“Certainly, but Hotshot - Esvandiary’s on leave for a week.” Esvandiary was their IranOil station manager.
“Very well. Send the rest with Pavoud in charge.”
“Right away.” The phone went dead. He told them what had been said, then went to pass the word.
In the tower Massil was very uneasy. “But, Captain, Excellency. I’m on duty till sunset. We’ve our two 212s to come home yet and the - ” “He said all Faithful. At once. Your papers are in order, you’ve been in Iran for years. He knows you’re here so you’d better go - unless you’ve something to fear?”
“No. No, not at all.”
Ayre saw the sweat on the man’s forehead. “Don’t worry, Massil,” he said, “I’ll see the lads in. No sweat. And I’ll stay here until you get back. It won’t take you long.”
He saw his two 212s to bed, waiting with growing impatience, Massil long overdue now. To pass the time he had tried to do some paperwork but gave up, his mind in turmoil. The only thought that cheered him was that his wife and infant son were safe in England - even with the lousy weather there, the gales and blizzards and rains and lousy cold and lousy strikes and lousy government.
The HF came to life. It was just after dark. “Hello, Kowiss, this is McIver in Tehran…”
Chapter 11
TEHRAN - AT THE S-G OFFICE: 6:50 P.M. McIver said again, “Hello, Kowiss, this is McIver in Tehran, do you read?”
“Tehran, this is Kowiss, Standby One” - one minute - vernacular for “Please wait a moment.”
“All right, Freddy,” McIver said and put the HF mike back on the desk. He and Tom Lochart, who had arrived from Zagros that afternoon, were in his office on the top floor of the building that had been HQ for S-G ever since it had opened operations in Iran almost ten years before. The building had five stories with a flat roof where Genny had made a delightful, screened roof garden with chairs and tables and barbecue. General Beni-Hassan, Andrew Gavallan’s friend, had recommended the building highly: “Nothing but the best for Andy Gavallan’s company. There’s space for half a dozen offices, the price’s reasonable, you’ve space on the roof for your own generator and radio antenna, you’re near the main highway that goes to the airport, bazaar’s convenient, my HQ’s around the corner, parking’s convenient, projected hotels convenient, and here’s the pičce de résistance!” Proudly the general had shown McIver the toilet. It was ordinary and not very clean. “What’s so special about that?” McIver had asked, nonplussed. “It’s the only one in the building, the rest are squatters - just a hole in the floor over a sewer - and if you’re not used to squatting it’s a tricky operation - in fact it’s a pain in the ass, particularly for the ladies, who’ve been known to slip into the hole with messy results,” the general had said jovially. He was a fine-looking man, very strong, very fit. “Squatters are everywhere?”
“Even in the best houses, everywhere outside of modern hotels. When you think about it, Mac, squatting’s more hygienic, nothing sensitive touches anything alien. Then there’s this.” The general had pointed to a small hose attached to the toilet spigot. “We use water to clean ourselves - always use the left hand, that’s the shit hand, the right’s for eating, which is why you never offer anything with your left hand. Very bad manners, Mac. Never eat or drink with your left hand in the Islamic world, and don’t forget most toilets and squatters don’t have hoses so you have to use water from a bucket, if there happens to be one. As I said it’s a tricky op, but a way of life. By the way we’ve no lefthanded people in Islam.” Again the good-natured chuckle. “Most Muslims can’t perform comfortably unless they squat - it’s the muscles - so a lot will squat on the Western seat when they relieve themselves. Strange, isn’t it, but then outside of most cities, even in them, throughout most of Asia, the Middle East, China, India, Africa, South America, there’s not even running water….”
“A penny for your thoughts, Mac?” Lochart said. The tall Canadian sat opposite him, both of them in old easy chairs. Their electric light and fire were at full power from their own generator.
McIver grunted. “I was thinking about squatters. Hate squatters and bloody water. Just can’t get used to them.”
“Doesn’t bother me now, hardly notice it. We’ve squatters in our apartment - Sharazad said she’d have a ‘Western’ toilet put in if I wanted it as a wedding present, but I said I could deal with it.” Lochart smiled wryly. “Doesn’t bother me now but, my God, that was the one thing that sent Deirdre around the bend.”
“Same for all the wives. That’s their biggest bitch, all of them, Genny too. Not my bloody fault most of the world does it that way. Thank God we’ve a real loo in the flat. Gen’d mutiny otherwise.” McIver fiddled with the volume on the receiver. “Come on, Freddy,” he muttered. There were many charts on the walls, no pictures, though there was the heavy dust mark of one taken down recently - the obligatory photograph of the Shah. Outside, the night sky was lit with fires that dotted the skyline of the darkened city, no lights or streetlamps anywhere except here. Gunfire, rifle and automatic, mixed with the ever-present sound of the city - mobs roaring “Allahhh-u Akbarrmr…”
Now over the loudspeaker: “This is Kowiss, Captain Ayre speaking. I read you loud and clear, Captain McIver.”
Both men were startled and Lochart sat upright. “Something’s wrong, Mac, he can’t talk openly - someone’s listening.”
McIver clicked on the send switch. “You’re doing your own radio, Freddy,” he said deliberately to make sure there was no mistake, “as well as putting in the hours?”
“Just happened to be here, Captain McIver.”
“Everything five by five?” This meant maximum radio signal strength, or in the vernacular of pilots, Everything okay?
After a deliberate pause that told them no, “Yes, Captain McIver.” “Good, Captain Ayre,” McIver said, to tell him at once that he understood. “Put Captain Starke on, will you?”
“Sorry, sir, I can’t. Captain Starke’s still at Bandar Delam.” McIver said sharply, “What’s he doing there?”
“Captain Lutz ordered him to stop over and ordered Captain Dubois to complete the VIP journey requested by IranOil - and approved by you.” Starke had managed to get through to Tehran before taking off to explain the problem of the mullah Hussain to McIver. McIver had approved the trip as long as Colonel Peshadi okayed it, and told him to keep him advised. “Is the 125 due in Kowiss tomorrow, Captain McIver?”
“It’s possible,” McIver replied, “but you never know.” The 125 had been scheduled for Tehran yesterday, but because of the insurrection surrounding the airport, all inbound traffic had been provisionally canceled until tomorrow, Monday. “We’re working on getting clearances for a direct into Kowiss. It’s dicey because military air traffic control are… are undermanned. The airport at Tehran is, er, jammed so we can’t get any of our dependents out. Tell Manuela to stand by in case we can get a clearance.” McIver grimaced, trying to decide how much he should say over the open airwaves, then saw Lochart motioning to him.
“Let me, Mac. Freddy can speak French,” Lochart said softly. projected hotels convenient, and here’s the pičce de résistance!” Proudly the general had shown McIver the toilet. It was ordinary and not very clean. “What’s so special about that?” McIver had asked, nonplussed. “It’s the only one in the building, the rest are squatters - just a hole in the floor over a sewer - and if you’re not used to squatting it’s a tricky operation - in fact it’s a pain in the ass, particularly for the ladies, who’ve been known to slip into the hole with messy results,” the general had said jovially. He was a fine-looking man, very strong, very fit. “Squatters are everywhere?”