“Sure,” Tyrer said, “but we’ve gotta make a plan.”
There was an abrupt knock and the door opened. It was Mohammed Yemeni, their IranOil base manager - a good looking, cleanshaven man in his forties who had been in their area for a year. With him were two guards. “Agha Kyabi is on the HF. He wants to speak to you at once,” he said with an untoward imperiousness. Kyabi was IranOil’s senior area manager and most important official in southern Iran.
At once Rudi switched on the HF which interlinked them with Kyabi’s HQ near Ahwaz, north of Bandar Delam. To his astonishment the set did not activate. He jiggled the switch a few times, then Yemeni said with an open sneer, “Colonel Zataki ordered the current cut off and the set disconnected. You will use the main office set. At once.”
None of them liked the tone of voice. “I’ll be there in a minute,” Rudi said.
Yemeni scowled and said to the guards in coarse Farsi, “Hurry the dog of a foreigner!”
Starke snapped in Farsi, “This is our ruler’s tent. There are very particular laws in the Holy Koran about defending the leader of your tribe in his tent against armed men.” The two guards stopped, nonplussed. Yemeni gaped at Starke, not expecting Farsi, then backed a pace as Starke got up to his full height and continued: “The Prophet, whose Name be praised, laid down rules of manners amongst friends, and also amongst enemies, and also that dogs are vermin. We are People of the Book and not vermin.” Yemeni flushed, turned on his heel, and left. Starke wiped the sweat from his hands on his trousers. “Rudi, let’s see what’s with Kyabi.” They followed Yemeni across the tarmac, the guards with them. The night was clean and the air tasted good to Starke after the closeness of the little office.
“What was all that about?” Rudi asked.
Starke explained, his mind elsewhere, wishing he was back at Kowiss. He had hated leaving Manuela but thought she was safer there than in Tehran. “Honey,” he had said, just before he had left, “I’ll get you out the soonest.”
“I’m safe here, darlin’, safe as Texas. I’ve got lots of time, the kids are safe in Lubbock - I didn’t leave England till I knew they were home - and you know Granddaddy Starke won’t let them come to harm.”
“Sure. The kids’ll be fine, but I want you out of Iran as soon as possible.” He heard Rudi saying, “Who’re ‘People of the Book’?”
“Christians and Jews,” he replied, wondering how he could get the 125 into Kowiss. “Mohammed considered our Bible and the Torah as Holy Books too - a lot of what’s in them’s also in the Koran. Many scholars, our scholars, think he just copied them, though Muslim legend says that Mohammed couldn’t read or write. He recited the Koran, all of it, can you imagine that?” he said, still awed by the accomplishment. “Others wrote it all down - years after he was dead. In Arabic it’s fantastically beautiful, his poetry, so they say.”
Ahead now was the office trailer, guards outside smoking, and Starke felt good within himself and pleased that he had dealt satisfactorily with Yemeni and all day with the mullah Hussain - fifteen landings, all perfect, waiting at the rigs while the mullah harangued the workers for Khomeini with never a soldier or policeman or SAVAK in sight, expecting them any second and always at the next setdown. Yemeni’s chicken shit compared to Hussain, he thought. Zataki and both mullahs were waiting in the office trailer. Jahan, the radio op, was on the HF. Zataki sat behind Rudi’s desk. The office had been very neat. Now it was a mess, with files open and papers spilled everywhere, dirty cups, cigarette stubs in the cups and on the floor, half-eaten food on the desk - rice and goat meat. And the air stank of cigarette smoke. “Mein Gott! Rudi said, enraged. “It’s a verrückte pigsty and y - ”
“SHUT UP!” Zataki exploded. “This is a war situation, we need to search,” then added, more quietly, “You … you can send one of your men to clean up. You will not tell Kyabi about us. You will act normally and take my instructions, you will watch me. Do you understand, Captain?” Rudi nodded, his face set. Zataki motioned to the radio op who said into the mike, “Excellency Kyabi, here is Captain Lutz.”
Rudi took the mike. “Yes, Boss?” he said, using their nickname for him. Both he and Starke had known Yusuf Kyabi for a number of years. Kyabi had been trained at Texas A&M, then by ExTex before taking over the southern sector, and they were on good terms with him.
“Evening, Rudi,” the voice said in American English. “We’ve a break in one of our pipelines, somewhere north of you. It’s a bad one - it’s only just shown up in our pumping stations. God knows how many barrels have been pumped out already, or how much is left in the pipe. I’m not calling for a CASEVAC but want a helicopter at dawn to find it. Can you pick me up early?” Zataki nodded in agreement so Rudi said, “Okay, Boss. We’ll be there as soon after dawn as possible. Would you want a 206 or 212?”
“A 206, there’ll be me and my chief engineer. Come yourself, will you? It may be sabotage - may be a break. You had any problems at Bandar Delam?” Rudi and Starke were very conscious of the guns in the room. “No, no more than usual. See you tomorrow,” Rudi said, wanting to cut him off because Kyabi was usually very outspoken about revolutionaries. He did not approve of insurrection or Khomeini’s fanaticism, and hated the interference with their oil complex.
“Hold on a moment, Rudi. We heard there’re more riots in Abadan, and we could hear shooting in Ahwaz. Did you know that an American oilman and one of our own people were ambushed and killed near Ahwaz, yesterday?” “Yes, Tommy Stanson. Lousy.”
“Very. God curse all murderers! Tudeh, mujhadin, fedayeen, or whom the hell ever!”
“Sorry, Boss, got to go, see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Good, we can talk tomorrow. Insha’Allah, Rudi. Insha’ Allah!” The transmission went dead. Rudi breathed a sigh of relief. He did not think that Kyabi had said anything that could harm him. Unless these men were secretly Tudeh - or one of the other extremists - and not Khomeini supporters as they claimed. “All our extremists use mullahs as a cover, or try to use them,” Kyabi had told him. “Sadly most mullahs are impoverished, dull-witted peasants, and easy prey for trained insurgents. God curse Khomeini….”
Rudi felt the sweat on his back.
“One of my men will go with you, and this time you will not remove his magazine,” Zataki said.
Rudi’s jaw came out and tension in the room soared. “I will not fly armed men. It is against all company rules, air rules, and particularly Iranian CAA orders. Disobeying ICAA rules invalidates our licenses,” he said, loathing them.
“Perhaps I will shoot one of your men unless you obey.” Furiously Zataki slammed a cup off his desk and it skittered across the room. Starke came forward, as angry. Zataki’s gun covered him.
“Are the followers of Ayatollah Khomeini murderers? Is this the law of Islam?”
For a moment Starke thought Zataki was going to pull the trigger, then the mullah Hussain got up. “I will go in the airplane.” Then to Rudi, “You swear you will play no tricks and return here without tricks?”
After a pause Rudi said shakily, “Yes.”
“You are Christian?”
“Yes.”
“Swear by God you will not cheat us.”
Again Rudi paused. “All right. I swear by God I won’t cheat you.” “How can you trust him?” Zataki asked.
“I don’t,” Hussain said simply. “But if he cheats God, God will punish him. And his companions. If we don’t return or if he brings back trouble …” He shrugged.