“I agree, bloody stupid waste! Bloody stupid! I asked Colonel Fazir if there was anything he could do. The bastard just smiled his thin rotten smile and said it was hard enough to find out what the hell was going on at the office next door in Tehran, let alone so far south. I asked him what about the komiteh at the airport - could they help? He said no, that komitehs have almost no liaison with anyone else, even in Tehran. To quote him: ‘Up in the Zagros among the half-civilized nomads and tribesmen, unless you’ve guns, you’re Iranian, preferably an ayatollah, you’d best do what they say.’” McIver coughed and blew his nose irritably. “The bastard wasn’t laughing at us, Andy. Even so, he wasn’t unhappy either.” Gavallan was in dismay, so many questions to ask and to be answered, everything in jeopardy, here and at home. A week to doomsday? Thank God that Scot… poor old Effer… Christ Almighty, Scot shot! Gloomily he looked out of the windshield and saw they were nearing the freight area. “Stop the car for a minute, Mac, better to talk in private, eh?”
“Sorry, yes, I’m not thinking too clearly.”
“You’re all right? I mean your health?”
“Oh, that’s fine, if I get rid of this cough… It’s just that… it’s just that I’m afraid.” McIver said it flat but the admission spiked through Gavallan. “I’m out of control, I’ve already lost one man, there’s HBC still hanging over us, old Erikki’s in danger, we’re all in danger, S-G and everything we’ve worked for.” He fiddled with the wheel. “Gen’s fine?” “Yes, yes, she is,” Gavallan said patiently, concerned for him. This was the second time he had answered that question. McIver had asked him the moment he had come down the steps of the 125. “Genny’s fine, Mac,” he said, repeating what he had said earlier, “I’ve mail from her, she’s talked to both Hamish and Sarah, both families’re fine and young Angus has his first tooth. Everyone’s well at home, all in good shape and I’ve a bottle of Loch Vay in my briefcase from her. She tried to talk her way past Johnny Hogg onto the 125 - to stow away in the loo - even after I’d said no, so sorry.” For the first time he saw a glimmer of a smile on McIver. “Gen’s ornery, no doubt about it. Glad she’s there and not here, very glad, curious though how you miss ‘em.” McIver stared ahead. “Thanks, Andy.” “Nothing.” Gavallan thought a moment. “Why get JeanLuc to take the 212? Why not Tom Lochart? Wouldn’t it be better to have him out?”
“Of course, but he won’t leave Iran without Sharazad… there’s another problem.” The music on the tape went out and he turned it over and started it again. “I can’t track her down. Tom was worried about her, asked me to go to her family’s home near the bazaar which I did. Couldn’t get an answer, didn’t seem to be anyone there, Tom’s sure she was on the Women’s Protest March.”
“Christ! We heard about the riots and arrests on the BBC-and attacks by nutters on some of the women. You think she’s in jail?” “I hope to God she isn’t - you heard about her father? Oh, of course, I told you myself last time you were here, didn’t I?” McIver wiped the windshield absently. “What would you like to do - wait here until the bird comes back?” “No. Let’s go into Tehran - do we have time?” Gavallan glanced at his watch. It read 12:25.
“Oh, yes. We’ve got a load of ‘redundant’ stores to put aboard. We’ll have time if we leave now.”
“Good. I’d like to see Azadeh and Nogger - and this man Ross - and particularly Talbot. We could go past the Bakravan house on the off chance. Eh?”
“Good idea. I’m glad you’re here, Andy, very glad.” He eased in the clutch, the wheels skidding.
“So’m I, Mac. Actually I’ve never been so down either.”
McIver coughed and cleared his throat. “Home news is lousy?” “Yes.” Idly Gavallan wiped away the condensation from his side window with the back of his glove. “There’s a special board meeting of Struan’s Monday. I’ll have to come up with answers about Iran. Damned nuisance!” “Will Linbar be there?”
“Yes. That bugger’s going to ruin the Noble House before he’s through. Stupid to expand into South America when China’s on the threshold of opening up.”
McIver frowned at the new edge to Gavallan’s voice but said nothing. For many years he had known of their rivalry and hatred, the circumstances of David MacStruan’s death and everyone’s surprise in Hong Kong that Linbar had achieved the top job. He still had many friends in the Colony who sent him clippings of the latest piece of gossip or rumor - the lifeblood of Hong Kong - about the Noble House and their rivals. But he never discussed them with his old friend.
“Sorry, Mac,” Gavallan had said gruffly, “don’t want to discuss those sort of things, or what goes on with Ian, Quillan, Linbar, or anyone else connected with Struan’s. Officially I’m no longer with the Noble House. Let’s leave it at that.”
Fair enough, McIver had thought at the time and had continued to hold his peace. He glanced across at Gavallan. The years have been kind to Andy, he told himself, he’s still as grand a looking man as ever - even with all the troubles. “Not to worry, Andy. Nothing you can’t do.”
“I wish I believed that right now, Mac. Seven days presents an enormous problem, doesn’t it?”
“That’s the understatement of the y - ” McIver noticed his fuel gauge was on empty and he exploded: “Someone must’ve siphoned my tank while she was parked.” He stopped and got out a moment and came back and slammed the door. “Bloody bastard broke the sodding lock. I’ll have to fill up - fortunately we’ve still got a few five-gallon drums left and the underground tank’s still half full of chopper fuel for emergencies.” He lapsed into silence, his mind beset with Jordon and Zagros and HBC and seven days. Who do we lose next? Silently he began to curse and then he heard Genny’s voice saying, We can do it if we want to, I know we can, I know we can…
Gavallan was thinking about his son. I won’t rest easily until I see him with my own eyes. Tomorrow, with any luck. If Scot’s not back before my plane to London, I’ll cancel and go Sunday. And somehow I’ve got to see Talbot - maybe he can give me some help. My God, only seven days… It took McIver no time to refuel, then he swung out of the airport into the traffic. A big USAF jet transport came low overhead in the landing pattern. “They’re servicing about five jumbos a day, still with military controllers and ‘supervising’ Green Bands, everyone giving orders, countermanding them and no one listening anyway,” McIver said. “BA’s promised me three seats on every one of their flights for our nationals - with baggage. They hope to get a jumbo in every other day.”
“What’d they want in return?”
“The crown jewels!” McIver said, trying to lighten their depression but the joke sounded flat. “No, nothing, Andy. The BA manager, Bill Shoesmith, is a great chap and doing a great job.” He swung around the burned-out wreck of a bus that was on its side half across the road as though it were neatly parked. “The women are marching again today - rumor has it they are going to go on and on until Khomeini relents.”
“If they stick together he’ll have to.”
“I don’t know what to think these days.” McIver drove on awhile then jerked a thumb out of the window at the pedestrians walking this way and that. “They seem to know all’s well in the world. The mosques are packed, marches in support of Khomeini are multitudes, Green Bands’re fighting the leftists fearlessly who fight back equally fearlessly.” He coughed wheezily. “Our employees, well, they just give me the usual Iranian flattery and politeness and you never know what they’re really thinking. Ex-cept you’re sure they want us O-U-T!” He swerved onto the sidewalk to avoid a head-on collision with an oncoming car that was on the wrong side of the road, horn blaring, going much too fast for the snow conditions - then drove on again. “Bloody twit,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the fact I love old Lulu, I’d swap her for a beat-up half-track and have at the bloody lot of them!” He glanced at Gavallan and smiled. “Andy, I’m so glad you’re here. Thanks. I feel better now. Sorry.”