“No problem,” Gavallan said calmly but inside he was churning. “What about Whirlwind?” he asked, not able to bottle it any longer.
“Well, whether it’s seven days or seventy…” McIver swerved to avoid another accident neatly, returned the obscene gesture, and drove on again. “Let’s pretend we’re all agreed, and we could push the button if we wanted on D day, in seven days - no, Armstrong said best not to count on more than a week, so let’s make it six, six days from today, Friday next - a Friday’d be best anyway, right?”
“Because it’s their Holy Day, yes, my thought too.”
“Then adapting what we’ve come up with - Charlie and me: Phase One: From today on we send out every expat and spare we can, every way we can, by the 125, by truck out to Iraq or Turkey, or as baggage and excess baggage by BA. Somehow I’ll get Bill Shoesmith to increase our seat reservations and get priority of freight space. We’ve already got two of our 212s out ‘for repair’ and the Zagros one’s due off tomorrow. We’ve five birds left here in Tehran, one 212, two 206s, and two Alouettes. We send the 212 and the Alouettes to Kowiss ostensibly to service Hotshot’s request for choppers though why he wants them, God only knows - Duke says his birds are not all employed as it is. Anyway, we leave our two 206s here as camouflage.” “Leave them?”
“There’s no way we get all our choppers out, Andy, whatever our lead time. Now, on D minus two, next Wednesday, the last of our headquarters staff - Charlie, Nogger, our remaining pilots and mechanics, and me - we get on the 125 Wednesday and flit the coop to Al Shargaz, unless of course we can get some of them out beforehand by BA. Don’t forget we’re supposed to be up to strength, one in for one out. Next we th - ”
“What about papers, exit permits?”
“I’ll try to get blanks from Ali Kia - I’ll need some blank Swiss checks, he understands pishkesh but he’s also a member of the board, very clever, hot and hungry, but not anxious to risk his skin. If we can’t, then we’ll just pishkesh our way onto the 125. Our excuse to the partners, Kia or whomever, when they discover we’ve gone is that you’ve called an urgent conference at Al Shargaz - it’s a lame excuse but that’s beside the point. That ends Phase One. If we’re prevented from going, then that ends Whirlwind because we’d be used as hostages for the return of all birds, and I know you won’t agree to expend us. Phase Two: we set up sh - ”
“What about all your household things? And all those of the chaps who have apartments or houses in Tehran?”
“The company’ll have to pay fair compensation - that should be part of Whirlwind’s profit and loss. Agreed?”
“What’ll that add up to, Mac?”
“Not a lot. We’ve no option but to pay compensation.”
“Yes, yes, I agree.”
“Phase Two: We set up shop at Al Shargaz by which time several things have happened. You’ve arranged for the 747 jumbo freighters to arrive at Al Shargaz the afternoon of D minus one. By then, Starke somehow has secretly cached enough forty-gallon drums on the shore to carry them across the Gulf. Someone else’s cached more fuel on some godforsaken island off Saudi or the Emirates for Starke if he needs them, and for Rudi and his lads from Bandar Delam who definitely will. Scrag has no fuel problems. Meanwhile, you’ve arranged British registry for all birds we plan to ‘export,’ and you’ve got permission to fly through Kuwait, Saudi, and Emirate airspace. I’m in charge of Whirlwind’s actual operation. At dawn on D day you say to me go or no-go. If it’s no-go, that’s final. If it’s go, I can abort the go order if I think it’s prudent, then that becomes final too. Agreed?”
“With two provisos, Mac: you consult with me before you abort, as I’ll consult with you before go or no-go, and second, if we can’t make D day we try again D plus one and D plus two.”
“All right.” McIver took a deep breath. “Phase Three: at dawn on D day, or D plus one or D plus two - three days is the maximum I think we could sweat out - we radio a code message which says ‘Go!’ The three bases acknowledge and at once all escaping birds get airborne and head for Al Shargaz. There’s likely to be a four-hour difference between Scrag’s arrivals and the last ones, probably Duke’s - if everything goes well. The moment the birds land anywhere outside Iran we replace the Iranian registry numbers with British ones and that makes us partially legal. The moment they land at Al Shargaz the 747s are loaded, and take off into the Wild Blue with everyone aboard.” McIver exhaled. “Simple.”
Gavallan did not reply at once, sifting the plan, seeing the holes - the vast expanse of dangers. “It’s good, Mac.”
“It isn’t, Andy, it isn’t good at all.”
“I saw Scrag yesterday and we had a long talk. He says Whirlwind’s possible for him and he’s in if it’s a go. He said he’d sound out the others over the weekend and let me know, but he was sure on the right day he could get his birds and lads out.”
McIver nodded but said nothing more, just drove on, the roads icy and dangerous, twisting through the narrow streets to avoid the main highways he knew would be congested. “We’re not far from the bazaar now.” “Scrag said he might be able to get into Bandar Delam in the next few days and see Rudi and sound him out - letters’re too risky. By the way, he gave me a note for you.”
“What’s it say, Andy?”
Gavallan reached into the back for his briefcase. He found the envelope and put on reading glasses. “It’s addressed: D. D. Captain McIver, Esq.” “I’ll give him whatfor one day with his bloody ‘Dirty Duncan,’” McIver said. “Read it out.”
Gavallan opened the envelope, pulled out the paper with another attached to it, and grunted. “The letter just says: ‘Get stuffed.’ Clipped to it’s a medical report…” He peered at it. “… signed by Dr. G. Gernin, Australian Consulate, Al Shargaz. The old bastard’s ringed cholesterol normal, blood pressure 130/85, sugar normal… everything’s bloody normal and there’s a P.S. in Scrag’s writing: ‘I’m going to buzz you on me f’ing seventy-third birthday, old cock!’”
“I hope he does, the bugger, but he won’t, time’s not on his side. He’ll m - ” McIver braked cautiously. The street led out onto the square in front of the bazaar mosque but the exit was blocked by shouting men, many waving guns. There was no way to turn aside or detour, so McIver slowed and stopped. “It’s the women again,” he said catching sight of the surging demonstration beyond, cries and countercries growing in violence. Traffic on both sides of the street piled up with great suddenness, horns blaring angrily. There were no sidewalks, just the usual muck-filled joubs and banked snow, a few street stalls and pedestrians.
They were hemmed in on all sides. Bystanders began to join those ahead, pressing into the roadway around the cars and trucks. Among them were urchins and youths, and one made a rude sign at Gavallan through his side window, another of them kicked the fender, then another, and they all ran off laughing.
“Rotten little bastards.” McIver could see them in the rearview mirror, other youths collecting around them. More men pushed past, more hostile looks, and a couple banged the sides carelessly with their firearms. Ahead the main part of the marching women, “Allah-u Akbarrrrr…” dominating, were passing the junction.
A sudden crash startled them as a stone slammed against the car, narrowly missing the window, then the whole car began to rock as urchins and youths swarmed around it, jumping on and off the bumpers, making more obscene gestures. McIver’s rage exploded and he tore the door open, sending a couple of the youths sprawling, then jumped out and ripped into the pack that scattered at once. Gavallan got out equally fast, to charge those trying to overturn the car at the rear. He belted one and sent nun flying. Most of the others retreated, slipping and shouting, amid curses from pedestrians, but two of the bigger youths rushed Gavallan from behind. He saw them coming and smashed one in the chest, slammed the other against a truck, stunning him, and the truck driver laughed and thumped the side of his cabin. McIver was breathing hard. On his side the youths were out of range, shouting obscenities. “Look out, Mac!”