“Bull,” Lochart said. He had told no one what Scot said had really happened in the village square. His anxiety returned - for Scot, the base, Sharazad, HBC, and always back to Sharazad again.
“Bull nothing,” Rodrigues was saying, “you’ve been itchy as hell since you got back from Tehran. You wanna stay in Iran, Tom, okay, that’s different - you’re married to Iran. Me, I want out.”
Lochart took his mind off Sharazad. He saw the fear in his friend’s face. “What’s the problem, Rod?”
The heavyset man pulled his belt over the beginnings of his paunch, and closed his parka again. “I’m nervous as all hell about my false IDs, Tom. Shit, soon’s I open my mouth, they gotta know I’m not a Brit. All my permits’re outta date. So it’s the same with some of the other guys, but I’m the only American here, I gave a talk in the school on the States, and goddamn mullahs and Khomeini say I’m Satan - me a goddamn good Catholic for crissake! I’m not sleeping nights.”
“Why the hell didn’t you say so before? No need for you to stay, Rod. The 212’s due out tomorrow. How about going with Scot? Once you get to Al Shargaz you can transfer to Nigeria, Kenya, or where the hell ever.” For a moment Rodrigues said nothing, his face bleak. “I’d like that, Tom. Sure, if you can okay it, that’d be one helluva load off my back.”
“It’s done. We’ve got to send a mechanic - why not you, you’re senior.”
“Thanks. Yeah, thanks, Tom.” Rodrigues beamed. “I’ll just tighten the foot pedal, and then you’re as good as new.”
Down by the supply helipad Lochart saw that the load of pipe was ready for pickup. Two Iranian laborers were waiting to guide the skyhook into the ringbolt. He began to get into the cockpit, stopped on seeing two men striding up the village path a hundred yards away, Nitchak Khan, and another man carrying a carbine. Even from this distance it was easy to see the green armband.
Lochart went to meet them, preparing his mind to think and speak Farsi. “Salaam, Kalandar, salaam, Agha,” he said to the other man, also bearded but much younger.
“Salaam,” Nitchak said. “You have been granted until the fifth sunset.” Lochart tried to hide his shock. Today was Tuesday, the fifth day would be Sunday. “But, Excellency, th - ”
“Until the fifth sunset,” the Green Band said without politeness. “You may not work or fly on Holy Day - better you give thanks to God - and on the fifth sunset from tonight if all foreigners and their airplanes have not left, the base will be fired.”
Lochart just looked at him. Behind the man was the cookhouse and he saw JeanLuc come out, then walk over toward them. “Four working days will be very difficult, Agha, and I don’t th - ”
“Insha’Allah.”
“If we go, all the rigs will have to stop. Only we can supply them and their men. That will hurt Iran, that w - ”
“Islam does not need oil. Foreigners need oil. Five sunsets. Be it on your own heads if you stay.”
Nitchak Khan looked sideways at the man. Then to Lochart he said, “Agha, I wish to go with this man to see the kalandar of the Italian foreigners. I would like to go now, please.”
“It is my honor, Kalandar,” Lochart said, and he was thinking, Mimmo Sera’s been in the mountains for years, he’ll know what to do. “I’ve a load of pipe to deliver to Rig Rosa; we can go at once.”
“Pipe?” the youth said rudely. “No need for pipe. We go straight. No pipe.” “IranOil says pipe and the pipe goes or you don’t,” Lochart said angrily. “Ayatollah Khomeini ordered oil production to come back to normal - why does the komiteh disobey him?”
Sullenly the youth looked at the Khan, who said quietly, “As God wills. The Ayatollah is the Ayatollah, komitehs obey only him. Let us go, Agha.” Lochart took his eyes off the youth. “All right. We will go at once.” “Salaam, Kalandar,” JeanLuc said, joining them. “Tom, what’s the answer?” he asked in English.
“Sunset Sunday. We have to be out by then and can’t fly Friday.” JeanLuc swallowed a curse. “No negotiation?”
“None. Unless you want to argue with this mother.”
Insolently the youth with the gun stared back at JeanLuc. “Tell this son of a dog he smells vile.”
Lochart had caught a faint whiff of the garlic. “He says your cooking smells great, JeanLuc. Listen, they want to go to see Mimmo Sera - I’ll be back as quick as I can, then we’ll decide what to do. Kalandar, we will go now,” he said in Farsi and opened the cabin door.
“Lookit!” Rodrigues said suddenly and pointed northward high into the mountains. Smoke was billowing into the sky. “That Maria?” “Might be Bellissima,” JeanLuc said.
Nitchak Khan was squinting into the distance. “That is near where we should go. Yes?”
“Not far off course, Kalandar.”
The old man appeared very worried. “Perhaps it would be better to take the pipe on your next flight, pilot. For days now we heard that leftists were infiltrating the hills, wanting to sabotage and create trouble. Last night one of my shepherds had his throat cut and genitals hacked off - I have men out searching for the murderers.” Grim-faced, he got into the cabin. The Green Band followed.
“Rod,” Lochart said, “get the 206 out. JeanLuc, stand by on the HF - I’ll radio you.”
“Oui. Pas problčme.” JeanLuc looked back at the smoke.
Lochart left the load of pipe at the base and hurried northward. It was Bellissima and it was on fire. From quite far out he could see flames spouting thirty feet from one of the trailers that, tinder dry in the moisrureless air, was now almost gutted. Off to one side near the drilling rig was another fire, near the dynamite shed a body lay in the snow. Above the base, the snowcap of the mountain, reformed by Pietro’s explosion and the resultant avalanche, was benign. Below, the ravine fell seventy-five hundred feet.
As he got closer he noticed half a dozen figures running down the winding path that led at length into the valley - all of them armed. Without hesitation he banked and went after them, seeing them ahead now, directly ahead, cursing that he wasn’t a gunship 675 - no problem to blast them all. Six men, bearded, in nondescript tribesman clothes. Then he saw one man stop and aim and then the familiar sparks from the muzzle of the gun and he peeled away, taking evading action, and when he was around again, higher and safer, the figures had disappeared. He looked back into the cabin. Nitchak Khan and the Green Band were staring down out of the side windows, noses pressed against them. He shouted but could not make himself heard, so he banged the side of the cabin to attract their attention and beckoned Nitchak Khan. The old man came forward, holding on, ill at ease flying.
“Did you see them?” he shouted.
“Yes - yes,” Nitchak Khan shouted back. “Not mountain people - they’re the terrorists.”
Lochart went back to flying. “JeanLuc, do you read?”
“Loud and clear, Tom, go ahead.”
He told him what he had seen and to stay on the radio, then concentrated on the landing - in over the immensity of the ravine as usual, updrafts bad and a stiff wind today. This was the first time he had been to Bellissima since he had come back from Tehran. With the death of Guineppa, Bellissima was down to a minimum, one shift only. As he touched down he saw Pietro, now senior in Guineppa’s place, leave the fire near the rig and hurry toward them.
“Tom! We need help,” he shouted into the pilot’s window, almost in tears. “Gianni’s dead and a couple hurt in the fire…”
“Okay. No sweat.” Lochart began shutdown. “Nitchak’s in the back with a Green Band - don’t worry, okay?” He twisted in his seat again and pointed at the door. The old man nodded. “What the hell happened, Pietro?” he asked, his fingers finding the switches.