“Echo Tango Lima Lima.”
McIver took out a handkerchief and wiped his hands and forehead. But when he got up, his heart seemed to turn in his chest.
Standing in the open doorway was a customs officer, his hand casually on his bolstered gun. His uniform was soiled and crumpled, his roundish face grizzled with three or four days’ growth of beard.
“Oh,” McIver said, fighting to appear calm. “Salaam, Agha.” He did not recognize him as one of their regulars.
The man shifted his gun hand ominously, his eyes going from McIver to the radio sets and back to McIver.
Haltingly, for McIver spoke very little Farsi, he said, “Inglissi me danid, Agha? Be bahk shid man zaban-e shoma ra khoob nami danam.” Do you speak English, sir? Please excuse me but I don’t speak your language. The customs officer grunted. “What you do here?” he said in halting English, his teeth tobacco-stained.
“I’m… I’m Captain McIver, head of S-G Helicopters,” he replied, carefully and slowly. “I’m just…just checking my telex and here to meet an incoming plane.”
“Plane - what plane? Wh - ”
At that moment the 125 came directly over the airport at one thousand feet. The Customs man hurried out of the office onto the tarmac, closely followed by McIver. They saw the lovely clean lines of the twin-engined jet against the murky overcast and watched a moment as she hurtled away to go into a steep bank to join the landing pattern.
“What plane? Eh?”
“It’s our regular flight - regular flight from Al Shargaz.” The name sent the man into a paroxysm of invective.
“Be bahk shid nana dhan konan.” Sorry, I don’t understand. “No land… no land, understand?” The man angrily pointed from the plane to the office with the HF. “Tell plane!”
McIver nodded calmly, not feeling calm, and beckoned him back into the office. He counted out 10,000 rials, about $110, and offered it. “Please accept the landing fee - landing money.”
The man spurned it with more unintelligible Farsi. McIver put the money on the table, then walked past the man into the storeroom. He unlocked a door. In the small room, put there for just this purpose, were odds and ends of spares, and three full five-gallon cans of gasoline. He picked up one can and put it outside the door, remembering what General Valik had said: a pishkesh was not a bribe but a gift and a good Iranian custom. After a second, McIver decided to leave the door but left it open - three cans would more than guarantee no problem. “Be bahk shid, Agha.” Please excuse me, Excellency. Then he added in English, “I must meet my masters.” He went out of the building and got into his car and did not look back. “Bloody bastard, damn near gave me a heart attack!” he muttered, then put the man out of his mind, drove on to the taxi runway, and headed for the intercept point. The snow was only a few inches deep and not too bad. His were the only tracks, the main runways equally virgin. The wind had picked up, increasing the chill factor. He did not notice it, concentrating on the airplane.
The 125 came around in a tight turn, gear and flaps down, sideslipping deftly to lose height and cut down the approach distance. John Hogg flared and touched down, letting her roll until it was safe and even then using brakes with great caution. He turned onto the taxi runway and increased power to meet McIver. Near the first access path back to the runway, he stopped.
By the time McIver came alongside, the door was open, the steps down, John Hogg waiting at the foot, bundled in a parka, stamping his feet against the cold.
“Hi, Mac!” he called out - a neat, spare man with a lean face and mustache. “Great to see you. Come on in - it’ll be warmer for you.” “Good idea.” McIver hastily switched off and followed him up the steps. Inside it was snug, lights on, coffee ready, London newspapers in the rack. McIver knew there would be wine and beer in the” refrigerator, a sit-down toilet with soft paper in the back - civilization again. He shook hands warmly with Hogg and waved at the copilot. “I’m so glad to see you, Johnny. His mouth dropped open. Seated in one of the swivel chairs in the eight-place airplane, beaming at him, was Andy Gavallan.
“Hello, Mac!”
“My God! My God, Chinaboy, it’s good to see you,” McIver said, pummeling his hand. “What the hell are you doing - why didn’t you tell me you were coming - what’s the id - ”
“Slow down, laddie. Coffee?”
“My God, yes.” McIver sat opposite him. “How’s Maureen - and little Electra?”
“Great - wonderful! Her second birthday coming and already she’s a holy terror! Thought we’d better have a chat so I got on the bird and here I am.” “Can’t tell you how glad I am. You’re looking great,” McIver said. And he was. “Thank you, laddie, you’re not so bad yoursel’. How are you, really, Mac?” Gavallan asked more pointedly.
“Excellent.” Hogg put down the coffee in front of McIver. With a small tot of whisky and another for Gavallan. “Ah, thanks, Johnny,” McIver said, brightening. “Health!” He touched glasses with Gavallan and swallowed the spirit gratefully. “I’m cold as charity. Just had a run-in with a bloody Customs man! Why’re you here? Any problem, Andy? Oh, but what about the 125? Both the revs and loyalists are all very twitchy - either of them could arrive in force and impound her.”
“Johnny Hogg’s keeping an eye out for them. We’ll talk about my problems in a minute but I decided that I’d better come and see for myself. We’ve too much at risk now, here and outside, with all our new, upcoming contracts and aircraft. The X63’s a total smash, Mac, everything and better!” “Great, wonderful. When do we get her?”
“Next year - more about her later. Iran’s my top priority now. We have to have some contingency plans, how to keep in touch and so on. Yesterday I spent hours in Al Shargaz trying to get an Iranian clearance for Tehran but no joy on that. Even their embassy was closed; I went to their Al Mullah building myself but it was closed tighter than a gnat’s arse. I got our rep to call the ambassador’s home but he was out to lunch - all day. Eventually I went to Al Shargaz Air Traffic Control and chatted them up. They suggested we wait but I talked them into clearing us out and having a stab and here we are. First what’s the state of our ops?”
McIver related what he knew.
Much of Gavallan’s good humor vanished. “So Charlie’s vanished, Tom Lochart’s risking his neck and our whole Iranian venture - stupidly or bravely depending on your point of view - Duke Starke’s up the creek in Bandar Delam with Rudi, Kowiss is in a state of siege, and we’ve been tossed out of our offices.”
“Yes.” McIver added gruffly. “I authorized Tom’s flight.” “I’d’ve done the same, probably, if I’d been on the spot, though it doesn’t excuse the danger to him, to us, or poor bloody Valik and his family. But I agree, SAVAK’s too smelly for anyone’s taste.” Gavallan was distinctly rattled though he showed none of it on his face. “Ian was right again.” “Ian? Dunross? You saw him? How is the old bugger?”
“He called from Shanghai.” Gavallan told him what he had said. “What’s the latest on the political situation here?”
“You should know more than we do - we only get real news through the BBC or VOA. There’re still no newspapers and only rumors,” McIver said, but he was remembering the good times he had had with Dunross in Hong Kong. He had taught him to fly a small chopper the year before joining Gavallan in Aberdeen, and though they had not socialized very much, McIver had enjoyed his company greatly. “Bakhtiar’s still top man with the forces behind him, but Bazargan and Khomeini’re gnawing at his heels … Oh, damn, I forgot to tell you, Boss Kyabi’s been murdered.”