Hakim Khan frowned. “How would I have access to the information?” he said, and both men knew that he was hooked.
“However you want, Highness,” Hashemi said, “however you want.” Another small silence. “I’ll consider what y - ” Hakim Khan stopped, listening. Now they all heard the approaching puttputt-putt of rotors and the sound of the jets. Both men started for the tall windows. “Wait,” Hakim said. “One of you please give me a hand.”
Astonished, they helped him stand. “Thank you,” he said painfully. “That’s better. It’s my back. In the explosion I must have twisted it.” Hashemi took some of his weight and between them he hobbled to the tall windows that overlooked the forecourt.
The 212 was coming in slowly, drifting down to her landing. As she got closer they recognized Erikki and Ahmed in the front seats but Ahmed was slumped down, clearly hurt. A few bullet holes in the airframe, a great chunk of plastic out of a side window. She settled into a perfect landing. At once the engines began to die. Now they saw the blood staining Erikki’s white collar and sleeve.
“Christ…” Armstrong muttered.
“Colonel,” Hakim Khan said urgently to Hashemi, “see if you can stop the doctor from leaving.” Instantly Hashemi rushed off.
From where they were they could see the front steps. The huge door opened and Azadeh hobbled out and stood there a moment, a statue, others gathering beside her now, guards and servants and some of the family. Erikki opened his side door and got out awkwardly. Tiredly he went toward her. But his walk was firm and tall and then she was in his arms.
Chapter 56
IN KOWISS TOWN: 12:10 P.M. Ibrahim Kyabi waited impatiently in ambush for the mullah Hussain to come out of the mosque into the crowded square. He sat slumped against the fountain opposite the huge door, his arms cradling the canvas bag that camouflaged his cocked Ml6. His eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness, his whole body aching from his 350-odd-mile journey from Tehran. Idly he noticed a tall European among the crowds. The man was following a Green Band, and wore dark clothes, parka, and peaked cap. He watched the two of them bypass the mosque and disappear into the alley beside it. Nearby was the maw of the bazaar. Its darkness and warmth and safety tempted him to leave the cold.
“Insha’Allah,” he muttered automatically, then dully reminded himself to stop using that expression, pulled the old overcoat closer around him, and settled more comfortably against the fountain that, when winter’s ice had gone, would once more trickle for passersby to drink or ritually to wash their hands and faces before going to prayers.
“What’s this mullah Hussain like?” he had asked the street vendor who was ladling him a portion of the steaming bean horisht out of the cauldron that hung over the charcoal. It was morning then and he had just arrived after interminable delays, fifteen hours overdue. “What’s he like?” The man was old and toothless and he shrugged. “A mullah.” Another customer nearby swore at him. “May you be sacrificed! Don’t listen to him, stranger, the mullah Hussain is a true leader of the people, a man of God, who owns nothing but a gun and ammunition to kill the enemies of God.” Other customers echoed this unshaven youth and told about the taking of the air base. “Our mullah’s a true follower of the Imam, he’ll lead us into Paradise, by God.”
Ibrahim had almost cried out in rage. Hussain and all mullahs deserve death for feeding these poor peasants such nonsense. Paradise? Fine raiments and wine and forty perpetual virgins on silk couches?
I won’t think of loving, I won’t think of Sharazad, not yet. His hands caressed the hidden strength of the gun. This took away some of his fatigue and hunger, but none of his utter loneliness. Sharazad. Now part of a dream. Better this way, much better: he had been waiting for her at the coffee shop when Jari had accosted him and muttered, “In the Name of God, the husband has returned. That which never began is finished forever,” then had vanished into the crowds. At once he had left and fetched his gun and walked all the way to the bus station. Now he was waiting, soon to be martyred taking vengeance in the name of the Masses against blind tyranny. So soon now. Soon into blackness or into light, oblivion or understanding, alone or with others: prophets, imams, devils, who?
In ecstasy he closed his eyes. Soon I’ll know what happens when we die and where we go. Do we, at long last, find the answer to the great riddle: Was Mohammed the last Prophet of God, or madman? Is the Koran true? Is there God?
In the alley beside the mosque, the Green Band leading Starke stopped and motioned toward a hovel. Starke stepped across the befouled joub and knocked. The door opened. “Peace be upon you, Excellency Hussain!” he said in Farsi, tense and on guard. “You sent for me?”
“Salaam, Captain. Yes, yes, I did,” the mullah Hussain replied in English and motioned him to enter.
Starke had to stoop to go inside the one-room hut. Two babes were sleeping fitfully on their straw pallet on the dirt floor. A young boy stared back at him, hands clasped around an old rifle, and he recognized him as the same child at the fight between Hussain’s men and Zataki’s men. A well-serviced AK47 leaned against a wall. Over by the sink a nervous old woman in a black, stained chador sat on a rickety chair.
“These are my sons and this is my wife,” Hussain said.
“Salaam.” Starke hid his astonishment that she should be so old. Then he looked closer and saw the age was not in years.
“I sent for you for three reasons: First for you to see how a mullah fives. Poverty is one of a mullah’s prime duties.”
“And learning, leadership, and lawgiving. That apart, Agha, I know you’re a hundred percent sincere in your beliefs,” and trapped by them, Starke wanted to add, loathing this room with the terrible, never-ending poverty it represented, its stench and the helplessness that he knew need not be but would exist for all the days of the lives here - and in countless other homes of all religions, all the world over. But not with my family, thank God! Thank God I was born Texan, thank God ten billion trillion times that I know better and my kids won’t, won’t, by God, won’t have to live in the dirt like these poor little critters. With an effort he stopped himself from brushing their flies away, wanting to curse Hussain for enduring that which need not be endured.
“You said three reasons, Agha?”
“The second is: Why are all but a few men scheduled to leave today?” “They’re long overdue leave, Agha. Work’s slow at the base, this’s a perfect time.” Starke’s anxiety increased. This morning, before he had been summoned here, there had already been three telexes and two calls on the HF from their HQ in Tehran, the last from Siamaki, now the ranking board member, demanding to know where Pettikin, Nogger Lane, and the others were. He had sluffed him off, saying that McIver would call him back the instant he arrived with Minister Kia, very conscious of Wazari’s curiosity. Yesterday had been the first he had heard of Ali Kia’s visit. Charlie Pettikin, during his brief stopover outward bound for Al Shargaz, had told him what had happened to McIver and their fears about him. “Jesus …” was all he could mutter.
But yesterday had not been all bad. John Hogg had brought Gavallan’s provisional schedule for Whirlwind with codes and times and coordinates of refueling alternates set up on the other side of the Gulf. “Andy said to tell you they’ve all been passed on to Scrag at Lengeh and Rudi at Bandar Delam and take into account the problems of all three bases,” Hogg had told him. “Two 747 freighters are booked for Al Shargaz, dawn Friday. That’ll give us plenty of time, Andy says. I’ll bring another update when I come for the lads, Duke. The final button’s not to be pressed until 7:00 A.M. Friday or same time Saturday or Sunday. Then it’s no go.”