“Can’t answer that, Ali Pash,” Scragger said, eyes on the clock, conscious of time slipping by, the lights and the hum of the HF, readying to overpower the young man who was taller than he, bigger built, younger by thirty-five years, and then disable the HF and make a run for it. Sorry, me son, but one way or another you’re going to cooperate. Casually he moved closer, into a better position. “Insha’Allah is your way of putting it,” he said kindly, and readied.
Hearing that come from the mouth of this kind, strange old man he respected so much, Ali Pash felt a flood of warmth pervade him. “This is my home, Agha, my land,” Ali Pash said simply. “The Imam is the Imam and he obeys only God. The future is the future and in God’s hands. The past too is the past.”
Before Scragger could stop him, Ali Pash called Bandar Delam and now was speaking Farsi into the mike. The two operators talked with one another for a moment or two, then abruptly he signed off. And looked up at Scragger. “I don’t blame you for leaving,” he said. “Thank you, Agha, for… for the past.” Then, with great deliberation, he switched the HF off, took out a circuit breaker, and pocketed it. “I told him we… we were closing down for the day.”
Scragger exhaled. “Thanks, me son.”
The door opened. Qeshemi stood there. “I wish to inspect the base,” he said.
AL SHARGAZ HQ: Manuela was saying, “… and then, Andy, Lengeh’s operator, Ali Pash, said to Jahan, ‘No, nothing’s strange here,’ then added, kinda abruptly, ‘I’m closing down for the day. I must go to prayers.’ Numir called him back at once, asking him to wait a few minutes but there was no answer.” “Abruptly?” Gavallan asked, Scot and Nogger also listening intently. “What sort of abruptly?”
“Like, like he kinda got fed up, or had a gun to his head - not usual for an Iranian to be that abrupt.” Manuela added uneasily, “I might be reading something into it that wasn’t there, Andy.” “Does that mean Scrag’s still there or not?” Scot and Nogger grimaced, appalled at the thought. Manuela shifted nervously. “If he was, wouldn’t he have answered himself to let us know? I think I would have. Perhaps h - ” The phone rang. Scot picked it up. “S-G? Oh, hello, Charlie, hang on.” He passed the phone to his father. “From Kuwait…” “Hello, Charlie. All’s well?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m at Kuwait airport, phoning from Patrick’s office at Guerney’s.” Though the two companies were rivals worldwide, they had very friendly relations. “What’s new?”
“Delta Four, nothing else yet. I’ll phone the moment. JeanLuc’s checked in from Bahrain - he’s with Delarne at Gulf Air de France if you want him. Is Genny with you?”
“No, she went back to the hotel but I’m all set the moment Mac and the others arrive.”
Gavallan said quietly, “Did you tell Patrick, Charlie?” He heard Pettikin’s forced laugh.
“Funny thing, Andy, the BA rep here, a couple of other guys, and Patrick have this crazy idea we’re up to something - like pulling all our birds out. Can you imagine?”
Gavallan sighed. “Don’t jump the gun, Charlie, keep to the plan.” This was to keep quiet until the Kowiss choppers were in the Kuwait system, then to trust Patrick. “I’ll phone when I have anything. ‘Bye - Oh, hang on, I almost forgot. You remember Ross, John Ross?”
“Could I ever forget? Why?”
“I heard he’s in Kuwait International Hospital. Check on him when you’re squared away, will you?”
“Of course, right away, Andy. What’s the matter with him?” “Don’t know. Call me if you have any news. “Bye.” He replaced the phone. Another deep breath. “The word’s out in Kuwait.”
“Christ, if it’s out th - ” Scot was interrupted by the phone ringing. “Hello? Just a moment. It’s Mr. Newbury, Dad.” Gavallan took it. “Morning, Roger, how’re tricks?” “Oh. Well, I, er, wanted to ask you that. How are things going? Off the record, of course.”
