Astonished, they all stared at him, even Hussain.
One of the judges broke the silence. “You… you quote the Koran? You read Arabic as well as speak Farsi?”
“No. No, I don’t but th - ”
“Then you had a teacher, a mullah?”
“No. No, I rea - ”
“Then you’re a sorcerer!” another shouted. “How can you know the Koran if you had no teacher nor read Arabic, the holy language of the Koran?” “I read it in English, my own language.”
Even greater astonishment and disbelief until Hussain spoke. “What he says is true. The Koran is translated into many foreign languages.” More astonishment. A young man peered at him myopically through cracked, thick-lensed glasses, his face pitted. “If it is translated into other languages, Excellency, then why isn’t it in Farsi for us to read - if we could read?”
Hussain said, “The language of the Holy Koran is Arabic. To know the Holy Koran properly the Believer must read Arabic. Mullahs of all countries learn Arabic for this reason. The Prophet, whose Name be praised, was Arab. God spoke to him in that language for others to write down. To know the Holy Book truly it must be read as it was written.” Hussain turned his black eyes on Starke. “A translation is always less than the original. Isn’t it?”
Starke saw the curious expression. “Yes,” he said, his intuition telling him to agree. “Yes, yes, it is. I would like to be able to read the original.” Another silence. The young man with glasses said, “If you know the Koran so well that you can quote from it to us like a mullah, why aren’t you Muslim, why aren’t you a Believer?”
A rustle went through the room. Starke hesitated, almost La panic, not knowing how to answer but sure that the wrong answer would hang him. The silence grew, then he heard himself say, “Because God has not yet taken away the skin over my ears nor, not yet, opened my spirit,” then added involuntarily, “I do not resist and I wait. I wait patiently.” The mood in the room changed. Now the silence was kind. Compassionate. Hussain said softly, “Go to the Imam and your waiting will be ended. The Imam would open your spirit to the glory of God. The Imam would open your spirit. I know, I’ve sat at the Imam’s feet. I’ve heard the Imam preaching the Word, giving the Law, spreading the Calm of God.” A sigh went through the room and now all concentrated on the mullah, watched his eyes and the light therein, heard the newness to his voice and the growing ecstasy therein - even Starke who felt chilled and at the same time elated. “Hasn’t the Imam come to open the spirit of the world? Hasn’t the Imam appeared among us to cleanse Islam of Evil and to spread Islam throughout the world, to carry the message of God… as has been promised? The Imam is.” The word hung in the room. They all understood. So did Starke. Mahdi! he thought, hiding his shock. Hussain’s implying Khomeini’s in reality the Mahdi, the legendary twelfth Imam who vanished centuries ago and Shi’as believe is just hidden from human sight - the Immortal One, promised by God to reappear some day to rule over a perfected world.
He saw them all staring at the mullah. Many nodding, tears running down the faces of others, all rapt and satisfied and not a disbeliever among them. Good God, he thought, dumbfounded, if Iranians give Khomeini that mantle there’ll be no end to his power, there’ll be twenty, thirty million men, women, and kids desperate to do his bidding, who’ll rush happily to death at his merest whim - and why not? Mahdi would guarantee them a place in Heaven, guarantee it! Someone said, “God is Great,” others echoed it and they talked, one with another, Hussain leading them, Starke forgotten. At length they noticed him and they let him go, saying, “See the Imam, see and believe…” Walking back to camp his feet had been strangely light, and he remembered now how the air had never tasted better, never had he been so full of the joy of life. Perhaps that’s because I was so close to death, he thought. I was a dead man and somehow I was given back life. Why? And Tom, why did he escape Isfahan, Dez Dam, even HBC herself? Is there a reason? Or was it just luck?
And now in the dusk he watched Lochart, gravely concerned for him. Terrible about HBC, terrible about Sharazad’s father, terrible that Tom and Sharazad are in a cauldron of no escape. Soon they’ll both have to choose: exile together, probably never to return here - or to part, probably forever. “Tom, there’s something special. Very secret, just between us. Johnny Hogg brought a letter from Andy Gavallan.” They were safely away from the base, strolling along the boundary road, skirting the eight-strand barbed-wire fence, and no fear of anyone overhearing. Even so He kept his voice down. “Basically Andy’s mighty downbeat on our future here and says he’s considering evacuating to cut his losses.”
“No need for that,” Lochart said quickly, a sudden bite in his voice. “Things‘11 get back to normal - they have to. Andy’s got to sweat it out - we’re sweating it out, so can he.”
“He’s sweating it out plenty, Tom. It’s simple economics, you know that as well as any. We’re not being paid for work done months ago, we’ve not enough work now for the birds and pilots here that he’s paying out of Aberdeen, Iran’s in a shambles, and we’re getting a hard time all over.” “You mean because Zagros Three’s been closed down there’ll be a huge write-off on the books? Not my goddamn fault th - ”
“Slow down, Tom. Andy’s heard on the grapevine all foreign airplane companies, joint ventures or what the hell ever, particularly choppers, are going to be nationalized mighty damned soon.”
Lochart was filled with a sudden hope. Wouldn’t this give me a perfect excuse to stay? If they steal - nationalize - our birds they’ll still need trained pilots, I can speak Farsi, I could train Iranians which’s got to be their end plan and - and what about HBC? Back to HBC, he thought helplessly, always back to HBC. “How does he know, Duke?”
“Andy said it was an ‘impeccable’ source. What he’s asking us - you, Scrag, Rudi, and me - is if he and Mac can come up with a workable plan, would we and however many pilots it takes fly all our birds into the Wild Blue across the Gulf?”
Lochart gaped at him. “Jesus, you mean just take off, no clearance no nothing?”
“Sure - but keep your voice down.”
“He’s crazy! How could we coordinate Lengeh, Bandar Delam, Kowiss, and Tehran - everyone’d have to go at the same time and the distances won’t add up.”
“Somehow they’re gonna have to, Tom. Andy said it’s that or close up.”
“I don’t believe it! The company’s operating all over the world.”
“He says if we lose Iran we’re through.”
“Easy for him,” Lochart said bitterly. “It’s just money. Easy to twist our arm when you’re nice and safe and all you risk’s money. He’s saying if he just pulls personnel and leaves everything else, S-G’s going belly-up?” “Yes. That’s what he’s saying.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Starke shrugged. Their ears caught the faint banshee wail and they turned and looked past their base to the far side of their part of the field. In the falling light they could just see Freddy Ayre with his bagpipes where, by common consent, he was allowed to practice. “Goddamn,” Starke said sourly, “that noise drives me crazy.”