going to stand up - no way!” “We know that, Tom,” McIver had said. “First finish your story.”
“I couldn’t get a clearance to fly back so I borrowed a car, just got back a couple of hours ago and went straight to the apartment. The bastard of it is it’s been confiscated by Green Bands, along with all Mr. Bakravan’s property, except the shop in the bazaar and his family home.” Lochart told them what had happened, adding, “I’m - I’m a waif in the storm. I’ve nothing now, we’ve nothing, Sharazad and I.” He laughed and it was a bad laugh and McIver could see that he was dying inside. “It’s true it was Jared’s building, the apartment and everything in it, though… though part of Sharazad’s, er, dowry…. Let’s go, huh, Mac?”
“First let me call Freddy. Th - ”
“Oh, of course, sure, sorry. I’m so worried I can’t think straight.”
McIver finished his drink and went to the HF. He stared at it. “Tom,” he said sadly, “what do you want to do about Zagros?”
Tom Lochart hesitated. “I could take Sharazad there with me.” “Too dangerous, laddie. Sorry, but there it is.” McIver saw Lochart look into himself and measure himself, and sighed, feeling very old. “If Sharazad’s okay I’ll go back with JeanLuc tomorrow morning and we’ll sort out Zagros, and she goes on the next shuttle to Al Shargaz,” Lochart said. “Depending on what we find at Zagros… if we have to close down, Insha’ Allah, we’ll ferry all our riggers to Shiraz to go out by regular flights - their company’ll tell them where they’re to go - and we’ll move everything to Kowiss, airplanes, spares, and personnel. Okay?” “Yes. Meanwhile I’ll get on to the Ministry first thing tomorrow and see if I can straighten it out.” McIver clicked on the sender. “Kowiss, this is HQ. Do you read?”
Almost instantly: “HQ this is Kowiss, Captain Ayre, go ahead please, Captain McIver.”
“First, about Zagros Three: Tell Captain Gavallan that Captains Lochart and Sessonne will be back tomorrow around noon with instructions. Meanwhile prepare plans to obey the komiteh.” Rotten bloody sods, he thought, then went on for the benefit of those who were listening in: “The Zagros IranOil base manager should remind the komiteh that the Ayatollah and the government have specifically ordered oil production back to normal. Closing down Zagros will severely interfere with orderly production in that area. Inform Captain Gavallan I will take this up at once with Minister Kia personally who, an hour ago, confirmed this to me, and gave me written approvals to take out and replace crew by our own 125 until…”