“Rakoczy was a Hungarian revolutionary,” Erikki said curtly. “And from your accent you’re Georgian. Rakoczy’s not Georgian. What’s your real name - and KGB rank?”
The man laughed. “It is true my accent is Georgian and that I am Russian from Georgia, from Tbilisi. My grandfather came from Hungary but he was no relation to the revolutionary who in ancient times became prince of Transylvania. Nor was he Muslim, like my father and me. There, you see, we both know a little of our history, thanks be to God,” he said pleasantly. “I’m an engineer on the Iran-Soviet natural gas pipeline, based just over the border at Astara on the Caspian - and pro-Iran, pro-Khomeini, blessings be upon him, anti-Shah and anti-American.”
He was glad that he had been briefed about Erikki Yokkonen. Part of his cover story was true. He certainly came from Georgia, from Tbilisi, but he was not a Muslim, nor was his real name Rakoczy. His real name was Igor Mzytryk and he was a captain in the KGB, a specialist attached to the 116th Airborne Division that was deployed just across the border, north of Tabriz, one of the hundreds of undercover agents who had infiltrated northern Iran for months and now operated almost freely. He was thirty-four, a KGB career officer like his father, and he had been in Azerbaijan for six months. His English was good, his Farsi and Turkish fluent, and although he could not fly, he knew much about the piston-driven Soviet Army close-support helicopters of his division. “As to my rank,” he added in his most gentle voice, “it is friend. We Russians are good friends of Finns, aren’t we?” “Yes, yes, that’s true. Russians are - not Party members. Holy Russia was a friend in the past, yes, when we were a grand duchy of Russia. Soviet Russia was friendly after ‘17 when we became independent. Soviet Russia is now. Yes, now. But not in ‘39. Not in the Winter War. No, not then.” “Nor were you in ‘41,” Rakoczy said sharply. “In ‘41 you went to war against us with the stinking Nazis; you sided with them against us.” “True, but only to take back our land, our Karelian, our province you’d stolen from us. We didn’t walk on to Leningrad as we could have done.” Erikki could feel the knife in the center of his back and he was very glad of it. “Are you armed?”
“No. You said not to come armed. My gun is outside the door. I have no pukoh knife nor need to use one. By Allah, I’m a friend.”
“Good. A man has need of friends.” Erikki watched the man, loathing what he represented: the Soviet Russia that, unprovoked, had invaded Finland in ‘39 the moment Stalin had signed the Soviet-German nonaggression pact. Finland’s little army had fought back alone. They had beaten off the Soviet hordes for one hundred days in the Winter War and then they had been overrun. Erikki’s father had been killed defending Karelian, the southern and eastern province, where the Yokkonens had lived for centuries. At once Soviet Russia had annexed the province. At once all Finns left. All of them. Not one would stay under a Soviet flag, so the land became barren of Finns. Erikki was just ten months old then and in that exodus thousands died. His mother had died. It was the worst winter in living memory.
And in ‘45, Erikki thought, bottling his rage, in ‘45 America and England betrayed us and gave our lands to the aggressor. But we’ve not forgotten. Nor have the Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, East Germans, Czechs, Hungarians, Bulgars, Slavs, Romanians - the list endless. There will be a day of reckoning with the Soviets, oh, yes, one day there will surely be a day of reckoning with the Soviets - most of all by Russians who suffer their lash most of all. “For a Georgian you know a lot about Finland,” he said calmly.
“Finland is important to Russia. The détente between us works, is safe, and a lesson to the world that anti-Soviet American imperialistic propaganda is a myth.”
Erikki smiled. “This is not the time for politics, eh? It’s late. What do you want with me?”
“Friendship.”
“Ah, that’s easily asked, but as you would know, for a Finn, given with difficulty.” Erikki reached over to the sideboard for an almost empty vodka bottle and two glasses. “Are you Shi’ite?”
“Yes, but not a good one, God forgive me. I drink vodka sometimes if that’s what you ask.”
Erikki poured two glasses. “Health.” They drank. “Now, please come to the point.”
“Soon Bakhtiar and his American lackeys will be thrown out of Iran. Soon Azerbaijan will be in turmoil, but you will have nothing to fear. You are well thought of here, so is your wife and her family, and we would like your… your cooperation in bringing peace to these mountains.” “I’m just a helicopter pilot, working for a British company, contracted to Iran-Timber, and I’m without politics. We Finns have no politics, don’t you remember?”
“We’re friends, yes. Our interests of world peace are the same.” Erikki’s great right fist slammed down on the table, the sudden violence making the Russian flinch as the bottle skittered away and fell to the floor. “I’ve asked you politely twice to come to the point,” he said in the same calm voice. “You have ten seconds.”
“Very well,” the man said through his teeth. “We require your services to ferry teams into the camps within the next few days. We…” “What teams?”
“The mullahs of Tabriz and their followers. We requ - ”
“I take my orders from the company, not mullahs or revolutionaries or men who come with guns in the night. Do you understand?”
“You will find it is better to understand us, Captain Yokkonen. So will the Gorgons. All of them,” Rakoczy said pointedly, and Erikki felt the blood go into his face. “Iran-Timber is already struck and on our side. They will provide you with the necessary orders.”
“Good. In that case I will wait and see what their orders are.” Erikki got up to his great height. “Good night.”
The Russian got up too and stared at him angrily. “You and your wife are too intelligent not to understand that without the Americans and their fornicating CIA, Bakhtiar’s lost. That motherless madman Carter has ordered U.S. Marines and helicopters into Turkey, an American war fleet into the Gulf, a task force with a nuclear carrier and support vessels, with marines and nuclear-armed aircraft - a war fleet an - ”
“I don’t believe it!”
“You can. By God, of course they’re trying to start a war, for of course we have to react, we have to match war game with war game, for of course they’ll use Iran against us. It’s all madness - we don’t want nuclear war….” Rakoczy meant it with all his heart, his mouth running away with him. Only a few hours ago his superior had warned him by code radio that all Soviet forces on the border were on Yellow Alert - one step from Red - because of the approaching carrier fleet, all nuclear missiles on equal alert. Worst of all, vast Chinese troop movements had been reported all along the five thousand miles of shared border with China. “That motherfucker Carter with his motherfucking Friendship Pact with China’s going to blow us all to hell if he gets half a chance.”
“If it happens, it happens,” Erikki said.
“Insha’Allah, yes, but why become a running dog for the Americans, or their equally filthy British allies? The People are going to win, we are going to win. Help us and you won’t regret it, Captain. We only need your skills for a few da - ”
He stopped suddenly. Running footsteps were approaching. Instantly Erikki’s knife was in his hand and he moved with catlike speed between the front door and the bedroom door as the front door burst open.
“SAVAK!” a half-seen man gasped, then took to his heels.
Rakoczy jumped for the doorway, scooped up his machine pistol. “We require your help, Captain. Don’t forget!” He vanished into the night. Azadeh came out into the living room. With the gun ready, her face white. “What was that about a carrier? I didn’t understand him.” Erikki told her. Her shock was clear. “That means war, Erikki.” “Yes, if it happens.” He put on his parka. “Stay here.” He closed the door after him. Now he could see lights from approaching cars that were racing along the rough dirt road that joined the base to the main Tabriz-Tehran road. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could make out two cars and an army truck. In a moment the lead vehicle stopped and police and soldiers fanned out into the night. The officer in charge saluted. “Ah, Captain Yokkonen, good evening. We heard that some revolutionaries were here, or Communist Tudeh - firing was reported,” he said, his English perfect. “Her Highness is all right? There’s no problem?”