“Fine, fine,” Gavallan said noncommittally. “Will you be in your office all day? I’ll drop by, but I’ll call before I leave here.” “Yes, please do, I’ll be here until noon. It’s a long weekend, you know. Please phone me the moment you, er, hear anything - off the record. The moment. We’re rather concerned and, well, we can discuss it when you arrive. ‘Bye.” “Hang on a moment. Did you get word about young Ross?” “Yes, yes, I did. Sorry but we understand he was badly hurt, not expected to survive. Damn shame but there you are. See you before noon. ‘Bye.”
Gavallan put the phone down. They all watched him. “What’s wrong?” Manuela asked.
“Apparently… it seems young Ross is badly hurt, not expected to survive.” Nogger muttered, “What a bugger! My God, not fair…” He had regaled them all about Ross, how he had saved their lives, and Azadeh’s. Manuela crossed herself and prayed fervently to the Madonna to help him, then begged Her again and again to bring all the men back safe, all of them, without favor, and Azadeh and Sharazad, and let there be peace, please please please… “Dad, did Newbury tell you what happened?” Gavallan shook his head, hardly hearing him. He was thinking about Ross, of an age with Scot, more tough and rugged and indestructible than Scot and now … Poor laddie! Maybe he’ll pull through… Oh, God, I hope so! What to do? Continue, that’s all you can do. Azadeh’ll be rocked, poor lassie. And Erikki‘11 be as rocked as Azadeh, he owes her life to him. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said and walked out, heading for their other office where he could phone Newbury in private.
Nogger was standing at the window, looking out at the day and the airfield, not seeing any of it. He was seeing the wild-eyed maniac killer at Tabriz One holding the severed head aloft, baying like a wolf to the sky, the angel of sudden death who became the giver of life - to him, to Arberry, to Dibble, and most of all to Azadeh. God, if you are God, save him like he saved us…
“Tehran, this is Bandar Delam, do you read? Kowiss, Bandar Delam, do you read? Al Shargaz, Bandar Delam, do you read?”
“Five minutes on the dot,” Scot muttered. “Janan doesn’t miss a bloody second. Didn’t Siamaki say he’d be in the office from 0900 onward?” “Yes, yes, he did.” All their eyes went to the clock. It read 8:45.
AT LENGEH AIRPORT: 9:01 A.M. Qeshemi was standing in the hangar looking at the two parked 206s within. Behind him Scragger and Ali Pash watched nervously. A momentary shaft of sun broke the clouds and overcast and sparkled off the 212 that was waiting on the helipad fifty yards away, a battered police car and driver, Corporal Achmed, beside it. “Have you flown in one of those, Excellency Pash?” Qeshemi asked.
“The 206? Yes, Sergeant Excellency,” Ali Pash said, giving the sergeant his most pleasing smile. “The captain sometimes takes me or the other radio operator when we’re off duty.” He was very sorry the Devil had moved his feet here today, worse than sorry because now he was inescapably involved in treason - treason to break rules, treason to lie to police, treason not to report curious happenings. “The captain would take you anytime you wished,” he said pleasantly, his whole being concentrated now on extricating himself from the mire the Devil and the captain had put him into. “Today would be a good day?”
Ali Pash almost broke under the scrutiny. “Of course, if you ask the captain, of course, Agha. You wish me to ask?”
Qeshemi said nothing, just moved out into the open, careless of the Green Bands, half a dozen of them, who watched curiously. To Scragger he said directly in Farsi, “Where is everyone today, Agha?”
Ali Pash acted as interpreter for Scragger, though he twisted the words, making them sound better and more acceptable, explaining that today being Holy Day, with no revenue flights, the Iranian staff had correctly been given the day off, the captain had ordered the 212s to their designated training area for testing, had allowed the remaining mechanics to go picnicking, and that he himself was leaving to go to the mosque as soon as His Excellency the sergeant had finished whatever he wished to finish. Scragger was totally frustrated that he did not understand Farsi, and loathed being out of control of the situation but he was, completely. His life and those of his men were in the hands of Ali Pash.