“There’s no payment. You can authorize a charter. Maybe we can get you to Bandar Delam - then you’re on your own.”
Valik stared at him with disbelief. “But… but even so, you’ll need expense money to pay for the, er, pilot or whatever.”
“No, but you can give me an advance of 5 million rials against the money the partnership owes which we desperately need.” McIver scrawled out a receipt and handed it to him. “If you’re not here, the Emir or the others may not be so generous.”
“The banks will open next week, we’re sure of it. Oh, yes, quite sure.” “Well, let’s hope so and we can be paid what’s owing.” He saw Valik’s expression, saw him count out the money, knowing that Valik thought him mad not to have accepted the pishkesh, knowing also that inevitably the man would try to bribe the pilot, whoever the pilot was, to take them the last stretch if the chopper ever got out of Tehran airspace - and that would be a disaster.
And now, in his office, staring blankly out of the window at the night, not hearing the gunfire or seeing the occasional flare light the darkened city, he thought, My God, SAVAK? I have to try to help him, have to. Those poor bloody kids and poor woman. I have to! And when Valik offers the pilot a bribe, even though I’ll warn the pilot in advance, will he resist? If Valik offered twelve million now, at Abadan it would be doubled. Tom could use that money, Nogger Lane, so could I, anyone. Just for a short trip across the Gulf - short but one way and no return. Where the hell did Valik get all that cash anyway? Of course from a bank.
For weeks there had been rumors that for a fee certain well-connected people could get monies out of Tehran even though the banks - formally - were closed. Or for an even larger fee get monies transferred to a numbered account in Switzerland, and that now Swiss banks were groaning under the weight of money fleeing the country. Billions. A few million in the right palm and anything’s possible. Isn’t that the same over the whole of Asia? Be honest, why just Asia? Isn’t it true over the whole world? “Tom,” he said wearily, “try military air traffic control and see if the 212’s cleared, will you?” As far as Lochart was concerned, this was just a routine delivery - McIver had told him only that he had seen Valik today and that the general had given him some cash, but nothing else. He still had to decide the pilot he would send, wishing he could do it himself and so put no one else at risk. God cursed medical! God cursed rules!
Lochart went to the HF. At that moment there was a scuffle in the outer office, and the door swung open. Standing there was a youth with an automatic rifle over his shoulder and a green band on his arm. Half a dozen other youths were with him. The Iranian staff waited, paralyzed. The young man stared at McIver and Lochart then consulted a list. “Salaam, Agha. Capta’n McIver?” he asked Lochart, his English hesitant and heavily accented.
“Salaam, Agha. No, I am Captain McIver,” McIver said uneasily, his first thought, Are these more of the same group who murdered poor Kyabi? His second thought, Gen should have left with the others, I should have insisted, his third about the stacks of rials in his open attaché case on the floor beside the hatstand.
“Ah, good,” the young man said politely. There were dark rings under his eyes, his face strong, and though McIver judged him to be twenty-five at the most, he had an old man’s look about him. “Danger here. For you here. Now. Please to go. We are komiteh for this block. Please you to go. Now.” “All right. Certainly, er, thank you.” Twice before, McIver had thought it prudent to evacuate the offices because of riots and mobs in the streets around them even though, astonishingly, considering their vast numbers, the mobs had been very disciplined with little damage tg property or to Europeans - except for cars parked on the streets. This was the first time anyone had come here to warn him personally. Obediently McIver and Lochart put on their overcoats, McIver closed his attaché case, and, with the others, began to leave. He switched off the lights.
“How lights when no one else?” the leader asked.
“We’ve our own generator. On the roof.”
The youth smiled strangely, his teeth very white. “Foreigners have generators and warm, Iranians not.”
McIver was going to answer but thought better of it.
“You got message? Message about leaving? Message today?”
“Yes,” McIver said. One message in the office, one at the apartment that Genny had found in their letter box. They just said, “On December 1 you were warned to leave: Why are you still here if not as an enemy? You have little time left, [signed] The university supporters for Islamic Republic in Iran.” “You, er, you are representatives of the university?”
“We are your komiteh. Please to leave now. Enemies better not come back ever. No?”
McIver and Lochart walked out. The revolutionaries followed them down the stairs. For weeks the elevator had not worked.
The street was still clear, no mobs, or fires, and all gunfire distant. “Not come back. Three days.”
McIver stared at them. “That’s not possible. I’ve got many th - ” “Danger.” The young man and the others, equally young, waited silently and watched. Not all were armed with guns. Two had clubs. Two were holding hands. “Not come back. Very bad. Three days, komiteh says. Understand?” “Yes, but one of us has to refuel the generator or the telex will stop and then we’ll be out of touch an - ”
“Telex unimportant. Not come back. Three days.” The youth patiently motioned them to leave. “Danger here. Not forget, please. Good night.” McIver and Lochart got into their cars that were locked in the garage below the building, very conscious of the envious stares. McIver was driving his ‘65 four-seat Rover coupe that he called Lulu and kept in mint condition. Lochart had borrowed Scot Gavallan’s car, a small battered old Citroen that was deliberately low key though the engine was souped up, the brakes perfect, and if need be, she was very fast. They drove off, and around the second comer stopped alongside one another.
“Those buggers really meant it,” McIver said angrily. “Three days? I can’t stay out of the office three days!”
“Yes. What now?” Lochart glanced into his rearview mirror. The young men had rounded the far corner and stood watching them. “We better get going. I’ll meet you at your apartment,” he said hurriedly.
“Yes, but in the morning, Tom, nothing we can do now.”
“But I was going to go back to Zagros - I should have left today.” “I know. Stay tomorrow, go the next day. Nogger can do the charter, if the clearance conies through, which I doubt. Come around ten.” McIver saw the youths begin to walk toward them. “Around ten, Tom,” he said hurriedly, let in the clutch, and drove off cursing.
The youths saw them go and their leader, Ibrahim, was glad, for he did not want to clash with foreigners or to kill them - or to bring them to trial. Only SAVAK. And guilty police. And enemies of Iran, inside Iran, who wanted to bring back the Shah. And all traitorous Marxist totalitarians who opposed democracy and freedom of worship and the freedom of education and universities.
“Oh, how I’d like that car,” one of them said, almost sick with envy. “It was a sixty-eight, wasn’t it, Ibrahim?”
“A sixty-five,” Ibrahim answered. “One day you’ll have one, Ali, and the gasoline to put in it. One day you’ll be the most famous writer and poet in all Iran.”
“Disgusting of that foreigner to flaunt so much wealth when there’s so much poverty in Iran,” another said.
“Soon they’ll all be gone. Forever.”
“Do you think those two will come back tomorrow, Ibrahim?” “I hope not,” he said with a tired laugh, “If they do I don’t know what we’ll do. I think we scared them enough. Even so, we should visit this block at least twice a day.”