Linbar flushed. “You should have been prepared for this catastrophe, you and bloody McIver. Any fool could see the Shah was on his last legs.” “Enough of this, Linbar,” Gavallan snapped. “I didn’t come back to quarrel, just to report, so let’s finish and I can get my plane back. What else, Profitable?”
“Andy, even if you get ‘em out what about Imperial undercutting you in the North Sea, taking twenty-odd contracts from you - then there’s your commitment for the six X63s?” “A bloody stupid and ill-timed decision,” Linbar said. Gavallan dragged his eyes off Linbar and concentrated. Choy had the right to ask and he had nothing to hide. “So long as I’ve my 212s I can get back to normal; there’s a huge amount of work for them. I’ll start dealing with Imperial next week - I know I’ll get some of the contracts back. The rest of the world’s frantic for oil, so ExTex will come around with the new Saudi, Nigerian, and Malaysian contracts, and when they get our report on the X63 they’ll double their business with us - and so will all the other majors. We’ll be able to give them better than ever service, more safety in all weather conditions, at less cost per mile per passenger. The market’s great, soon China’ll open up an - ”
“Pipe dream,” Linbar said. “You and bloody Dunross have your heads in the clouds.”
“China‘11 never be any good for us,” Profitable Choy said, his eyes curious. “I agree with Linbar.”
“I don’t.” Gavallan noticed something odd about Choy but his rage took him onward. “We’ll wait on that one. China has to have oil somewhere, in abundance. To finalize, I’m in good shape, great shape, last year profits were up fifty percent and this year we’re the same if not better. Next week I’ll b - ”
Linbar interrupted. “Next week you’ll be out of business.” “This weekend will tell it one way or another.” Gavallan’s chin came out. “I propose we reconvene on Monday next. That’ll give me time to get back.” “Paul and I return to Hong Kong on Sunday. We’ll reconvene there.” “That’s not possible for me an - ”
“Then we will have to get on without you.” Linbar’s temper broke. “If Whirlwind fails you’re finished, S-G Helicopters will be liquidated, a new company, North Sea Helicopters, already formed by the way, will acquire the assets, and I doubt if we’ll pay half a cent on the dollar.” Gavallan flushed. “That’s bloody robbery!”
“Just the price of failure! By God if S-G goes down you’re finished and none too soon for me, and if you can’t afford to buy your own plane ticket to board meetings you won’t be missed.”
Gavallan was beside himself with suppressed rage, but he held on. Then at a sudden thought, he looked across at Profitable Choy. “If Whirlwind’s a success, will you help me finance a Struan buy-out?”
Before Choy could answer Linbar bellowed, “Our controlling interest’s not for sale.”
“Maybe it should be, Linbar,” Profitable Choy said thoughtfully. “That way maybe you ease out of the hole you’re in. Why not unload an irritant - you two guys hack all the time and for what? Why not call it a day, huh?” Linbar said tightly, “Would you finance the buy-out?”
“Maybe. Yeah, maybe, but only if you agreed, Linbar, only then. This’s a family matter.”
“I’ll never agree, Profitable.” Linbar’s face twisted and he glared at Gavallan. “I want to see you rot - you and bloody Dunross!” Gavallan got up. “I’ll see you at the next meeting of the Inner Office. We’ll see what they say.”
“They’ll do what I tell them to do. I’m taipan. By the way, I’m making Profitable a member.”
“You can’t, it’s against Dirk’s rules.” Dirk Struan, founder of the company, had set down that members of the Inner Office could only be family, however loosely connected, and Christian. “You swore by God to uphold them.” “The hell with Dirk’s rules,” Linbar slammed back at him; “you’re not party to all of them or to Dirk’s legacy, only a taipan is, by God, and what I swore to uphold’s my own business. You think you’re so goddamned clever, you’re not! Profitable’s become Episcopalian, last year he was divorced, and soon he’s going to marry into the family, one of my nieces, with my blessing - he’ll be more family than you!” He laughed uproariously. Gavallan did not. Nor did Profitable Choy. They watched each other, the die cast now. “I didn’t know you were divorced,” Gavallan said. “I should congratulate you on… on your new life and appointment.” “Yeah, thanks,” was all his enemy said.
In the Al Shargaz airport, Scot bent down to pick up his father’s suitcase, other passengers bustling past, but Gavallan said, “Thanks, Scot, I can manage.” He picked it up. “I could use a shower and a couple of hours’ sleep. Hate flying at night.”
“Genny’s got the car outside.” Scot had noticed his father’s tiredness from the first moment. “You had a rough time back home?”
“No, no, not at all. So glad you’re okay. What’s new here?” “Everything’s terrific, Dad, going according to plan. Like clockwork.”
IN TEHRAN’S NORTHERN SUBURBS: 2:35 P.M. JeanLuc, debonair as always in his tailored flying gear and custom-made boots, got out of the taxi. As promised, he took out the hundred-dollar bill and carefully tore it in half. “Voilŕ!”
The driver examined his half of the note closely. “Only one hour, Agha? In God’s name, Agha, no more?”
“One hour and a half, as we agreed, then straight back to the airport. I’ll have some luggage.”
“Insha’Allah.” The driver looked around nervously. “I can’t wait here - too many eyes. One hour and half hour. I around corner, there!” He pointed ahead, then drove off.
JeanLuc went up the stairs and unlocked the door of Apartment 4a that overlooked the tree-lined road and faced south. This was his pad, though his wife, Marie-Christene, had found it and arranged it for him and stayed here on her rare visits. One bedroom with a big low double bed, well-equipped kitchen, living room with a deep sofa, good hi-fi and record player: “To beguile your lady friends, chéri, so long as you don’t import one into France!”
“Me, chérie? Me, I’m a lover not an importer!”
He smiled to himself, glad to be home and only a little irritated that he had to leave so much - the hi-fi was the best, the records wonderful, the sofa seductive, the bed oh so resilient, the wine so painstakingly smuggled in, and then there were his kitchen utensils. “Espčce de con,” he said out loud and went into the bedroom and tried the phone. It wasn’t working. He took a suitcase out of the neat wall bureau and started packing, quickly and efficiently, for he had given it much thought. First his favorite knives and omelette pan, then six bottles of the very best wines, the remaining forty-odd bottles would stay for the new tenant, a temporary tenant in case he ever came back, who was renting the whole place from him from tomorrow - with payment in good French francs, monthly in advance into Switzerland, with another good cash deposit for breakages, also in advance. The deal had been simmering since before he went on Christmas leave. While everyone else wore blinkers, he chortled, I was ahead of the game. But then of course I have an extreme advantage over the others. I’m French. Happily he continued packing. The new owner was also French, an elderly friend in the embassy who for weeks had desperately needed an immediate, well-equipped garçonničre for his teenage Georgian-Circassian mistress who was swearing to leave him unless he delivered: “JeanLuc, my dearest friend, let me rent it for a year, six months, three - I tell you emphatically, soon the only Europeans resident here will be diplomats. Tell no one else, but I have it on the highest authority from our inside contact with Khomeini in Neauphle-le-Chateau! Frankly we know everything that’s going on - aren’t many of his closest associates French speaking and French university trained? Please, I beg you, I simply have to satisfy the light of my life.” My poor old friend, JeanLuc thought sadly. Thank God I’ll never have to kowtow to any woman - how lucky Marie-Christene is that she’s married to me who can wisely guard her fortune!