“1,000 rials for openers,” Doc Nutt said and everyone looked at him. Normally he would bet 100 rials at the most.
Absently Lochart studied his hand, not interested in the game, his mind on Zagros - and Sharazad. The BBC last night had reported major clashes during the Women’s Protest marches in Tehran, Isfahan, and Meshed with more marches scheduled for today and tomorrow. ‘Too rich for me,” he said and threw in his cards.
“See you, Doc, and up a couple of thousand,” Starke said and Doc Nutt’s confidence vanished. Nutt had drawn two cards, Starke one, Ayre three. Kelly looked at his straight, 4-5-6-7-8. “Your 2,000, Duke, and up 3,000!” “Fold,” Ayre said instantly, throwing away two pairs, kings and tens. “Fold,” Doc Nutt said with a sigh of relief, shocked with himself for being so rash initially and threw in the three queens he had been dealt, sure that Starke had filled a straight, flush or full house.
“Your 3,000, Pop, and up 30 - thousand,” Starke said sweetly, feeling very good inside. He had split a pair of sixes to keep four hearts, going for a flush. The ace of spades had made it a very busted flush but a winning hand if he could bluff Kelly to back off.
All eyes were on Kelly. The room was silent. Even Lochart was suddenly interested.
Starke waited patiently, guarding his face and hands, uneasy about the air of confidence surrounding Kelly and wondering what he would do if Kelly raised him again, knowing what Manuela’ d say if she found out he was preparing to put a week’s pay on a busted flush.
She’d bust a girdle for starters, he thought and smiled.
Kelly was sweating. He had seen Starke’s sudden smile. He had caught him bluffing once but that was weeks ago and not for 30 thousand, only 4. I can’t afford to lose a week’s pay, still, the bugger could be bluffing. Something tells me old Duke’s bluffing, and I could use an extra week’s wages. Kelly rechecked his cards to make sure that his straight was a straight - of course it’s a bloody straight for God’s sake and Duke’s bluffing! He felt his mouth begin to say, “I’ll see your 30,000,” but he stopped it and said instead, “Up yours, Duke,” threw his cards in and everyone laughed. Except Starke. He picked up the pot, slid his cards into the deck, and shuffled them to make sure they could not be seen. “I’ll bet you were bluffing, Duke,” Lochart said and grinned. “Me? Me with a straight flush?” Starke said innocently amid jeers. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to do the rounds. Let’s quit, continue after dinner, huh? Tom, you wanta come along?” “Sure.” Lochart put on his parka and followed Starke outside. This was the best time of day for them in normal times - just before sundown, flying done, all the choppers washed and refueled ready for tomorrow, a drink to look forward to, time to read a little, write a few letters, listen to some music, eat, call home, then bed.
The base checked out fine. “Let’s stroll, Tom,” Starke said. “When’re you going back to Tehran?” “How about tonight?” “Bad, huh?”
“Worse. I know Sharazad was on the Women’s March even though I told her not to, then there’s all the rest.”
Last night Lochart had told him about her father, and all about the loss of HBC. Starke had been appalled, still was, and once more blessed his luck that he had not known when he had been taken by Hussain and his Green Bands for questioning.
“Mac’ll have got hold of Sharazad by now, Tom. He’ll make sure she’s okay.” When Lochart had arrived, they had got on to McIver on the HF, reception good for a change, and had asked him to see that she was safe. In a few minutes they would again have their one daily allowable radio link with Tehran HQ - “You’re restricted but only until we’re back to normal when you can call all you want - any day now,” Major Changiz, the base commander, had said. And though they were monitored by the main tower across at the air force base, the link kept their sanity and gave an appearance of normality. Starke said, “After Zagros Three’s cleaned out Sunday and you’re all here, why not take the 206, Monday, first thing? I’ll fix it with Mac.” 736 “Thanks, that’d be dandy.” Now that his own base was closed down, Lochart was nominally under Starke’s command.
“Have you thought of getting the hell out, taking the 212 instead of Scot? Once he’s out of the Zagros he should be okay. Or even better, both of you going? I’ll talk to Mac.”
“Thanks but no, Sharazad can’t leave her family just now.” They walked on awhile. Night was coming fast, cold but crisp, the air smelling heavily of gasoline from the huge refinery nearby that was still almost totally shut down and mostly dark, except for the tall stacks burning off oil vapor. On the base, lights were already on in most of their bungalows, hangars, and cookhouse - they had their own backup generators in case base power went out. Major Changiz had told Starke there was no chance the base generator system would be interfered with now: “The revolution is completely over, Captain, the Imam is in charge.” “And the leftists?”
“The Imam has ordered them eliminated, unless they conform to our Islamic state,” Major Changiz had said, his voice hard and ominous. “Leftists, Kurds, Baha’is, aliens - any enemy. The Imam knows what to do.” Imam. It was the same at Starke’s questioning in front of Hussain’s komiteh. Almost as though he were semidivine, Starke had thought. Hussain had been the chief judge and prosecutor and the room, part of the mosque, crowded with hostile men of all ages, all Green Bands, five judges - no bystanders. “What do you know of the escape of the enemies of Islam from Isfahan by helicopter?” “Nothing,”
At once one of the other four judges, all young men, rough and hardly literate, said, “He’s guilty of crimes against God and crimes against Iran as an exploiter for American Satanists.
Guilty.”
“No,” Hussain said. “This is a court of law, Koranic law. He is here to answer questions, not yet for crimes, not yet. He is not accused of any crime. Captain, tell us everything you have heard about the Isfahan crime.” The air in the room had been fetid. Starke saw not a friendly face, yet all knew who he was, all knew about the battle against the fedayeen at Bandar Delam. His fear was a dull ache, knowing he was on his own now, at their mercy.
He took a breath and chose his words carefully. “In the Name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful,” he said, starting as all the suras of the Koran begin, and an astonished stir went through
737 the room. “I know nothing myself, I have witnessed nothing to do with it or been part of it. I was in Bandar Delam at the time. To my knowledge none of my people have had anything to do with it. I only know what Zataki of Abadan told me when he returned from Isfahan. Exactly he said: ‘We heard that Tuesday some Shah supporters, all officers, fled south in a helicopter piloted by an American. God curse all Satanists.’ That’s all he said. That’s all I know.”
“You’re a Satanist,” one of the other judges interrupted triumphantly, “you’re American. You’re guilty.”
“I am a person of the Book and I’ve already proved I’m no Satanist. If it wasn’t for me many here would be dead.”
“If we’d died at the base we’d be in Paradise now,” a Green Band at the back of the room said angrily. “We were doing the Work of God. It was nothing to do with you, Infidel.”
Shouts of agreement. Suddenly Starke let out a bellow of rage. “By God and the Prophet of God,” he shouted, “I’m a person of the Book, and the Prophet gave us special privileges and protections!” He was shaking with rage now, his fear vanished, hating this kangaroo court and their blindness and stupidity and ignorance and bigotry. “The Koran says: ‘Oh, People of the Book, overstep not the bounds of truth in your religion; neither follow the desires of those who have already gone astray and caused many others to stray from the evenness of the path.’ I haven’t,” he ended harshly, bunching his fists, “and may God curse him who says otherwise.”