Hussain looked at the Green Bands. “Is Esvandiary guilty or not guilty?” “Guilty, Excellency.”
“Is the man Kia guilty or not guilty?”
“Guilty,” Esvandiary shouted before they could answer.
One of the Green Bands shrugged. “All Tehranis are liars. Guilty,” and the others nodded and echoed him.
Kia said politely, “Tehrani mullahs and ayatollahs are not liars, Excellencies, the Revolutionary Komiteh not liars, nor the Imam, God save him, who perhaps could be called Tehrani because he lives there now. I just happen to live there too. I was born in Holy Qom, Excellencies,” he added, blessing the fact for the first time in his life.
One of the Green Bands broke the silence. “What he says is true, Excellency, isn’t it?” He scratched his head. “About all Tehranis?”
“That not all Tehranis are liars? Yes, that’s true.” Hussain looked at Kia, also unsure. “Before God, are you guilty or not?”
“Of course not guilty, Excellency, before God!” Kia’s eyes were guileless. Fool, do you think you can catch me with that? Taqiyah gives me the right to protect myself if I consider my life threatened by false mullahs! “How do you explain you’re a government minister, but also a director of this helicopter company?”
“The minister in charge…” Kia stopped, for Esvandiary was blubbering loudly and mouthing accusations. “I’m sorry, Excellencies, as God wants, but this noise, it’s difficult to speak without shouting.”
“Take him outside!” Esvandiary was dragged away. “Well?”
“The minister in charge of the Civil Aviation Board asked me to join the IHC board as the government’s representative,” Kia said, telling the twisted truth as though he were imparting a state secret, adding other exaggerations equally importantly. “We’re not sure of the loyalty of the directors. Also may I tell you privately, Excellency, that in a few days all foreign airplane companies are being nationalized…”
He talked to them intimately, modulating his voice for the most effect, and when he considered the moment perfect, he stopped and sighed, “Before God I confess I am without corruption like you, Excellency, and though without your great calling, I too have dedicated my life to serving the people.” “God protect you, Excellency,” the Green Band burst out.
The others agreed and even Hussain had had most of his doubt pushed aside. He was about to probe a little more when they heard a distant muezzin from the air base calling to evening prayer, and he chided himself for being diverted from God. “Go with God, Excellency,” he said, ending the tribunal, and got up.
“Thank you, Excellency. May God keep you and all mullahs safe to rescue us and our great Islamic nation from the works of Satan!”
Hussain led the way outside. There, following his lead, they all ritually cleansed themselves, turned toward Mecca, and prayed - Kia, Green Bands, office staff, laborers, kitchen workers - all pleased and content that once more they could each openly testify their personal submission to God and the Prophet of God. Only Esvandiary wept through his abject prayers. Then Kia came back into the office. In the silence, he sat behind the desk and allowed himself a secret sigh and many secret congratulations. How dare that son of a dog Esvandiary accuse me! Me, Minister Kia! May God burn him and all enemies of the state. Outside there was a burst of firing. Calmly he took out a cigarette and lit it. The sooner I leave this dung heap the better, he thought. A squall shook the building. Drizzle spotted the windows.
Chapter 57
LENGEH: 6:50 P.M. The sunset was malevolent, clouds covering most of the sky, heavy and black-tinged. “It’ll be closed in by morning, Scrag,” the American pilot Ed Vossi said, his dark curly hair tugged by the wind that blew from the Hormuz up the Gulf toward Abadan. “Goddamn wind!” “We’ll be all right, sport. But Rudi, Duke, and the others? If she holds or worsens they’ll be up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Goddamn wind! Why choose today to change direction? Almost as though the gods’re laughing at us.” The two men were standing on the promontory overlooking the Gulf beneath then-flagpole, the waters gray and, out in the strait, white-topped. Behind them was their base and the airfield, still wet from this morning’s passing rain squall. Below and to the right was then-beach and the raft they swam from. Since the day of the shark no one had ventured there, staying close in the shallows in case another lay in wait for them. Vossi muttered, “I’ll be goddamn glad when this’s all over.” Scragger nodded absently, his thoughts reaching into the weather patterns, trying to read what would happen in the next twelve hours, always difficult in this season when the usually placid Gulf could erupt with sudden and monstrous violence. For 363 or 364 days a year the prevailing wind was from the northwest. Now it wasn’t.
The base was quiet. Only Vossi, Willi Neuchtreiter, and two mechanics were left. All the other pilots and mechanics and their British office manager had gone two days ago, Tuesday, while he was en route back from Bandar Delam with Kasigi.
Willi had got them all out to Al Shargaz by sea: “We had no trouble, Scrag, by God Harry,” Willi had told him delightedly when he landed. “Your plan worked. Sending ‘em by boat was clever, better than by chopper, and cheaper. The komiteh just shrugged and took over one of the trailers.” “They’re sleeping on base now?”
“Some of them, Scrag. Three or four. I’ve made sure we feed them plenty of rice and horisht. They’re not a bad group. Masoud’s trying to keep in their good books too.” Masoud was their IranOil manager.
“Why did you stay, Willi? I know how you feel about this caper, I told you to be on the boat, no need for you.”
“Sure there is, Scrag, by God Harry, but you’ll need a proper pilot along with you - you might get lost.”
Good old Willi, Scragger thought. Glad he stayed. And sorry. Since getting back from Bandar Delam on Tuesday, Scragger had found himself greatly unsettled, nothing that he could isolate, just a feeling that elements over which he had no control were waiting to pounce. The pain in his lower stomach had lessened, but from time to time there was still a flick of blood in his urine. Not forewarning Kasigi about the Whirlwind pullout had added to his unease. Hell, he thought, I couldn’t have risked that, spilling Whirlwind. I did the best I could, telling Kasigi to go to Gavallan. Yesterday, Wednesday, Vossi had taken Kasigi across the Gulf. Scragger had given Vossi a private letter to Gavallan explaining what had happened in Bandar Delam and his dilemma about Kasigi, leaving it to Gavallan to decide what to do. Also in the letter he had given details of his meeting with Georges de Plessey who was gravely concerned that troubles would again spill over into the Siri complex: “Damage to pumping and piping at Siri’s worse than first thought and I don’t think she’ll be pumping this month. Kasigi’s fit to be tied as he’s got three tankers due at Siri for uplifts in the next three weeks according to the deal he worked out with Georges. It’s a carve-up, Andy. Nothing we can do. There’s little chance of avoiding sabotage if terrorists really decide to have at them. Of course I haven’t told Georges about anything. Do what you can for Kasigi and see you soonest, Scrag.” On this morning’s routine call from Al Shargaz, Gavallan had said only he had received his report and was dealing with it. Otherwise he was noncommittal.
Scragger had not mentioned McIver, nor had Gavallan. He beamed. Bet my life Dirty Dunc flew the 206! Never would’ve bet old By the Book Mclver’d’ve done it! Even so, bet my life he was like a pig in shit at the chance and no bloody wonder. I’d’ve done the same …