“Uh?” Absently he glanced at the youth who was awkwardly trying to use the spare binoculars on the choppers. One look at the telex was enough. “Mohammed, have you ever used binoculars backward?” he asked. “Sayyid?” The youth was perplexed.
Sinclair took the glasses from him, unfocused them, and gave them back reversed. “Train them on the choppers and tell me what you see?” It took the youth a few moments to get the image centered. “They’re so far away I can hardly make the three of them out.”
“Interesting. Here, sit in my chair a moment.” Puffed with pride the youth obeyed. “Now, call Concorde and ask for a position report.” The other trainees were filled with envy, all else forgotten. Mohammed’s fingers trembled with excitement holding down the transmit. “Concorde, this … this is Bahrain Tower, please, your position report, please.” “Tower, 001, going through thirty-four thousand for sixty-two thousand, Mach 1.3 for Mach 2” - fifteen hundred miles per hour - “heading 290, leaving your area now.”
“Thank you, Concorde, good day… oh, call Baghdad 119.9, good day!” he said beaming and when the time was correct Sinclair pointedly picked up the telex and frowned.
“Iranian choppers?” He gave the youth the spare glasses. “Do you see any Iranian choppers here?”
After examining the three incoming strangers very carefully, the youth shook his head. “No, Sayyid, those are British, the only others here we know are Shargazi.”
“Quite right.” Sinclair was frowning. He had noticed that Scragger was still slumped on the ground, Lane and some of the others standing around him. Not like Scragger, he thought. “Mohammed, send a medic and ambulance over to those British choppers on the double.” Then he picked up the phone, dialed. “Mr. Gavallan, your birds are down safe and sound. When you have a moment could you drop by the tower?” He said it in the peculiarly casual, understated English way that only another Englishman would detect at once meant “urgently.”
IN THE S-G OFFICE: Gavallan said into the phone, “I’ll be there right away, Mr. Sinclair. Thanks.”
Scot saw his face. “More trouble, Dad?”
“I don’t know. Call me if anything happens.” At the door, Gavallan stopped. “Damn, I forgot about Newbury. Call him and see if he’s available this afternoon. I’ll go to his house, anywhere - fix whatever you can. If he wants to know what’s going on, just say, ‘Six out of seven so far, one on standby and two to go.’” He hurried away with, “‘Bye, ‘bye, Manuela. Scot, try Charlie again and find out where the devil he is.”
“Okay.” Now they were alone, Scot and Manuela. His shoulder was aching and intruding more and more. He had noticed her depression. “Dubois‘11 turn up, you’ll see,” he said, wanting to sound very confident and mask his own fear they were lost. “And nothing could kill old Fowler.”
“Oh, I do hope so,” she said, her tears near. She had seen her husband stumble and was achingly aware of the extent of his pain. Soon I’m going to have to leave for the hospital and the hell with Farsi. “It’s the waiting.” “Only a few more hours, Manuela, two more birds and five bods. Then we can celebrate,” Scot added, hoping against hope, and thinking: Then the weight’ll be off the Old Man too, he’ll smile again and live a thousand years.
My God, give up flying? I love flying and don’t want a desk job. Hong Kong for part of the year’d be fine but Linbar? I can’t deal with Linbar! The Old Man‘11 have to deal with him - I’d be lost…
The old, nagging question leaped into his mind: What’d I do if the Old Man wasn’t around? A chill went through him. Not if, when, it’s going to happen someday…. It could happen any day. Look at Jordon, Talbot - or Duke or me. A fraction of an inch and you’re dead - or you’re alive. The Will of God? Karma? Joss? I don’t know and it doesn’t matter! All I’m sure of is since I was hit I’m different, my whole life’s different, my certainty that nothing would ever touch me has vanished forever and all that’s left is a God-cursed, icy, stench-ridden certainty of being very mortal. Christ Almighty! Does that always happen? Wonder if Duke feels the same? He looked at Manuela. She was staring at him. “Sorry, I wasn’t listening,” he said and began to dial Newbury.
“I just said, ‘Isn’t it three birds and eight bods? You forgot Erikki and Azadeh - nine if you count Sharazad.”
TEHRAN, AT THE BAKRAVAN HOUSE: 1:14 P.M. Sharazad stood in front of the long mirror in her bathroom, naked, examining the profile of her stomach, seeing if there was an added roundness yet. This morning she had noticed that her nipples seemed more sensitive and her breasts appeared tight. “No need to worry,” Zarah, Meshang’s wife, had laughed. “Soon you’ll be like a balloon and in tears, you’ll be wailing that you’ll never be able to get into your clothes again and oh how ugly you look! Don’t worry, you will - get into your clothes - and you won’t look ugly.”
Sharazad was very happy today, dawdling, and she frowned at herself and peered closer to see if she had any wrinkles, looking at herself this way and that, trying her hair up and down, bunched or to one side, contented and pleased with what she saw. The bruises were fading. Her body was quite dry from her bath and she powdered herself, stepped into her underclothes. Jari bustled in. “Oh, Princess, aren’t you ready yet? His Eminence your brother is expected back for lunch any minute and the whole house is frightened he’ll be in another of his rages, oh, please hurry, we don’t want to excite him now do we?.. .” Automatically she pulled the plug out of the bath, began tidying, all the time fussing and muttering and coaxing Sharazad along. In moments Sharazad was dressed. Stockings - no panty hose on sale for months now, even on the black market - no need for a bra. Warm blue cashmere dress of Paris cut with matching short-sleeved shawl coat. A quick brush and her naturally wavy hair was perfect, the barest touch of lip makeup, a line of kohl around her eyes.
“But, Princess, you know how your brother doesn’t like makeup!” “Oh, but I’m not going out, and Meshang’s not…” Sharazad was going to say “my father” but stopped herself, not wanting to bring back that tragedy from the recesses of her mind. Father’s in Paradise, she told herself firmly. His Day of Mourning, the fortieth day since he died, is still twenty-five days away and until then we must get on with living.
And loving?
She had not asked Jari what had happened at the coffee shop, the day she had sent her there to tell him her husband had returned and that what had never begun was ended. I wonder where he is, if he’ll continue to visit me in my dreams?
There was a commotion downstairs and they knew Meshang had arrived. She checked herself a last time, then went to meet him.
After the night of his clash with Lochart, Meshang had moved back into the house with his family. The house was very big, Sharazad still had her rooms and was delighted that Zarah and her three children noised away the crushing silence and gloom that had previously been pervading it. Her mother was a recluse now, in her own wing, even eating there, served only by her own maid, praying and weeping most of the day. Never coming out, never inviting any of them in: “Leave me alone! Leave me alone!” was all she would whimper through the locked door.
During the hours that Meshang was in the house, Sharazad, Zarah, and others in the family were careful to cajole and flatter him. “Don’t worry,” Zarah had told her. “He’ll be to heel soon enough. He thinks I’ve forgotten he insulted me and hit me and dares to flaunt the young whore that that vile son of a dog Kia tempted him with! Oh, don’t worry, darling Sharazad, I’ll have my revenge - it was unforgivable bad manners to treat you and … your husband like that. Soon we’ll be able to travel again… Paris, London, even New York… I doubt if he’ll have the time to go with us and then, ah, and then we’ll kick up our heels, wear see-throughs, and have fifty suitors each!”