The sergeant’s house was on the corner of a dingy, dirt street still puddled from this morning’s squall, just another door in the high walls across the joub. It was getting dark now so Scragger left the headlights on and got out. No sign of life in the whole street. Only a few of the high windows dimly lit.
Sensing Ali Pash’s nervousness he said, “You stay in the car. There’s no problem, I’ve been here before.” He used the iron knocker vigorously, feeling eyes everywhere.
The first time he had been here was a year or so ago when he had brought a huge food hamper, with two butchered sheep, some sacks of rice, and cases of fruit as a gift from the base to celebrate “their” sergeant getting the Shah’s Bronze Sepah Medal for bravery in action against pirates and smugglers who were endemic in these waters. The last time, a few weeks ago, he had accompanied a worried gendarme who wanted him to report at once the tragedy at Siri One, picking Abdollah Turik out of the shark-infested water. Neither time had he been invited into the house but had stayed in the little courtyard beyond the tall wooden door, and both times had been in daylight. The door creaked open. Scragger was not prepared for the sudden flashlight that momentarily blinded him. The circle of light hesitated, then went to the car and centered on Ali Pash who almost leaped out of the car, half-bowed, and called out, “Greetings, Excellency Chief Officer, peace be upon you. I apologize that the foreigner disturbs your privacy and dares to c - ” “Greetings.” Qeshemi overrode him curtly, clicked the light off, turning his attention back to Scragger.
“Salaam, Agha Qeshemi,” Scragger said, his eyes adjusting now. He saw the strong-featured man watching him, his uniform coat unbuttoned and the revolver loose in its holster.
“Salaam, Cap’tin.”
“Sorry to come here, Agha, at night,” Scragger said slowly and carefully, knowing Qeshemi’s English was as limited as his own Farsi was almost nonexistent. “Loftan, gozar nameh. Loftan” - Please, need passports. Please. The gendarme sergeant grunted with surprise then waved a hard tough hand toward the town. “Passports in stat’ion, Cap’tin.”
“Yes. But, sorry, there is no key.” Scragger parodied opening a lock with a key. “No key,” he repeated.
“Ah. Yes. Understand. Yes, no key. To’morrow. To’morrow you get.” “Is it possible, tonight? Please. Now?” Scragger felt the scrutiny. “Why tonight?”
“Er, for a crew change. Men to Shiraz, crew change.”
“When?”
Scragger knew he had to gamble. “Saturday. If I have key, go station and return at once.”
Qeshemi shook his head. “To’morrow.” Then he spoke sharply to Ali Pash who at once bowed and thanked him profusely, again apologizing for disturbing him. “His Excellency says you can have them tomorrow. We’d, er, we’d better leave, Captain.”
Scragger forced a smile. “Mamnoon am, Agha” - Thank you, Excellency. “Mamnoon am, Agha Qeshemi.” He would have asked Ali Pash to ask the sergeant if he could have the passports as soon as the station opened but he did not wish to agitate the sergeant unnecessarily. “I will come after first prayer. Mamnoon am, Agha.” Scragger put out his hand and Qeshemi shook it. Both men felt the other’s strength. Then he got into the car and drove off. Thoughtfully Qeshemi closed and rebelled the door.
In summertime the small patio with its high walls and trellised vines and small fountain was cool and inviting. Now it was drab. He crossed it and opened the door opposite that led into the main living’ room and rebelled it. The sound of a child coughing somewhere upstairs. A wood fire took off some of the chill but the whole house was drafty, none of the doors or windows fitting properly. “Who was it?” his wife called down from upstairs. “Nothing, nothing important. A foreigner from the air base. The old one. He wanted their passports.”
“At this time of night? God protect us! Every lime there’s a knock on the door I expect more trouble - rotten Green Bands or vile leftists!” Qeshemi nodded absently, but said nothing, warming his hands by the fire, hardly listening to her rattle on: “Why should he come here? Foreigners are so ill-mannered. What would he want passports for at this time of night? Did you give them to him?”
“They’re locked in our safe. Normally I bring the key with me as always, bul it’s lost.” The child coughed again. “How’s little Sousan?” “She still has a fever. Bring me some hot water, that’ll help. Put a little honey in it.” He set the kettle on the fire, sighed, hearing her grumbling: “Passports at this time of night! Why couldn’t they wait till Saturday? So ill-mannered and thoughtless. You said the key’s lost?”
“Yes. Probably that goathead excuse for a policeman, Lafti, has it and forgot to put it back again. As God wants.”
“Mohammed, what would the foreigner want with passports al this lime of night?”
“I don’t know. Curious, very curious.”
Chapter 58
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRFIELD: 7:49 P.M. Rudi Lutz stood on the veranda of his trailer under the eaves, watching the heavy rain. “Scheiss,” he muttered. Behind him his door was open and the shaft of light sparkled the heavy raindrops. Soft Mozart came from his tape deck. The door of the next trailer, the office trailer, opened, and he saw Pop Kelly come out holding an umbrella over his head and slop through the puddles toward him. Neither noticed the Iranian in the shadows. Somewhere on the base a tomcat was spitting and yowling. “Hi, Pop. Come on in. You get it?”
“Yes, no problem.” Kelly shook the rain off. Inside the trailer it was warm and comfortable, neat and tidy. The cover was off the built-in, reconnected HF that was on Standby, muted static mixing with the music. A coffeepot percolated on the stove.
“Coffee?”
“Thanks - I’ll help myself.” Kelly handed him the paper and went over to the kitchen area. The paper had hastily jotted columns of figures on it, temperatures, wind directions, and strengths for every few thousand feet, barometric pressures and tomorrow’s forecast. “Abadan Tower said it was up to date. They claimed it included all today’s incoming BA data. Doesn’t look too bad, eh?”
“If it’s accurate.” The forecast predicted lessening precipitation around midnight and reduced wind strength. Rudi turned up the music, and Kelly sat down beside him. Rudi dropped his voice. “It could be all right for us, but a bitch for Kowiss. We’ll still have to refuel in flight to make Bahrain.” Kelly sipped his coffee with enjoyment, hot, strong, with a spoon of condensed milk. “What’d you do if you were Andy?”
“With the three bases to worry about I’d…” A slight noise outside. Rudi got up and glanced out of the window. Nothing. Then again the sound of the tomcat, closer. “Damn cats, they give me the creeps.”
“I rather like cats.” Kelly smiled. “We’ve three at home: Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Two’re Siamese, the other’s a tabby; Betty says the boys’re driving her mad to get ‘John’ to round it off.”
“How is she?” Today’s BA flight into Abadan had brought Sandor Petrofi for the fourth 212, along with mail from Gavallan, routed since the troubles through HQ at Aberdeen, their first for many weeks.
“Fine, super in fact - three weeks to go. The old girl’s usually on time. I’ll be glad to be home when she pops.” Kelly beamed. “The doc says he thinks it’s going to be a girl at long last.”
“Congratulations! That’s wonderful.” Everyone knew that the Kellys had been hoping against hope. “Seven boys and one girl, that’s a lot of mouths to feed.” Rudi thought how hard he found it to keep up with the bills and school fees with only three children and no mortgage on the house - the house left to his wife by her father, God bless the old bastard. “Lots of mouths, don’t know how you do it.”