Lochart ignored him. “Surely you’re not going along with a goddamn hijack, because that’s what it’ll be! No way would I go along with that.” He saw Starke shrug. “What do the others say?”
“They don’t know yet and won’t be asked yet. As I said this’s between us at the moment.” Starke glanced at his watch. “Almost time to call Mac.” He saw a tremor go through Lochart. The lament of the bagpipes drifted on the wind. “How anyone can claim that’s music, goddamned if I know,” he said. “Andy’s idea’s worth considering, Tom. As an end plan.”
Lochart did not answer him, feeling bad, the twilight bad, everything bad. Even the air smelled bad, polluted by the nearby refinery, and he wished he was back in Zagros, up near the stars where the air and the earth were not polluted, all of him desperate to be in Tehran where it was even more polluted - but she was there. “Count me out,” he said.
“Think about it, Tom.”
“I have, I’m out, it’s crazy, the whole idea. Soon as you think it out you’ll see it’s a mad dog scheme.”
“Sure, old buddy.” Starke wondered when his friend would realize that he, Lochart, of all of them, was counted in - one way or another.
Chapter 45
AT THE HOTEL INTERNATIONAL, AL SHARGAZ: 6:42 P.M. “Could you do it, Scrag?” Gavallan said, sunset near.
“It’d be easy for me to sneak my five birds and men out of Lengeh, Andy,” Scragger said. “It’d have to be the right sort of day and we’d have to slide under Kish radar but we could do it - if the lads wanted to be part of the caper. But with all our spares too? No way, not possible.” “Would you do it, if it was possible?” Gavallan asked. He had arrived on today’s flight from London, all his business news from Aberdeen rotten - Imperial Air putting on the pressure, undercutting him in the North Sea, the oil companies squeezing him and Linbar calling a special board meeting to investigate S-G’s “possible” mismanagement. “Would you, Scrag?” “Just me on my tod and everyone else safe and out? Like a shot.” “Would your lads do it?”
Scragger thought for a moment and sipped his beer. They were sitting at a table on one of the immaculate terraces surrounding the swimming pool of this, the newest of the hotels in the tiny sheikdom, other guests scattered around but none near, the air balmy and in the seventies with just enough breeze to tremble the palm fronds and promise a perfect evening. “Ed Vossi would.” He grinned. “He’s got enough Aussie larceny and Yankee get-up-and-go. Don’t think Willi Neuchtreiter would. It’d be tough for him to break so many regs when it’s not his tail and he’s not threatened. Wot does Duke Starke say? And Tom Lochart and Rudi?”
“I don’t know yet. I sent a letter to Duke via Johnny Hogg Wednesday.” “That’s kind of dangerous, isn’t it?”
“Yes and no. Johnny Hogg’s a safe courier, but it’s a big problem - to have safe communications. Tom Lochart’ll soon be in Kowiss - you heard about Zagros?”
“Too right! They’re all bonkers up in the mountains. What about old Rudi?” “Don’t know how to get to him safely yet. Maybe Mac’ll have an idea. I’m on the 125 in the morning to Tehran and we’re to talk at the airport. Then I’ll come right back and I’m booked on the night flight to London.” “You’re pushing it a bit, aren’t you, old son?” “I’ve a few problems, Scrag.” Gavallan stared into his glass, absently swirling the whisky around the ice cubes. Other guests were going past. Three were girls, bikinied, golden skins, long black hair, towels casually around their shoulders. Scragger noticed them, sighed, then turned his attention back to Gavallan. “Andy, I may have to take Kasigi back to Iran-Toda in a day or two - old Georges’s been touching his toes since Kasigi agreed to pay him two dollars over spot. Kasigi thinks it’ll go to twenty dollars a barrel by Christmas.” Gavallan’s worry increased. “If it does it’ll send a shock wave through every industrialized nation - inflation’s going to soar again. I suppose if anyone’d know it’d be them.” Earlier, the moment Scragger had mentioned Kasigi and Toda, he had reacted instantly, as Struan’s supplied crews and leased many of the ships Toda built and were old associates. “Years ago I knew this Kasigi’s boss, man called Hiro Toda. Did he ever mention it?” “No, no, he never did. You knew him where? In Japan?” “No, Hong Kong. Toda was doing business with Struan’s - the company I used to work for - in those days it was Toda Shipping, shipbuilders mostly, not the huge conglomerate they are today.” Gavallan’s face hardened. “My family were Shanghai China traders from way back. Our company got more or less wiped out in the First World War, then we joined up with Struan’s. My old man was at Nanking in ‘31 when the Japs raped it, and he got caught in Shanghai just after Pearl Harbor and never made it out of POW camp.” He watched the reflections of his glass, his gloom increasing. “We lost a lot of good chums in Shanghai and Hong Kong. I can never forgive them for what they did in China, never will, but then, we have to move on, don’t we? Have to bury the hatchet someday though you’d best keep your eye on the tooth marks.”
