“Hope so, he’ll have mail for us.”
“Did you get hold of Andy?”
“No, no, not yet.” McIver decided not to mention the tank. “Do you think you could borrow Hassan or one of her other servants for a couple of days a week? It’d help you tremendously.”
“I wouldn’t ask - you know how it is.”
“I suppose you’re right, bloody annoying.” Now it was almost impossible for any expats to find help, whatever you were prepared to pay. Up to a few months ago it had been easy to get fine, caring servants and then, with a few words of Farsi and their help, running a happy home, shopping was usually a breeze.
“That was one of the best things about Iran,” she said. “Made such a difference - took all the agony out of living in such an alien country.” “You still think of it as alien - after all this time?”
“More than ever. All the kindness, politeness, of the few Iranians we’d meet, I’ve always felt it was only on the surface - that their real feelings are the ones out in the open now - I don’t mean everyone, of course, not our friends: Annoush, for instance, now she’s one of the nicest, kindest people in the world.” Annoush was the wife of General Valik, the senior of the Iranian partners. “Most of the wives felt that, Duncan,” she added, lost in her musing. “Perhaps that’s why expats flock together, all the tennis parties and skiing parties, boating, weekends on the Caspian - and servants to carry the picnic baskets and clean up. I think we had the life of Riley, but not anymore.”
“It’ll come back - hope to God it does, for them as well as us. Walking home I suddenly realized what I missed most. It was all the laughter. No one seems to laugh anymore, I mean on the streets, even the kids.” McIver was drinking his whisky sparingly.
“Yes, I miss the laughter very much. I miss the Shah too. Sorry he had to go - everything was well ordered, as far as we were concerned, up to such a short time ago. Poor man, what a rotten deal we’ve given him now, him and that lovely wife of his - after all the friendship he gave our side. I feel quite ashamed - he certainly did his best for his people.” “Unfortunately, Genny, for most of them it seems it wasn’t good enough!” “I know. Sad. Life is very sad sometimes. Well, no point in crying over spilt milk. Hungry?”
“I’ll say.”
Candles made the dining room warm and friendly and took the chill off the apartment. Curtains were drawn against the night. At once Hassan brought the steaming bowls of various horisht - literally meaning soup but more like a thick stew of lamb or chicken and vegetables, raisins and spices of all kinds - and polo, the delicious Iranian rice that is parboiled, then baked in a buttered dish until the crust is firm and golden brown, a favorite of both of them. “Bless Sharazad, she’s a sight for sore eyes.” Genny smiled back at him. “Yes, she is, so’s Paula.”
“You’re not so bad either, Gen.”
“Get on with you, but for that you can have a nightcap. As JeanLuc would say, Bon appétit!” They ate hungrily, the food exquisite, reminding both of them of meals they had had in the houses of their friends. “Gen, I ran into young Christian Tollonen at lunch, you remember Erikki’s friend from the Finnish embassy? He told me Azadeh’s passport was all ready. That’s good, but the thing that shook me was he said, in passing, about eight out of every ten of his Iranian friends or acquaintances are no longer in Iran and if it kept up in the new exodus, pretty soon there’d only be mullahs and their flocks left. Then I started counting and came up with about the same proportion - those in what we’d call the middle and upper class.”
“I don’t blame them leaving. I’d do the same.” Then she added involuntarily, “Don’t think Sharazad will.”
McIver had heard an undercurrent and he studied her. “Oh?” Genny toyed with a little piece of the golden crust and changed her mind about not telling him. “For the love of God don’t say anything to Tom who’d have a fit - and I don’t know how much is fact and how much a young girl’s idealistic make-believe - but she happily whispered she’d spent most of the day at Doshan Tappeh where, she says, there’s been a real insurrection, guns, grenades, the lot…”
“Christ!”
“… militantly on the side of what she called ‘our Glorious Freedom Fighters’ who turn out to be mutinying air force servicemen, some officers, Green Bands supported by thousands of civilians - against police, loyalist troops, and the Immortals….”
Chapter 8
AT BANDAR DELAM AIRPORT: 7:50 P.M. With the going down of the sun, more armed revolutionaries had arrived and now there were guards on all hangars and approaches to the airport. Rudi Lutz had been told by Zataki that no S-G personnel could leave the field without permission and they were to continue as usual and one or more of his men would accompany every flight. “Nothing will happen providing you all obey orders,” Zataki had said. “This is a temporary situation during the change from the Shah’s illegal government to the new government of the people.” But his nervousness and that of all his ill-disciplined rabble belied his attempt at confidence.
Starke had heard mutterings among them and told Rudi they expected troops loyal to the Shah to arrive any moment and the counterattack to begin. By the time he, Rudi, and the other American pilot, Jon Tyrer, had managed to get to the radio in Rudi’s trailer, most of the news was over. The little they heard of it was all bad.
“… and the Saudi, Kuwait, and Iraqi governments fear that the political turmoil in Iran will destabilize the entire Persian Gulf, with the Sultan of Oman reported as saying the problem is more than just a contagion, it’s another convenient umbrella for Soviet Russia to use its string of client states to create nothing less than a colonial empire in the Gulf with the end goal of possessing the Strait of Hormuz…”
“In Iran it is reported that there was heavy fighting during the night between mutinying, pro-Khomeini air cadets at the Tehran air base of Doshan Tappeh - supported by thousands of armed civilians - against police, loyalist troops, and units of the Immortals, the Shah’s elite Imperial Guard. Joining the insurgents later were over five thousand leftists of the Saihkal Marxist Group, some of whom broke into the base’s armory and carried away its weapons …
“Jesus!” Starke said.
“… Meanwhile Ayatollah Khomeini again demanded total resignation of the whole government and called on the people to support his choice of prime minister, Mehdi Bazargan, exhorting all soldiers, airmen, and navy personnel to support him. Prime Minister Bakhtiar discounted rumors of an imminent military coup, but confirmed a big buildup of Soviet forces on the border….
“Gold went to an all-time high of $254 per ounce and the dollar slumped sharply against all currencies. That is the end of the news from London.” Rudi switched the set off. They were in the sitting room of his trailer. In one of the cabinets was a spare HF that, like the radio, he had built in himself. On the sideboard was a telephone that was hooked up to the base system. The telephone was not working.
“If Khomeini wins at Doshan Tappeh, then the armed forces will have to choose,” Starke said with finality. “Coup, civil war, or concede.” “They won’t concede, that’d be suicide, why the hell should they?” Tyrer said. He was a loose-limbed American from New Jersey. “And don’t forget the air force elite, the ones we’ve met, for crissake. The mutiny’s just a bunch of local meathead discontents. The real kicker’s about the Marxists joining in, five thousand of them! Jesus! If they’re out in the open now with guns! We’re goddamn crazy to be here right now, huh?”
Starke said, “Except we’re here by choice; the company says no one loses seniority if they want out. We’ve got it in writing. You want out?” “No, no, not yet,” Tyrer said irritably. “But what we gonna do?” “Stay out of the way of Zataki for one thing,” Rudi said. “That bastard’s psycho.”