“Ah, Sharazad!” Meshang met her at the door. He was perspiring and covered his nervousness with pretended good humor, not knowing what to expect from her. When she had come back from the doctor’s earlier, he had begun to harangue her and use dire threats, but, astonishingly, she had just dropped her eyes and said docilely, “There is no need to say any more, Meshang. God has decided, please excuse me, I will go and change.” And now she was here, still docile.
And so she should, he thought. “His Excellency Farazan has been dying to greet you.” He took her arm and led her through the twenty or so people in the room, mostly cronies of his and their wives, Zarah and some of her friends, none of Sharazad’s. She smiled at those she knew and then turned all her concentration to Daranoush Farazan.
“Greetings, Excellency,” she said politely and held out her hand. This was the first time she had ever been so close. He was shorter than she. She looked down on the few strands of dyed hair over his coarse pate, coarse skin, and even coarser hands, his bad breath infringing her space, his small black eyes glittering. “Peace be with you,” she said.
“Greetings, Sharazad, and peace be with you, but please, please don’t call me Excellency. How… how beautiful you are.”
“Thank you,” she said and watched herself take back her hand and smile and stand beside him and run to fetch him a soft drink, skirts flying, and bring it back as beautifully as it was possible to do, smiling at his droll pleasantries, greeting other guests, pretending to be oblivious of their stares and private laughter, never overdoing the performance, her mind centered on the riot at the university that had already begun, and upon the Protest March that had been forbidden by Khomeini but would take place. Across the room Zarah was watching Sharazad, astonished with the change but thanking God that she had accepted her lot and was going to obey which would make all their lives easier. What else could she do? Nothing! And nothing for me to do but accept that Meshang has a fourteen-year-old whore who already has her fangs out, boasting that soon she’ll become his second wife. “Zarah!”
“Oh! Yes, Meshang, my dear.”
“The evening’s perfect, perfect.” Meshang mopped his brow and accepted a soft drink from the tray that also contained glasses of champagne for those who cared for it. “I’m delighted that Sharazad got her senses back, for of course it’s a perfect match for her.”
“Perfect,” Zarah said agreeably. I suppose we should be thankful he arrived alone and did not bring one of his fancy boys - it’s true, he really does smell of the ordure he sells. “You’ve arranged everything perfectly, darling Meshang.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. It’s working out just as I planned.”
NEAR JALEH: To reach the small grass airstrip, once the home of an impoverished aero club now disused, Lochart had skirted the city and kept low to come under any radar. All the way in from D’Arcy 1908 he had tuned his radio to Tehran International but the airwaves were silent, the airport closed down for Holy Day, no flights permitted. He had been careful to arrive at sunset. When he cut the engine and heard the muezzins he was pleased. So far so good.
The hangar door was rusty. With some difficulty he managed to open it and wheeled the 206 inside. Then he reshut the door and began the long walk. He wore his flight clothes and, if he was stopped, he planned to say that he was an airline pilot whose car had broken down and was going to spend the night with friends.
As he reached Tehran’s outskirts, the roads became more and more crowded, people going home or coming from the mosques, no color or laughter among them, only a brooding apprehension.
There was not much traffic except army vehicles crammed with Green Bands. No troops or uniformed police. Traffic wardens were young Green Bands. The city was coming back into order. Never a woman in Western dress, all chadors. A few curses followed him, not many. A few greetings - his pilot’s uniform gave him standing. Deeper into the city he found a good place to wait for a taxi near a street market. While he waited he bought a bottled soft drink, took a wedge of warm fresh bread and munched it. The night wind picked up a little but the brazier was cheerful and inviting.
“Greetings. Your papers, please.”
The Green Bands were youths, polite, some with the beginnings of beards. Lochart showed them his ID that was stamped and current and they handed it back to him after some discussion. “Where are you going, may we ask?” Deliberately in atrocious Farsi he said, “Visit friends, near bazaar. Car break down. Insha’Allah.” He heard them talking among themselves, saying that pilots were safe, that this one was Canadian - isn’t that part of the Great Satan? No, I don’t think so. “Peace be with you,” they said and wandered off.
He went to the comer and watched the traffic, the smell of the city strong - gasoline, spices, rotting fruit, urine, body odor, and death. His sharp eyes saw a taxi with only two men in the back and one in the front at an intersection now blocked by a truck making a turn. Without hesitation he ducked through the cars, shouldered another man out of the way, jerked the back door open, and crammed himself inside, apologizing profusely in good Farsi, and begged the occupants to allow him to accompany them. After some cursing, some haggling, the driver discovered the bazaar was directly on the route that he had arranged with the others, all individual travelers who had also fought their way in. “With the Help of God, yours will be the second stop, Excellency.”
I’ve made it, he told himself exultantly, then allowed the other thought to surface: hope the others made it too. Duke and Scrag, Rudi, all of them, Freddy and good old Mac.
* BAHRAIN - INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT: 8:50 P.M. JeanLuc stood at the helipad and trained his binoculars on the two 212s that were over the end of the apron now, navigation lights winking. They had been cleared for a straight-in and approached fast. Beside him was Mathias, also using binoculars. Nearby was an ambulance, a doctor, and the Immigration officer, Yusuf. The sky was clear and star-filled, the night good with a warm fine wind. The lead 212 turned slightly and now JeanLuc could read the registration letters. G-HUVX. British. Thank God, they had time at Jellet, he thought, recognized Pettikin in the cockpit, then turned his glasses back to the other 212 and saw Ayre and Kyle, the mechanic.
Touchdown for Pettikin. Mathias and JeanLuc converged, Mathias for Pettikin and JeanLuc for the cabin door. He swung it open. “Hello, Genny, how is he?”
“He can’t seem to breathe.” Her face was white.
JeanLuc caught a glimpse of McIver stretched out on the floor, a life jacket under his head. Twenty minutes before, Pettikin had reported to Bahrain Tower that one of his crew, McIver, seemed to be having a heart attack, urgently requested a doctor and ambulance meet them. The tower had cooperated instantly.
The doctor hurried past him into the cabin and knelt beside McIver. One look was sufficient. He used the hyperdermic he had prepared. “This will settle him quickly and we’ll have him in the hospital in a few minutes.” In Arabic he called to the paramedics and they came on the run. He helped Genny down into the light, JeanLuc now with them. “I’m Dr. Lanoire, please tell me what happened.”
“Is it a heart attack?” she asked.
“Yes, yes, it is. Not a bad one,” the doctor said, wanting to gentle her. He was half-French, half-Bahrain, very good, and they had been fortunate to get him at such short notice. Behind them the paramedics had McIver on a stretcher and were easing him gently out of the helicopter. “He… my husband, he suddenly gasped and sort of croaked, ‘I can’t breathe,’ then doubled over in pain and fainted.” She wiped the sweat off her upper lip and continued in the same flat voice: “I thought it must be a heart attack and I didn’t know what to do, then I remembered what old Doc Nutt had said when he gave all us wives a lecture once and I loosened Duncan’s collar and we put him on the floor, then I found the… the capsules he’d given us and put one under his nose and crushed it…”