“Of course, of course, but the rumor is that the Farazan dowry has already been agreed.”
“Oh? First I’ve heard of it, what liars people are!” “I agree, awful. Other vile rumormongers claim that the marriage is to take place next week and your… and the prospective husband is chortling that he outsmarted Meshang on the dowry.” “Someone outsmart Meshang? It has to be a lie!” “I knew the rumors were false! I knew it! How could you marry old Diarrhea Daranoush, Shah of the Night Soil? How could you?” Her friend had laughed uproariously. “Poor darling, which way would you turn?”
“What does it matter?” Meshang had screeched at her. “They’re only jealous! The marriage will take place, and tonight we will entertain him at dinner.” Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t, she thought seething. Perhaps the entertainment will not be what they expect.
Again she checked her directions, knees weak. She was going to his friend’s apartment, not far away now. There she would find the secret key in the niche downstairs and go in and look under the carpet in the bedroom and take up the board as she had seen him do. Then she would take out the pistol and the grenade - God be thanked for the chador to cover them and keep me hidden - then carefully replace the board and the carpet and come home again. Her excitement was almost choking her now. Ibrahim will be so proud of me, going into battle for God, to be martyred for God. Didn’t he go south to be martyred doing battle with evil in just the same way? Of course God will forgive his leftist silliness. How clever of him to show me how to take off the safety catch and to arm the gun and to hold the grenade, to pull the pin, then throw it at the enemies of Islam, shouting “God is Great, God is Great…“then charging them, shooting them, being lifted into Paradise, this evening if I can, tomorrow at the latest, the whole city rife with rumors that leftists at the university have begun their expected insurrection. We will stamp them out, my son and I, we will, Soldiers of God and the Prophet on whose name be praised, we will!
“God is Great. God is Great…” Just pull the pin and count to four and throw it, I remember everything he said exactly.
* KUWAIT - AT THE MESSALI BEACH HOTEL HELIPAD: 5:35 P.M. McIver and Pettikin watched the two Immigration and Customs men, the first peering impassively at the airplane papers, the other poking about in the cabin of the 212. So far their inspections had been perfunctory though time-consuming. They had collected all passports and airplane papers, but had just glanced at them and asked McIver his opinion of the current situation in Iran. They had not yet asked directly where the helicopters had come from. Any moment now, McIver and Pettikin thought, waiting queasily.
McIver had considered leaving Wazari in hiding, but had decided against the risk. “Sorry, Sergeant, you’ll have to take your chances.” “Who’s he?” the Immigration man had asked at once, Wazari’s complexion giving him away, and his fear.
“A radio-radar operator,” McIver said noncommittally.
The official had turned away and left Wazari standing there, sweating in the heavy, seaproofed plastic coverall, Mae West half done up. “So, Captain, you think there’ll be a coup in Tehran, a military coup?” “I don’t know,” McIver had told him. “Rumors abound like locusts. The English papers say it’s possible, very possible, and also that Iran’s caught up in a kind of madness - like the Terror of the French or Russian revolutions, the aftermath. May I get our mechanics to check everything while we wait?”
“Of course.” The man waited while McIver gave the orders, then he said, “Let’s hope the madness doesn’t spread across the Gulf, eh? No one wants any trouble this side of the Islamic Gulf.” He used the word with great deliberation, all the Gulf states loathing the term Persian Gulf. “It is the Islamic Gulf, isn’t it?”
“Yes, yes, it is.”
“All maps will have to be changed. The Gulf is the Gulf, Islam is Islam and not just for the Shi’a sect.”
McIver said nothing, his caution increasing, adding to his disquiet. There were many Shi’as in Kuwait and most of the Gulf states. Many. Usually they were the poor. Rulers, the sheiks, were usually Sunni.
“Captain!” the Customs officer in the doorway of the 212 cabin parked on the helipad was beckoning to him. Ayre and Wazari had been told to wait away from the helicopters in the shade until inspections were finished. Mechanics were busy ground-checking. “Are you carrying arms of any kind?” “No, sir - apart from the regulation Very light pistol.” “Contraband of any kind?”
“No, sir. Just spares.” All the usual questions, interminably, that would be repeated as soon as they were released to the airport. At length the man thanked him and motioned him away. The Immigration officer had gone back to his car with their passports. The radio transmitter had been left on and McIver could hear Ground Control clearly. He saw the man scratch his beard thoughtfully, then pick up the mike and talk into it in Arabic. This increased his concern. Genny was sitting in the shade nearby and he went over to her. “Stiff upper lip,” she whispered. “How’s it going?” “Wish to God they’d let us get on with it,” McIver said irritably. “We’ll have to endure another hour at the airport and damned if I know what to do.” “Has Charlie sa - ”
“Captain!” The Immigration officer was beckoning him and Pettikin over to the car. “So you’re in transit, is that it?”
“Yes. To Al Shargaz. With your permission, we’ll leave at once,” McIver said. “We’ll go to the airport, file our flight plan, and take off as quickly as we can. Is that all right?” “Where did you say you are in transit to?” “Al Shargaz, via Bahrain for fuel.” McIver was getting sicker by the minute. Any airport official would know they would have to refuel before Bahrain even without this wind, and all airports between here and there were Saudi, so he would have to file a flight plan for a Saudi landing. Bahrain, Abu Dhabi, Al Shargaz had all received the same telex. Kuwait too, and even if it had been intercepted here privately by a well-wisher, for whatever reason, the same would not be true of Saudi airports. Rightly, McIver thought, and saw the man look at the Iran registration letters under the cockpit windows. They had arrived under Iran registration, he would have to file the flight plan and leave under the same letters.
To their astonishment, the man reached into the pocket of his car and brought out a pad of forms. “I am inst - I will accept your flight plan here and clear you to Bahrain direct and you can leave at once. You can pay me the regulation landing fees and I’ll stamp your passports too. There’ll be no need to go to the airport.” “What?”
“I will accept your flight plan now and you can leave direct from here. Please make it out.” He handed the pad to McIver. It was the correct form. “As soon as you’ve done it, sign it and bring it back.”
Some flies circling in the car were bothering him and he waved them away. Then he picked up the radio mike, pointedly waited until McIver and Pettikin walked off, and talked quietly into it.
Hardly able to believe what had happened, they went to lean against their truck. “Jesus, Mac, do you think they know and are just letting us go?” “I don’t know what to think. Don’t waste time, Charlie.” McIver shoved the pad into his hands and said more irritably than he meant to, “Just make out the flight plan before he changes his mind: Al Shargaz - if we happen to have an emergency on Jellet, that’s our problem. For God’s sake do it and let’s get airborne as quick as we can.”
“Sure. Right away.”
Genny said, “You’re not flying, are you, Duncan?” “No, Charlie’s going to do that.”
Pettikin thought a moment, then took out a key and his money. “This’s my room key, Genny. Would you get my stuff for me, nothing there of any importance, pay the bill, and catch the next plane. Hughes - he’s the Imperial Air rep - he’ll get you a priority.” “What about your passport and license?” she asked. “Always carry them, frightened to death of losing them, and a $100 note - never know when you’ll need some baksheesh.” “Consider it done.” She pushed her dark glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, smiled at her husband. “What’ll you do, Duncan?”