“If we’d been left we’d’ve been shot!” General Seladi was enraged, his face purple. “God curse that pilot to hell! Why did you waste time releasing him? Ali can fly a 212!”
“Yes. But Lochart has more experience and we need him to get through the maze.”
Valik smiled encouragingly at Annoush who sat across the aisle facing him, the little girl trembling in her arms, his son sitting on the floor dozing, his head in her lap. Weakly she smiled back, shifting the weight of the child to ease the aches that pervaded her. He reached over and touched her, then settled more comfortably in his seat and closed his eyes, very tired but most content. You’re a very clever man, he told himself. In his most secret heart he knew that without his stratagem of pretending to McIver that SAVAK was going to arrest him - and particularly his family - neither McIver nor Lochart would have helped them to escape. You measured them perfectly as you have Gavallan.
Fools! he thought contemptuously.
And as for you, Seladi, my stupid and rapacious uncle who bartered safe refueling at Isfahan - which you failed to provide - in return for a safe passage out for yourself and eleven of your friends, you’re worse. You’re a traitor. If I hadn’t had an informant of long standing in the General Staff HQ I would never have heard of the generals’ great betrayal in tune to escape and we’d’ve been caught like flies in a honey pot in Tehran. Loyalists may still prevail, the battle’s not lost yet, but meanwhile my family and I will watch events from England, St. Moritz, or New York. He let himself go into the exciting, wonderful power of the jets that were carrying them to safety, to a house in London, a country house in Surrey, another in California, and to Swiss and Bahamian bank accounts. Ah, yes, he told himself happily, and that reminds me about our blocked S-G joint account in the Bahamas, another $4 million to enrich us - and easy now to pry from Gavallan’s grubby paws. More than enough to keep me and my family safe whatever happens here - until we can return. Khomeini won’t live forever even if he wins - God curse him! Soon we’ll be able to return home, soon Iran will be normal again, meanwhile we have everything we need. His ears heard Seladi still muttering about Lochart and almost being left behind. “Calm yourself, Excellency,” he said, and took his arm, gentling him, and thought, You and your running dogs still have a value, a temporary value. Perhaps as hostages, perhaps as bait - who knows? None are family except you and you betrayed us. “Calm yourself, my revered uncle, with the Help of God the pilot will get what he deserves.”
Yes. Lochart should not have panicked. He should have waited for my order. Disgusting to panic.
Valik closed his eyes and slept, very satisfied with himself.
Chapter 23
AT THE IRAN-TODA REFINERY, BANDAR DELAM: 12:04 P.M. Scragger was whistling tonelessly, hand-pumping fuel into his main tanks from big barrels that were lined up in a small Japanese semi beside the freshly washed 206, sparkling in the sun. Nearby was a young Green Band who squatted in the shade, leaning on his M16, half asleep.
The noonday sun was warm and the light breeze made the day pleasant and took away the constant humidity, here on the coast. Scragger was dressed lightly, white shirt with captain’s epaulets, summer-weight black trousers and shoes, the inevitable dark glasses and peaked cap.
Now the tanks were brimming. “That’s it, me son,” he said to the Japanese assigned to assist him.
“Hai, Anjin-san” - Yes, Mr. Pilot - the man said. Like all employees at the refinery he wore white, spotless overalls and gloves, with Iran-Toda Industries emblazoned on the back, then the same thing in Farsi politely above, with equivalent in Japanese characters beneath it. “Hai, it is,” Scragger said, using one of the words that he had picked up from Kasigi en route from Lengeh yesterday. He pointed. “Next our long-range tanks, and then we’ll fill the spares.” For the journey that de Plessey had grandly authorized Sunday night - to celebrate their victory over the saboteurs - Scragger had taken out the backseat and lashed in place two 40-gallon drums, “just in case, Mr. Kasigi. I’ve connected them to the main tanks. We can use a hand pump and can even refuel in the air, if we have to - if you do the pumping. Now we won’t have to land for fuel. You can never tell with weather in the Gulf, there’s always sudden storms or squalls, fog, winds can play tricks. Our best bet’s to stay a little out to sea.” “And Jaws?”
Scragger had laughed with him. “The old hammerhead of Kharg? With any luck we might see him - if we get that far and don’t get diverted.” “Still no callback from Kish radar?”
“No, but it doesn’t matter. They’ve cleared us to Bandar Delam. You’re sure you can refuel me at your plant?”
“Yes, we’ve storage tanks, Captain. Helipads, hangar, and repair shop. Those were the first things we built - we had a contract with Guerney.” “Yes, yes, I knew about that, but they’ve quit, haven’t they?” “Yes, they did, a week or so ago. Perhaps your company would take over the contract? Perhaps you could be put in charge - there’s work for three 2i2s and perhaps two 206s constantly, while we’re building.”
Scragger had chuckled. “That’d make old Andy and Gav happy as a cat in a barrel of fish sticks and Dirty Dune fart dust!” “Please?” Scragger tried to explain the joke about McIver. But when he was through Kasigi had not laughed, just said, Oh, now I understand.
They’re a rum lot, Scragger thought.
When he finished refueling he did another ground check - engine, rotors, airframe - though he did not expect to leave today. De Plessey had asked him to wait for Kasigi, to fly him where he needed to go, and to bring him back to Lengeh on Thursday. The 206 checked out perfectly. Satisfied he glanced at his watch, then he pointed at his stomach and rubbed it. “Grub time, hai?”
324 “Hai!” His helper smiled and motioned to the small truck nearby, then pointed at the main, four-story office building two-hundred-odd yards away where the executive offices were.
Scragger shook his head. “I’ll walk,” he said and waggled his two fingers to parody walking so the young man half bowed and got into the truck and drove off. He stood there for a moment, watching and being watched by the guard. Now that the truck had left and the tanks were closed, he could smell the sea and the rotting debris of the nearby shore. It was near low tide - there was only one tide a day in the Gulf, as in the Red Sea, because it was shallow and landlocked but for the narrow Strait of Hormuz. He liked the sea smell. He had grown up in Sydney, always within sight of the sea. After the war he had settled there again. At least, he reminded himself, I was there between jobs and the Missus and the kids stayed there and still stay there, more or less. His son and two daughters were married now with children of their own. Whenever he was on home leave, perhaps once a year, he saw them. They had a friendly, distant relationship. In the early years his wife and children had come to the Gulf to settle. Within a month they had gone home to Sydney. “We’ll be at Bondi, Scrag,” she had said. “No more foreign places for us, lad.” During one of his two-year stints in Kuwait she had met another man. When Scragger had returned the next time, she said, “I think we’ll divorce, lad. It’s best for the kids - and thee and me,” and so they did. Her new husband lived a few years, then died. Scragger and she drifted back into their pattern of friendliness - not that we ever left off, he thought. She’s a good sort and the kids’re happy and I’m flying. He still sent her money monthly. She always said she didn’t need it. “Then put it into savings against a rainy day, Nell,” he always told her. So far, touch wood, they’ve not had rainy days, she and the kids and their kids.