Ghodratollah and Burckhardt conversed between the two goons, chaffing about an airplane FMA built. It was called the Pucará, a light two-engine prop job designed primarily for a light counterinsurgency role. Evidently the Islamic Republic was enjoying the odd light insurgency, though Mr. Ghodratollah did not come out and say so. Both men knew a great deal about the Pucará.
Eventually Elena and the goons relaxed.
The Mercedes pulled into the circular drive of a building shaped like a giant ring-cake section strung with Christmas lights and stopped. Ghodratollah stayed put while the driver got out and scurried back to open Burckhardt’s door.
“Your baggage is in your rooms already. Please enjoy your stay.”
“I always do.”
Chapter Twelve
Helene Mistral Carlysle, also known as Helen or — currently — Elena, stood looking in wonder out over the sunken dining room. It was huge, and it was packed. A cut-glass chandelier blazed overhead like frozen fireworks.
She had changed to a long midnight-blue gown by a trendy Barcelona designer, a joker called Jordi. She wore a heavy choker of short silver bars. Her wrists were crossed at the small of her back.
Indecently dapper in evening dress, J. Robert Belew stepped up behind her and circled her wrists with his strong brown fingers. She colored. A beat, and then she stepped forward and pulled away.
“Don’t start taking your role too seriously,” she said. He laughed.
A maître d’ in Western tux and oil-slick hair materialized and escorted them to a table. The two goons, still wearing the cheap suits they’d arrived in, followed.
“So why do we have to masquerade as cheap muscle?” Lynn Saxon asked as he took his seat.
“Because you won’t pass for expensive muscle. Look around, son; what do you see?”
“Lot of fat rag-heads eating with their fingers.”
“And guarding them?”
“Arab dudes in suits, with necks larger than their heads and bulges under their arms,” Gary Hamilton put in hurriedly. He was feeling left out.
Belew nodded. “Indeed. Those are Husseinis. What they really are is soldiers of Jordan’s Arab Legion, probably the toughest outfit in the Arab world. They’re called Husseinis because everybody in Jordan is named Hussein. Jordanians let their services out as bodyguards. Every rag-head who’s anybody has them. I’m a paltry foreign infidel, so I have to make do with you.”
“I notice you got seated quick enough,” Hamilton said.
“Señor Burckhardt is a well-connected infidel.”
“What’s all this FMA crap, anyway?” Saxon asked. “What does an Argie plane salesman want in Tehrān?”
“Argentina’s air force, as most people don’t know, is trained by the Israelis. That’s why they did as well as they did against the Brits in ’82, when most of the Argentinean armed forces were a complete washout. Israel also happens to be one of Iran’s number-one suppliers of military matériel and know-how. They can’t exactly do it openly, though. Argentinean military-industrial types are natural go-betweens.”
“The Israelis?” Helen said. “How long has this been going on? The last couple of years?”
“All along. Even when the Iranians held the hostages, and even during our doomed little stab at getting ’em back.” He sat a moment, eyes distant. “The real world is an ugly place, my dear.”
“But the Israelis are our friends,” Hamilton said.
“’At the narrow passage, there will be no brother, no friend,’” Belew said. “Old Arabic saying.”
Helen showed a wintry smile. “Somehow I have the feeling Señor Burckhardt has been here before.”
“Naturally. Iran’s a very interesting area, geopolitically speaking. The Israelis can be very accommodating, when Langley asks nice.”
The waiter arrived. Belew ordered for everyone in French.
“What’d you get us?” Saxon demanded sullenly when the waiter left.
“White man’s food. Don’t worry about it.” Belew turned to Helen. “You looked overwhelmed when I came in. I wouldn’t guess you’re exactly out of your depth in surroundings such as this.”
“I wasn’t expecting such, such opulence. The Iranian revolutionary government is supposed to be quite puritanical.”
“They are. Just as you are yourself.”
She glared. “I am not puritanical. I’m only … careful.”
“A woman for the eighties. Of course, it is the nineties.” The soup arrived. “How come the Revolutionary Guards don’t bust in and trash the place, then?” Hamilton asked as the others raised their silver spoons.
“The Iranians have learned a hard lesson that a lot of other revolutionary societies have had to learn, some harder than others. Nobody goes it alone in this world. You need contact with the outside world — you need trade. And that means you have to cut outsiders a certain amount of slack. Otherwise you end up being the Khmer Rouge.”
He sampled his soup, rolled it around his mouth, nodded. “This hotel is the Vale of Kashmir. Built in 1984. It’s owned by the Sultan of Kashmir. Jalal-ud-din Shah Durrani, grandson of old Abd-er-Rahim Durrani, the Khyber bandit who grabbed the kingdom from the Hindus when the Brits pulled out in ’47. Young Jalu is a heavy hitter in these parts, even though he’s a Sunni and something of a progressive. He’s ethnically Persian, being a Pushtun. Also, he poured a lot of much-needed investment dollars into the country during the war with Iraq.”
“So they tolerate a certain amount of conspicuous consumption on his premises?” Helen asked.
“Not all of them.” He sipped from a champagne glass. “By the way, by all means try this. It’s melon juice from Tashkent, in what used to be Soviet Central Asia. Just recently started importing it. Its miraculous stuff, poets used to write songs about the melons of Tashkent.”
“Nonalcoholic, though,” Helen said.
“There’s only so far you can stretch tolerance. Though if you’re discreet, you can get booze served in your room, at ruinous prices. Still, some of the more fanatical locals have been known to take exception … notice the tall men in the turbans, standing where they can take it all in?”
The others looked around. ’Big bearded sons of bitches,” Saxon said, “so what?”
“So they’re Afridi, Gilzai, and Yusufzai tribesmen. Your real Khyber cutthroats, the very boys who handed the Russian Bear his head over in Afghanistan. And I mean the very ones; these are all hardcore mujahidin vets. The sultan imports them to pull security.”
“The ayatollahs are afraid of them?” Helen asked.
“Back in ’86 a couple of fanatics — schoolteachers, oddly enough — tried a trick they used to pull on movie theaters and other places they thought subverted true Islamic values. They brought chains and big jerricans of gasoline. They were going to pour the gas inside, chain the doors shut, and set it all off to sort of encourage other sinners.”
“My God, how awful. What happened?”
“Afridis caught ’em. Chained them up out front, doused them in their own gas, and lit up.” Belew wiped his mouth. “Didn’t have much trouble after that.”
Helen choked. After a moment Saxon gave an explosive snort of laughter.
“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked.
Belew pointed the way. Saxon excused himself. While he was gone, the entrees came: tournedos of beef on toast.
When Saxon returned, he moved more crisply and his eyes were bright. “So even the Shi’ites can be tolerant once in a while.” He laughed. “That’s a mistake.”
“How do you mean?” Belew asked.
“I mean, that’s where they lose it. They’re history. Zero tolerance; that’s the only tolerance level for a society that’s, that’s