“Christ, Mac, that’s great news,” came over the airwaves involuntarily. “Yes… by our own 125 until regular service resumes. Crew replacements and replacement aircraft to service all the extra work and Guerney contracts the government are asking us to service, so I cannot understand the actions of the local komiteh. Got it, Captain Ayre?”
“Yessir. Message received five by five.”
“Has Captain Starke returned yet?”
A long silence, then: “Negative, HQ.”
McIver’s voice became even colder. “Call me at once when he does. Captain Ayre, just between you and me and to go no further: if he has any problems whatsoever and isn’t safe back at base by dawn, I will ground all our aircraft throughout Iran, close down all our operations, and order 100 percent of all our personnel out of Iran.”
“Good, Mac,” Pettikin said softly.
McIver was too concentrated to hear him. “Did you get that, Kowiss?” Silence, then: “Affirmative.”
“As far as you’re concerned,” McIver added, developing his sudden thought, “inform Major Changiz and Hotshot from me, I’m ordering you right now to cease all operations including all CASEVACs until Starke’s back on the base. Got that?”
Silence, then: “Affirmative. The message will be relayed at once.”
“Good. But only the information that applies to your base. The rest’s private until dawn.” He smiled grimly, then added, “I’ll be making an inspection trip as soon as the 125 returns so make sure all manifests are up to date. Anything else?”
“No, sir. Not for the present. We’ll look forward to seeing you and we’ll listen out as usual.”
“HQ over and out.”
Pettikin said, “That should do it, Mac, that’ll put a hornet up their arses.”
“Maybe, maybe not. We can’t stop CASEVACs - apart from humanitarian reasons that makes us illegal and they can steal everything.” McIver finished his drink, glanced at his watch. “Come on, Tom, we won’t wait for JeanLuc, let’s go and find Sharazad.”
The traffic had lessened a little now but was still inching along, snow griming the windshield. The road was slippery and banked with dirty snow. “Turn right at the next corner,” Lochart said.
“Okay, Tom.” They drove in silence again. McIver turned the corner. “Tom, did you sign for the fuel at Isfahan?”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
“Anyone interview you, ask for your name, that sort of thing? Green Bands? Anyone?”
Lochart pulled his mind off Sharazad. “No, not that I remember. I was just ‘Captain’ and part of the scenery. Far as I remember I wasn’t introduced to anyone. Valik and… and Annoush and the kids, they went off for lunch as soon as we landed with the other general - Christ, I can’t even remember his name - ah, yes, Seladi, that was it. Everyone called me ‘Captain’ - I was just a piece of the scenery. Matter of fact I stayed with the chopper at the hangar all the time we were there, watching the refueling and checking her out - they even brought me some food on a tray and I ate sitting in the cabin. I stayed there all the time until those goddamn Green Bands fell on me and dragged me off and locked me in the room. I had no warning, Mac. They just enveloped the base, they must’ve been helped lavishly from inside, had to be. The bastards that grabbed me were all hopped up, shouting I was CIA, American - they kept on about that, but they were more concerned about subduing the base than about me. Take the left fork, Mac. It’s not far now.”
McIver drove on uneasily, the area very run down and passersby glaring at them. “Maybe we could get away with it - pretend HBC was hijacked from Doshan Tappeh by someone unknown. Maybe they won’t follow it up from Isfahan.” “Then why did they grab Duke Starke?” “Routine.” McIver sighed heavily. “I know it’s a long shot but it might work. Maybe the ‘American CIA’ will stick and that’s all. Grow a mustache, or beard, just in case.” Lochart shook his head. “That’s no help. I’m on the first clearance. We both are… that’s the kicker.”
“When you took off from Doshan Tappeh, who saw you off?” Lochart thought a moment. “No one. I think it was Nogger who supervised the fueling the day before. Th - ”
“That’s right, I remember now, he was bitching, said I was giving him too much work with young Paula in town. Were there any Iranian staff, guards there? Did you pay anyone baksheesh?” “No, there was no one. But they could have me on their automatic recorders…” Lochart peered out of the side window. His excitement picked up and he pointed. “There’s the turning, not far now.”
McIver steered into the narrow street, just room for two cars to pass. Snow banked the sides up to the high walls - doors and doorways either side. McIver had never been here before and was surprised that Bakravan, so rich, would live in an area so clearly poor. Was rich, he reminded himself with an involuntary shiver, and now very dead for “crimes against the state” - and what constitutes a crime against the state? Again he shivered. “There’s the door, there on the left.”
They stopped beside the snowbank heavy with refuse. The nondescript doorway was cut into the high, mildewed wall. The door was iron-banded, the iron rusty. “Come on in, Mac.”
“I’ll wait for a moment, then if all’s well I’ll leave. I’m pooped.” There’s only one solution, McIver thought, and he reached out and stopped Lochart. “Tom, we’ve permission to fly out three 212s. You take one. Tomorrow. The hell with Zagros, JeanLuc can cope with that. I don’t know about Sharazad, if they’ll let her go or not, but you’d better get out, fast as you can. It’s the only thing to do, get out while you can. We’ll put her on the next 125 flight.”
“And you, what about you, Mac?”
“Me? Nothing to worry about. You get out - if they’ll let her go, take her too. JeanLuc can handle Zagros - looks like we’ll have to close down there anyway. All right?”
Lochart looked at him. “Let me think about that one, Mac. But thanks.” He got out. “I’ll be by just after dawn - don’t let JeanLuc go without me. We can decide then, okay?”
“Yes.” McIver watched his friend use the old-fashioned knocker. The sound was loud. Both men waited, Lochart nauseous with anxiety, preparing for the family surrounding him, the tears and the welcome and the questions, having to be polite when all he wanted was to take her off to their own rooms and hold her and feel safe and all the nightmare gone. Waiting in front of the door. Then knocking again, louder. Waiting. McIver switching off to save gasoline, the silence making the waiting worse. Snowflakes on the windshield building up. People passing like wraiths, everyone suspicious and hostile.
Muffled footsteps approached and the grilled peephole opened a fraction. The eyes that peered at Lochart were cold and hard and he did not recognize the little part of the face he could see.
“It’s me, Excellency Lochart,” he began in Farsi, trying to sound normal. “My wife, the Lady Sharazad is here.”
The eyes peered closer to see if he was alone or accompanied, examining the car behind him and McIver in the driving seat. “Please wait, Agha.” The peephole closed. Again waiting, stamping his feet against the cold, waiting, then impatiently using the knocker again, wanting to smash the door down, knowing he couldn’t. More footsteps. The peephole opened again. Different eyes and face. “What’s your name, Agha?”
Lochart wanted to shriek at the man but he did not. “My name is Agha Pilot Thomas Lochart, husband of Sharazad. Open the door. It is cold and I’m tired and I have come for my wife.”