“Well, you bloody did,” he said furiously, heart still pounding. “Why the hell didn’t you announce yourself or come up to the office instead of hiding in the bloody shadows like a bloody villain?”
“You might have had more visitors - I saw one come out so I thought I’d just wait. Sorry. Please put the flash down.”
Angrily McIver did as he was asked - since Gavallan had pinpointed Armstrong, he had searched his own memory but had no recollection of ever meeting him. “Special Branch and CID” did nothing to ease his dislike. “Where the hell’ve you been? We expected you at the airport but you didn’t show.”
“Yes, sorry about that. When does the 125 come back to Tehran?” “Tuesday, God willing. Why?”
“Approximately when?”
“Noon, why?”
“Excellent. That would be perfect. I need to go to Tabriz; could I and a friend charter her?”
“No way. I could never get a clearance and who’s the friend?” “I’ll guarantee the clearance. Sorry, Captain, but it’s very important.” “I heard there’s heavy fighting in Tabriz; it was on the news tonight. Sorry, couldn’t authorize that, it’d be an unnecessary risk to air crew.” “Mr. Talbot will be glad to add his request for assistance,” Armstrong said in the same quiet, patient voice.
“No. Sorry.” McIver turned away but was stopped at the sudden venom. “Before you go shall I ask you about HBC and Lochart and your partner Valik and his wife and two children?”
McIver was shock-still. He could see the chiseled face and the hard mouth and eyes that glittered in the reflected light from the flash. “I - I don’t know what you mean.”
Armstrong reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper and held it up to McIver’s face. McIver directed the circle of light onto it. The paper was a photocopy of an entry in a clearance book. The writing was neat. “EP-HBC cleared at 0620 for an IHC charter to Bandar Delam, delivery of spares; pilot Captain T. Lochart, flight authorized by Captain McIver.” The lower half of the paper was a photocopy of the actual clearance, signed by him with Captain N. Lane crossed out “sick,” and Captain T. Lochart substituted. “A present, with my compliments.”
“Where did you get it?”
“When the 125 gets into Tehran airspace, radio Captain Hogg that he’s got an immediate charter to Tabriz. You’ll have the clearance in good time.” “No. I’ll not se - ”
“If you don’t arrange everything happily, and keep it all rather quiet - just between us,” Armstrong said with such finality that McIver was quite frightened, “the originals of these go to SAVAK - renamed SAVAMA.” “That’s blackmail!”
“It’s barter.” Armstrong shoved the paper into his hand, began to leave. “Wait! Where - where are the originals?”
“Not in their hands, for the moment.”
“If - if I do what you say, I get them back, all right?”
“You must be joking! Of course you get nothing.”
“That’s not fair - that’s not bloody fair!”
Armstrong came back and stood over him, his face a mask. “Of course it’s not fair. If you get these back you’re out of the vise, aren’t you? All of you. So long as these exist, you will do what’s required of you, won’t you?” “You’re a bloody bastard!”
“And you’re a fool who should look after his blood pressure.” McIver gasped. “How d’you know about that?”
“You’d be astounded what I know about you and Genevere MacAllister and Andrew Gavallan and the Noble House and lots of other things that I haven’t begun to use yet.” Armstrong’s voice became rougher, his tiredness and anxiety taking away his control. “Don’t you bloody understand there’s the very strong probability of Soviet tanks and aircraft permanently stationed this side of Hormuz and Iran a bloody Soviet province? I’m tired of playing silly buggers with you ostriches - just do what I ask without arguing and if you don’t I’ll shop the bloody lot of you.”
Tuesday - February 20
Chapter 39
TABRIZ: 5:12 A.M. In the small hut on the edge of the Khan’s estate, Ross was suddenly awake. He lay motionless, keeping his breathing regular but all of his senses concentrated. Seemingly nothing untoward, just the usual insects and closeness of the room. Through the window he could see that the night was dark, the sky mostly overcast. Across the room on the other pallet, Gueng slept curled up, breathing normally. Because of the cold, both men had gone to bed with their clothes on. Noiselessly Ross went to the window and searched the darkness. Still nothing. Then, close to his ear, Gueng whispered, “What is it, sahib?”
“I don’t know. Probably nothing.”
Gueng nudged him and pointed. There was no guard in the seat outside on the veranda.
“Perhaps he’s just gone to take a leak.” There had always been at least one guard. By day or night. Last night there had been two so Ross had made a mock dummy in his bed and left Gueng to divert them and had slipped out of the back window and gone to see Erikki and Azadeh alone. Coming back he had almost stumbled into a patrol but they had been sleepy and unattentive so he had passed them by.
“Take a look out the back window,” Ross whispered. Again they watched and waited. Dawn in about an hour, Ross thought.
“Sahib, perhaps it was just a spirit of the mountain,” Gueng said softly. In the Land Atop the World it was a superstition that by night, spirits visited the beds of sleeping men and women and children, for good purposes or ill, and that dreams were the stories they whispered.
The little man kept his eyes and ears feeling out the darkness. “I think perhaps we’d better pay attention to the spirits.” He went back to his bed and pulled on his boots, put the talisman he had kept under his pillow back into his uniform pocket, then put on the tribesman robes and turban. Nimbly he checked his grenades and carbine and settled the rough backpack that contained ammunition, grenades, water, and a little food. No need to check his kookri, that was never out of reach, always oiled and cleaned nightly - and sharpened nightly - just before sleep.
Now Ross was equally ready. But ready for what? he asked himself. It’s hardly five minutes since you awoke and here you are, kookri loose in the scabbard, safety catch off and for what? If Abdollah meant you harm, he would’ve already taken away your weapons - or tried to take them. Yesterday afternoon they had heard the 206 take off and shortly afterward Abdollah Khan had visited them. “Ah, Captain, sorry for the delay but the hue and cry is worse than ever. Our Soviet friends have put a very large price on your heads,” he had said jovially. “Enough even to tempt me, perhaps.” “Let’s hope not, sir. How long will we have to wait?” “A few days, no more. It seems the Soviets want you very much. I’ve had another deputation from them asking me to help capture you, the first was before you arrived. But don’t worry, I know where the future of Iran lies.” Last night Erikki had confirmed about the reward: ‘Today I was near Sabalan, cleaning out another radar site. Some of the workers thought I was Russian - lots of Russian speakers among the border people - and said they hoped they’d be the ones to catch the tall British saboteur and his helper. The reward’s five horses and five camels and fifty sheep. That’s a fortune, and if they know about you that far north you can bet they’re looking here.” “Were Soviets supervising you?”
“Only Cimtarga, but even then he didn’t seem to be in charge. Just of me and the aircraft. The Russian speakers kept asking me when we were coming over the border in strength.”
“My God - did they have anything to base that on?”
“I doubt it, just more rumors. People here feed on them. I said, ‘Never,’ but this man scoffed and said he knew we had ‘leagues’ of tanks and armies waiting, that he’d seen them. I can’t speak Farsi so I don’t know if he was another KGB plant disguised as a tribesman.”