“What’s that?”
“It’s a Gurkhali title,” Ross said, hiding his pride. “It means Lord of the Mountain. Doesn’t mean much outside the Regiment.”
“Three generations in the same outfit. That’s usual?”
Of course it’s not usual, Ross wanted to say, disliking personal questions, though liking Vien Rosemont personally. The boat had been on time, the voyage up the coast safe and quick, them hidden under sacking. Easily ashore at dusk and on their way to the next rendezvous where the guide had been waiting, fast into the foothills, and into the mountains, Rosemont never complaining but pressing forward hard, with little conversation and none of the barrage of questions he had expected.
Rosemont waited patiently, noticing Ross was distracted. Then he saw the guide move out of the cave, hesitate, then come back and squat against the cave mouth, rifle cradled on his lap.
“What is it, Meshgi?” Rosemont asked.
“Nothing, Agha. There are flocks in the valley, goats and sheep.” “Good.” Rosemont leaned back comfortably. Lucky to find the cave, he thought, it’s a good place to hole up in. He glanced back at Ross, saw him looking at him. After a pause he added, “It’s great to be part of a team.” “What’s the plan from now on?” Ross asked.
“When we get to the entrance of the cave, I’ll lead. You and your guys stay back until I make sure, okay?”
“Just as you like, but take Sergeant Tenzing with you. He can protect your tail - I’ll cover you both with Gueng.”
After a pause, Rosemont nodded. “Sure, sounds good. Okay, Sergeant?” “Yes, sahib. Please tell me what you want simply. My English is not good.” “It’s just fine,” Rosemont said, covering his nervousness. He knew Ross was weighing him like he was weighing them - too much at stake. “You just blow Mecca to hell,” his director had told him. “We’ve a specialist team to help you; we don’t know how good they are but they’re the goddamn best we can get. Leader’s a captain, John Ross, here’s his photo and he’ll have a couple of Gurkhas with him, don’t know if they speak English but they come recommended. He’s a career officer. Listen, as you’ve never worked close with Limeys before, a word of warning. Don’t get personal or friendly or use first names too fast - they’re as sensitive as a cat with a feather up its ass about personal questions, so take it easy, okay?” “Sure.”
“Far as we know you’ll find Mecca empty. Our other posts nearer Turkey are still operating. We figure to stay as long as we can - by that time the brass’ll make a deal with the new jokers, Bakhtiar or Khomeini. But Mecca - goddamn those bastards who’ve put us at so much risk.”
“How much risk?”
“We think they just left in a hurry and destroyed nothing. You’ve been there, for crissake! Mecca’s stuffed with enough top secret gizmos, listening gear, seeing gear, long-range radar, locked in satellite ciphers and codes and computers to get our unfriendly KGB chief Andropov voted Man of the Year - if he gets them. Can you believe it - those bastards just hightailed it out!”
“Treason?”
“Doubt it. Just plain stupid, dumb - there wasn’t even a contingency plan at Sabalan, for crissake - anywhere else either. Not all their fault, I guess. None of us figured the Shah’d fold so goddamn quick, or that Khomeini’d get Bakhtiar by the balls so fast. We got no warning - not even from SAVAK…” And now we have to pick up the pieces, Vien thought. Or, more correctly, blow them to hell. He glanced at his watch, feeling very tired. He gauged the night and the moon. Better give it another half an hour. His legs ached, and his head. He saw Ross watching him and he smiled inside: I won’t fail, Limey. But will you?
“An hour, then we’ll move out,” Vien said.
“Why wait?”
“The moon’ll be better for us. It’s safe here and we’ve time. You’re clear what we do?”
“Mine everything in Mecca you mark, blow it and the cave entrance simultaneously, and run like the clappers all the way home.” Rosemont smiled and felt better. “Where’s home for you?”
“I don’t know really,” Ross said caught unawares. He had never asked himself the question. After a moment, more for himself than the American, he added, “Perhaps Scotland - perhaps Nepal. My father and mother’re in Katmandu, they’re as Scots as I am but they’ve been living there off and on since ‘51 when he retired. I was even born there though I did almost all my schooling in Scotland.” Both’re home, for me, he thought. “What about you?” “Washington, D.C. - really, Falls Church, Virginia, which is almost part of Washington. I was born there.” Rosemont wanted a cigarette but he knew it might be dangerous. “Pa was CIA. He’s dead now but he was at Langley for the last few years, which’s close by - CIA HQ’s at Langley.” He was happy to be talking. “Ma’s still in Falls Church, haven’t been back in a couple of years. You ever been to the States?”
“No, not yet.” The wind had picked up a little and they both studied the night for a moment.
“It’ll die down after midnight,” Rosemont said confidently. Ross saw the guide shift position again. Is he going to make a run for it? “You’ve worked with the guide before?”
“Sure. I tramped all over the mountains with him last year - I spent a month here. Routine. Lotta the opposition infiltrate through this area and we try to keep tabs on ‘em - like they do us.” Rosemont watched the guide. “Meshgi’s a good joe. Kurds don’t like Iranians, or Iraqis or our friends across the border. But you’re right to ask.”
Ross switched to Gurkhali. “Tenzing, watch everywhere and the pathfinder - you eat later.” At once Tenzing slipped out of his pack and was gone into the night. “I sent him on guard.”
“Good,” Rosemont said. He had watched them all very carefully on the climb up and was very impressed with the way they worked as a team, leapfrogging, always one of them flanking, always seeming to know what to do, no orders, always safety catches off. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous?” he had said early on.
“Yes, Mr. Rosemont - if you don’t know what you’re doing,” the Britisher had said to him with no arrogance that he could detect. “But when every tree or corner or rock could hide hostiles, the difference between safety on and off could mean killing or being killed.”
Vien Rosemont remembered how the other had added guilelessly, “We’ll do everything we can to support you and get you out,” and he wondered again if they would get in, let alone out. It was almost a week since Mecca had been abandoned. No one knew what to expect when they got there - it could be intact, already stripped, or even occupied. “You know this whole op’s crazy?”
“Ours not to reason why.”
“Ours but to do or die? I think that’s the shits!”
“I think that’s the shits too if it’s any help.”
It was the first time they had laughed together. Rosemont felt much better. “Listen, haven’t said it before, but I’m happy you three’re aboard.” “We’re, er, happy to be here.” Ross covered his embarrassment at the open compliment. “Agha,” he called out to the guide, “please join us at food.” “Thank you, Agha, but I am not hungry,” the old man replied without moving from the cave mouth.
Rosemont put his boots back on. “You got a lot of special units in Iran?” “No. Half a dozen - we’re here training Iranians. You think Bakhtiar will weather it?” He opened his pack and distributed the cans of bully beef. “No. The word in the hills among the tribes is that he’ll be out - probably shot - within the week.”
Ross whistled. “Bad as that?”
“Worse: that Azerbaijan‘11 be a Soviet protectorate within the year.” “Bloody hell!”
“Sure. But you never know” - Vien smiled - “that’s what makes life interesting.”