Ayre had not moved, nor had his eyes flickered. “Hotshot, and I’ll never call you that again,” he said quietly, “I don’t want lectures, just to do the job. If we can’t work out a satisfactory method, then that’s something else. We’ll have to see. If you want this office, jolly good. If you want to act up a storm, jolly good - within reason - you’ve a right to celebrate. You’ve won, you’ve the guns, you’ve the power, and now you’re responsible. And you’re right, it is your country. So let’s leave it at that. Eh?” Esvandiary stared at him, his head aching with the suppressed hatred of years that need never be suppressed again. And though he knew it was not Ayre’s fault, he was equally certain that a moment ago he would have sprayed him and them with bullets if they had not obeyed and flown the mullah and the traitor Peshadi to the judgment and the hell he deserves. I’ve not forgotten the soldier Peshadi had murdered - the one who wanted to open the gate to us - or the others murdered two days ago when Peshadi beat us off and hundreds died, my brother and two of my best friends among them. And all the other hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands who’ve died all over Iran… I’ve not forgotten them, not one.
A dribble of saliva was running down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand and got his control back, remembering the importance of his mission. “All right, Freddy.” He said “Freddy” involuntarily. “All right, and that’s… that’s the last time I’ll call you that. All right, we’ll leave it at that.”
He got up, very tired now but proud of the way he had dominated them and very confident he could make these foreigners work and behave until they were expelled. Very soon now, he thought. I’ll have no difficulty putting the partners’ long-term plan into effect here. I agree with Valik. We’ve plenty of Iranian pilots and we need no foreigners here. I can run this operation - as a partner - praise God that Valik was always a secret Khomeini supporter! Soon I’ll have a big house in Tehran and my two sons will go to university there, so will my darling little Fatmeh, though perhaps she should also go to the Sorbonne for a year or two. “I’ll return at 9:00 A.M.” He did not close the door behind him. “Bloody hell,” Ayre muttered. A fly began battering itself against a windowpane. He did not notice it or the noise it made. At a sudden thought he went into the outer office. Pavoud and the others were at the windows, watching the aliens leave. “Pavoud!”
“Yes … yes, Excellency?”
Ayre noticed the man’s face had a grayish tinge and he looked much older than usual. “Did you know about the generals, that they’ve given in?” he asked, feeling sorry for him.
“No, Excellency,” Pavoud lied easily, used to lying. He was locked in his own mind, trying to remember, petrified that he might have slipped up in the past three years and given himself away to Esvandiary, never for a moment dreaming that the man could have been a secret Islamic Guard. “We’d… we’d heard rumors about their capitulation - but you know how rumors circulate.”
“Yes - yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“I… do you mind if I sit down, please?” Pavoud groped for a chair, feeling very old. He had been sleeping badly this last week and the two-mile bicycle ride here this morning from the little four-room house in Kowiss he shared with his brother’s family - five adults and six children - had been more tiring than usual. Of course he and all the people of Kowiss had heard about the generals meekly giving up - the first news coming from the mosque, spread by the mullah Hussain who said he had got it by secret radio from Khomeini Headquarters in Tehran so it must be true.
At once their Tudeh leader had called a meeting, all of them astounded at the generals’ cowardice: “It just shows how foul the influence of the Americans who betrayed them and so bewitched them that they’ve castrated themselves and committed suicide, for of course they’ve all got to die whether we do it or that madman Khomeini!”
Everyone filled with resolve, at the same time frightened of the coming battle against the zealots and the mullahs, the opiate of the people, and Pavoud himself was wet with relief when the leader said they were ordered not to take to the streets yet but to stay hidden and wait, wait until the order came for the general uprising. “Comrade Pavoud, it’s vital you keep on the best of terms with the foreign pilots at the air base. We will need them and their helicopters - or will need to inhibit their use to the enemies of the People. Our orders are to lie low and wait, to have patience. When we finally get the order to take to the streets against Khomeini, our comrades to the north will come over the border in legions…”
He saw Ayre watching him. “I’m all right, Captain, just worried by all this, and the… the new era.”
“Just do what Esvandiary asks.” Ayre thought a moment. “I’m going to the tower to let HQ know what’s happened. Are you sure you’re all right?” “Yes, yes, thank you.”
Ayre frowned, then went along the corridor and up the stairs. The astonishing change in Esvandiary who for years had been affable, friendly, with never a glimmer of anti-British had rocked him. For the first time in Iran he felt their future was doomed.
To his surprise the tower room was empty. Since Sunday’s mutiny there had been a permanent guard - Major Changiz had shrugged, blood on his uniform, “I’m sure you’ll understand, ‘national emergency.’ We had many loyal men killed here today and we haven’t found all traitors - yet. Until further orders you will transmit only during daylight hours, then absolute minimum. All flights are canceled until further notice.”
“All right, Major. By the way, where’s our radio op, Massil?” “Ah, yes, the Palestinian. He’s being interrogated.”
“May I ask what for?”
“PLO affiliation and terrorist activities.”
Yesterday he had been informed that Massil had confessed and been shot - without a chance to hear the evidence or question it or to see him. Poor bastard, Ayre thought, closing the tower door now and switching on the equipment. Massil was always loyal to us and grateful for the job, so overqualified - radio engineering degree from Cairo University, top of the class but nowhere to practice and stateless. Bloody hell! We take our passports for granted - what’d it be like to be without one and to be, say, Palestinian? Must be hairy not to know what’s going to happen at every border, with every Immigration man, policeman, bureaucrat, or employer a potential inquisitor.
Thank God in heaven I’m born British and that not even the queen of England can take that away though the bloody Labour Government’s changing our overseas heritage. Well the pox on them for every Aussie, Canuck, Kiwi, Springbok, Kenyan, China hand, and a hundred other Britishers who will soon have to have a bloody visa to go home! “Arseholes,” he muttered. “Don’t they realize those’re sons and daughters of men who made the empire and died for it in many cases?”
He waited for the HF and other radios to warm up. The hum pleased him, red and green lights flickering, and he no longer felt locked off from the world. Hope Angela and young Fredrick are okay. Bloody, having no mail or phones and a dead telex. Well, maybe soon everything will be working again. He reached for the sending switch, hoping that McIver or someone would be listening out. Then he noticed that, by habit, along with the UHF, HF, he had switched on their radar. He leaned over to turn it off. At that moment a small blip appeared on the outer rim - the twenty-mile line - to the northwest, almost obscured among the heavy scatter of the mountains. Startled, he studied it. Experience told him quickly that it was a helicopter. He made sure that he was tuned into all receiving frequencies and when he looked back he saw the blip vanish. He waited. It did not reappear. Either she’s down, shot down, or sneaking under the radar net, he thought. Which?