“Stranger things’ve happened, old buddy,” Wesson said confidently and finished his drink. Why is it these guys don’t understand what’s going on in the world? he was thinking. It’s time they smartened up, stopped being so one-track about Israel, the PLO, and the whole Middle East, and gave us room to maneuver. “Sure the Shah’s gotta chance, though his son’s a better bet - soon’s Khomeini’s dead and buried it’ll be civil war, the army’ll take over and they’ll need a figurehead. Reza’d be a great constitutional monarch.” Aaron ben Aaron kept the disbelief off his face with difficulty, astounded that Wesson could still be so naive. After all the years you’ve been in Iran and the Gulf, he thought, how can you still misunderstand the explosive forces ripping Iran apart? If he had been a different man he would have cursed Wesson for the stupidity he represented, the hundreds of alarm signals disregarded, the hills of secret intelligence reports gathered with so much blood and cast aside unread, their years of pleading with politicians and generals and Intelligence - American and Iranian - warning of the gathering conflagration.
All to no avail. For years and years. The Will of God, he thought. God does not want it to be easy for us. Easy? In all history it’s never once been easy for us. Never never never. He saw Wesson watching him. “What?” “You wait and see. Khomeini’s an old man, he won’t last the year. He’s old and time’s with us - you wait and see.”
“I will.” Aaron put aside his inclination to argue violently. “Meanwhile, the problem in hand: S-G could be a front for enemy cells. When you think about it, chopper pilots specializing in oil support’d be valuable assets for all kinds of sabotage if the going get worse.”
“Sure. But Gavallan wants out of Iran. You heard him.” “Maybe he knew we were listening, or it’s a ploy he’s pulling.”
“Come on, Aaron. I think he’s kosher, and the rest of it’s coincidence.” Wesson sighed. “Okay, I’ll put a tab on him, and he won’t shit without you knowing, but hell, old buddy, you guys see enemies under the bed, on the ceiling, and under the carpet.” “Why not? There’re plenty around - known, unknown, active, or passive.” Aaron was methodically watching around him, checking on newcomers, expecting enemies, aware of the multitude of enemy agents in Al Shargaz and the Gulf. And we know about enemies, here, outside in the old city and in the new city, up the road to Oman and down the road to Dubai and Baghdad and Damascus, to Moscow and Paris and London, across the sea to New York, south to both the Capes and north to the Arctic Circle, wherever there’re people who’re not Jews. Only a Jew not automatically suspect and even then, these days, you’ve got to be careful.
There’re many among the Chosen who don’t want Zion, don’t want to go to war or pay for war, don’t want to understand Israel hangs in the balance with the Shah, our only ally in the Middle East and sole OPEC supplier of oil for our tanks and planes cast aside, don’t want to know our backs are to the Wailing Wall and we’ve to fight and die to protect our God-given land of Israel we repossessed with God’s help at such cost!
He looked up at Wesson, liking him, forgiving him his faults, admiring him as a professional but sorry for him: he wasn’t a Jew and therefore suspect. “I’m glad I was bom a Jew, Glenn. It makes life so much easier.” “How?”
“You know where you stand.”
AT DISCO TEX, HOTEL SHARGAZ: 11:52 P.M. Americans, British, and French dominated the room - some Japanese and other Asians. Europeans in the majority, many, many more men than women, their ages ranging between twenty-five and forty-five - the Gulf expat work force had to be young, strong, preferably unmarried, to survive the hard, celibate life. A few drunks, some noisy. Ugly and not so ugly, overweight and not so overweight, most of them lean, frustrated, and volcanic. A few Shargazi and others of the Gulf, but only the rich, the Westernized, the sophisticated, and men. Most of these sat on the upper level drinking soft drinks and ogling, and the few who danced on the small floor below danced with European women: secretaries, embassy personnel, airline staff, nurses, or other hotel staff - partners at a premium. No Shargazi or Arabian women were here.
Paula danced with Sandor Petrofi, Genny with Scragger, and Johnny Hogg was cheek to cheek with the girl who had been deep in conversation on the terrace, swaying at half tempo. “How long’re you staying, Alexandra?” he murmured.
“Next week, only until next week. Then I must join my husband in Rio.” “Oh, but you’re so young to be married! You’re all alone till then?”
“Yes, alone, Johnny. It’s sad, no?”
He did not reply, just held her a little tighter and blessed his luck that he had picked up the book she had dropped in the lobby. The strobe lights dazzled him for a moment, then he noticed Gavallan on the upper level, standing at the rail, grave and lost in thought, and again felt sorry for him. Earlier he had reluctantly arranged tomorrow’s night flight to London for him, trying to persuade him to rest over a day. “I know how jet lag plays hell with you, sir.”
“No problem, Johnny, thanks. Our takeoff for Tehran’s still at 10:00 A.M.?”
“Yes, sir. Our clearance’s still priority - and the charter onward to Tabriz.”
“Let’s hope that goes smoothly, just there and straight back.” John Hogg felt the girl’s loins against him. “Will you have dinner tomorrow? I should be back sixish.”
“Perhaps - but not before nine.”
“Perfect.”
Gavallan was looking down on the dancers, hardly seeing them, then turned and went down the stairs and outside onto the ground-floor terrace. The night was lovely, moon huge, no clouds. Around were acres of delicately floodlit, beautifully kept gardens within the encircling walls, some of the sprinklers on.
The Shargaz was the biggest hotel in the sheikdom, on one side the sea, the other the desert, its tower eighteen stories, with five restaurants, three bars, cocktail lounge, coffee shop, the disco, two swimming pools, saunas, steam rooms, tennis courts, health center, shopping mall with a dozen boutiques and antiques, an Aaron carpet shop, hairdressing salons, video library, bakery, electronics, telex office, typing pool, with, like all the modem European hotels, all rooms and suites air-conditioned, bathrooms and bidets en suite, twenty-four-hour room service - mostly smiling Pakistanis - same-day cleaners, instant pressing, a color TV in every room, in-house movies, stock market channel, and satellite distant dialing to every capital in the world.
True, Gavallan thought, but still a ghetto. And though the rulers of Al Shargaz and Dubai and Sharjah are liberal and tolerant so expats can drink in the hotels, can even buy liquor, though God help you if you resell any to a Muslim, our women can drive and shop and walk about, that’s no guarantee it’ll last. A few hundred yards away, Shargazi are living as they’ve lived for centuries, a few miles away over the border liquor’s forbidden, a woman can’t drive or be on the streets alone and has to cover her hair and arms and shoulders and wear loose pants, and over there in the real desert, people exist on a stratum of life that’s pitiless.
A few years ago he had taken a Range Rover and a guide and, together with McIver and Genny and his new wife Maureen, had gone out into the desert to spend the night in one of the oases on the edge of Rub’ al-Khali, the Empty Quarter. It had been a perfect spring day. Within minutes of their passing the airport, the road became a track that quickly petered out and they were grinding over the stony expanse under the bowl of sky. Picnic lunch, then on again, sometimes sandy, sometimes rocky, detouring in the wilderness where it never rained and nothing grew. Nothing. On again. When they stopped and turned the engine off, the silence came at them like a physical presence, the sun bore down, and space enveloped them.