With the door relocked he went back and put on his shoes, the ache still present. Thoughtfully he picked up his M16 that stood in the comer of the room, checked the action and the magazine. Away from her spell he had no illusions about the danger or the realities of his life - and early death. His excitement quickened.
Death, he thought. Martyrdom. Giving my life for a just cause, freely embracing death, welcoming it. Oh, I will, I will. I can’t lead an army like the Lord of the Martyrs, but I can revolt against Satanists calling themselves mullahs and extract revenge on the mullah Hussain of Kowiss for murdering my father in the name of false gods, and for desecrating the Revolution of the People!
He felt his ecstasy growing. Like the other. Stronger than the other. I love her with all my soul but I should go tomorrow. I don’t need a team with me, alone it would be safer. I can easily catch a bus. I should go tomorrow. I should but I can’t, I can’t, not yet. After we’ve made love …
AL SHARGAZ AIRPORT: 6:17 P.M. Almost eight hundred miles away, southeast across the Gulf, Gavallan was standing at the heliport watching the 212 coming in to land. The evening was balmy, the sun on the horizon. Now he could see JeanLuc at the controls with one of the other pilots beside him, not Scot as he had first thought and expected. His anxiety increased. He waved and then, as the skids touched, impatiently went forward to the cabin door. It swung open. He saw Scot unbuckling one-handed, his other arm in a sling, his face stretched and pale but in one piece. “Oh, my son,” he said, heart pounding with relief, wanting to rush forward and hug him but standing back and waiting until Scot had walked down the steps and was there on the tarmac beside him.
“Oh, laddie, I was so worried…”
“Not to worry, Dad. I’m fine, just fine.” Scot held his good arm tightly around his father’s shoulders, the reassuring contact so necessary to both of them, oblivious of the others. “Christ, I’m so happy to see you. I thought you were due in London today.”
“I was. I’m on the red-eye in an hour.” Now I am, Gavallan was thinking, now that you’re here and safe. “I’ll be there first thing.” He brushed a tear away, pretending it was dust, and pointed at a car nearby. Genny was at the wheel. “Don’t want to fuss you but Genny‘11 take you to the hospital right away, just X ray, Scot, it’s all arranged. No fuss, promise - you’ve a room booked next door to mine at the hotel. All right?”
“All right, Dad. I, er, I… I could use an aspirin. I admit I feel lousy - the ride was bumpy to hell. I, er, I… you’re on the redeye? When’re you back?”
“Soon as I can. In a day or so. I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?” Scot hesitated, his face twisting. “Could you… perhaps … perhaps you could come with me - I can fill you in about Zagros, would you have time?” “Of course. It was bad?”
“No and yes. We all got out - except Jordon - but he was shot because of me, Dad, he was…” Tears filled Scot’s eyes though his voice stayed controlled and firm. “Can’t do anything about it… can’t.” He wiped the tears away and mumbled a curse and hung on with his good hand. “Can’t do anything… don’t, don’t know how to…”
“Not your fault, Scot,” Gavallan said, torn by his son’s despair, frightened for him. “Come along, we’ll… let’s get you started.” He called out to JeanLuc, “I’m taking Scot off for X ray, be back right away.”
TEHRAN - AT MCIVER’S APARTMENT: 6:35 P.M. In candlelight, Charlie Pettikin and Paula were sitting at the dining table, clinking wine-filled glasses with Sayada Bertolin, a large bottle of Chianti open, plates with two big salamis, one partially eaten, a huge slice of dolce latte cheese as yet untouched, and two fresh French baguettes that Sayada had brought from the French Club, one mostly gone: “There may be a war on,” she had said with forced gaiety when she had arrived uninvited, half an hour ago, “but whatever happens, the French must have proper bread.”
“Vive la France, and viva l’Italia,” Pettikin had said, reluctantly inviting her in, not wanting to share Paula with anyone. Since Paula had terminated any interest in Nogger Lane, he had rushed into the breech, hoping against hope. “Paula came in on this afternoon’s Alitalia flight, smuggled in all the swag at the risk of her life and - and doesn’t she look superisssssirna?”
Paula laughed. “It’s the dolce latte, Sayada; Charlie told me it was his favorite.”
“Isn’t it the best cheese on earth? Isn’t everything Italian the best on earth?”
Paula brought out the corkscrew and handed it to him, her green-flecked eyes sending more shivers down his spine. “For you, caro!”
“Magnifico! Are all young ladies of Alitalia as thoughtful, brave, beautiful, efficient, tender, sweet-smelling, loving, and, er, cinematic?” “Of course.”
“Join the feast, Sayada,” he had said. When she came closer into the light he saw her properly, noticing the strangeness to her. “You all right?” “Oh, yes, it’s, it’s nothing.” Sayada was glad for the candlelight to hide behind. “I, er, thanks I won’t stay, I… I just miss JeanLuc, wanted to find out when he’s back, I thought you could use the baguettes.”
“Delighted you arrived - we haven’t had a decent loaf for weeks, thanks, but stay anyway. Mac’s gone to Doshan Tappeh to pick up Tom. Tom‘11 know about JeanLuc - they should be back any moment.” “How’s Zagros?” “We’ve had to close it down.” As he busied himself getting glasses and setting up the table, Paula helping and doing most of it, he told them why, and about the terrorist attack on Rig Bellissima, Gianni’s being killed, then later, Jordon, and Scot Gavallan being wounded. “Bloody business, but there you are.”
“Terrible,” Paula said. “That explains why we’re routed back through Shiraz with instructions to keep fifty seats open. Must be for our nationals from the Zagros.”
“What rotten luck,” Sayada said, wondering if she should pass that information on. To them - and him. The Voice had called yesterday, early, asking what time she had left Teymour on Saturday. “About five, perhaps five-fifteen, why?”
“The cursed building caught fire just after dark - somewhere on the third floor, trapping the two above. The whole building’s gutted, many people killed, and there’s no sign of Teymour or the others. Of course the fire department was too late…”
No problem to find real tears and to let her agony pour out. Later in the day the Voice had called again: “Did you give Teymour the papers?” “Yes … yes, yes, I did.”
There had been a muffled curse. “Be at the French Club tomorrow afternoon. I will leave instructions in your box.” But there was no message so she had wheedled the loaves from the kitchen and had come here - nowhere else to go and still very frightened.
“So sad,” Paula was saying.
“Yes, but enough of that,” Pettikin said, cursing himself for telling them - none of their problem, he thought. “Let’s eat, drink, and be merry.” “For tomorrow we die?” Sayada said.
“No.” Pettikin raised his glass, beamed at Paula. “For tomorrow we live. Health!” He touched glasses with her, then Sayada, and he thought what a smashing pair they make but Paula’s far and away the most… Sayada was thinking: Charlie’s in love with this siren harpy who’ll consume him at her whim and spew out the remains with hardly a belch, but why do they - my new masters, whoever they are - why do they want to know about JeanLuc and Tom and want me to be Armstrong’s mistress and how do they know about my son, God curse them.
Paula was thinking: I hate this shit-roll of a city where everyone’s so gloomy and doom-ridden and downbeat like this poor woman who’s obviously got the usual man trouble, when there’s Rome and sunshine and Italy and the sweet life to become drunk with, wine and laughter and love to be enjoyed, children to bear with a husband to cherish but only so long as the devil behaves - why are all men rotten and why do I like this man Charlie who is too old and yet not, too poor and yet not, too masculine and yet… “Alora,” she said, the wine making her lips more juicy, “Charlie, amore, we must meet in Rome. Tehran is so… so depression, scusa, depressing.” “Not when you’re around,” he said.