“It’s the same for me.” Scragger shrugged. “Kasigi seems okay.” “Where is he now?”
“Kuwait. He’s back tomorrow and I’m to take him to Lengeh for consultations in the morning.”
“If you go to Iran-Toda, you think you might be able to get over to see Rudi? Maybe sound him out?”
“Too right. That’s a good idea, Andy.”
“When you see Kasigi, mention I know his chairman.”
“Sure, sure I will. I could ask him if h - ” He stopped, glanced over Gavallan’s shoulder. “Look, Andy, now there’s a sight for sore eyes!” Gavallan looked around, westward. The sunset was unearthly - reds and purples and browns and golds painting the distant clouds, the sun almost three quarters under the horizon, bloodying the waters of the Gulf, the touch of wind flickering the candles on the starched tablecloths already laid for dinner on the dining terrace. “You’re right, Scrag,” he said at once. “It’s the wrong time to be serious, it can wait. There’s no sight in the world like a sunset.”
“Eh?” Scragger was staring at him blankly. “For God’s sake, I didn’t mean the sunset - I meant the sheila.”
Gavallan sighed. The sheila was Paula Giancani, just out of the pool below them, her bikini briefer than brief, the beads of water on her olive skin glistening and bejeweled by the sunset, now drying her legs and arms and back and now her legs again, putting on a gossamer swimming wrap, totally and joyously aware there was not a man within sight who did not appreciate her performance - or a woman who was not envious. “You’re a horny bastard, Scrag.”
Scragger laughed and thickened his accent. “It’s me one joy in life, old cock! Cor’, that Paula’s one for the book.”
Gavallan studied her. “Well, Italian girls generally have something extra special about them, but that young lady… she’s not a stunner like Sharazad, and doesn’t have Azadeh’s exotic mystery, but I agree, Paula’s something else.”
Along with everyone else, they watched her walk through the tables, lust following, envy following, until she had vanished into the vast hotel lobby. They were all having dinner later, Paula, Genny, Manuela, Scragger, Gavallan, Sandor Petrofi, and John Hogg. Paula’s Alitalia jumbo was again at Dubai, a few miles down the highway, waiting for clearance to go to Tehran for another load of Italian nationals, and Genny McIver had met her by chance shopping.
Scragger sighed. “Andy, old chap, I’d certainly like to give her one, no doubt about it!”
“Wouldn’t do you a bit of good, Scrag.” Gavallan chuckled and ordered another whisky and soda from a crisply dressed, smiling Pakistani waiter who came instantly, some of the other guests already elegantly and expensively dressed for a lovely evening, latest Paris fashions, much décolletage, starched white dinner jackets - along with the expensive casual. Gavallan wore well-cut tan tropicals, Scragger regulation uniform, short-sleeved white shirt with epaulets and bars, black trousers and shoes. “Beer, Scrag?” “No, thanks, mate. I’ll nurse this and get ready for Pulsating Paula.” “Dreamer!” Gavallan turned back to the sunset, feeling better, put back together by his old friend. The sun was almost under the horizon, never more beautiful, reminding him of sunsets in China in the old days, sweeping him back to Hong Kong and Kathy and Ian, laughter in the Great House on the Peak, all the family fine and strong, their own house on a promontory at Shek-o - when they were young and together, Melinda and Scot still children, amahs padding about, sampans and junks and ships of all sizes far below in the sunset on a safe sea.