“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. McIver brightened and gratefully leaned over and gave him the mike. “Écoute, Freddy,” Lochart began in Canadian French that he knew even Ayre, whose French was excellent, had difficulty in understanding. “Marxists still hold the International Airport, helped by Khomeini insurgents, supposedly with some PLO, and still hold the tower. Tonight’s major rumor is that there’s going to be a coup, that the prime minister’s approved it, that troops are finally on the move all over Tehran with orders to quell the riots and shoot to kill. What’s your problem down there? Are you all right?” “Yes, no sweat,” they heard him reply in gutter French and innuendo; “I’m under orders to say nothing, but no real problems here, bet on it, but they’re listening. At Smelly” - their nickname for Bandar Delam where the air stank constantly of gasoline - “lots of problems and Boss was sent upward before his allotted span…”
Lochart’s eyes widened. “Kyabi’s been shot,” he muttered to McIver. “… but old Rudi’s got everything under control and the Duke’s okay. We’d better stop this, old one. They’re listening.”
“Understand. Sit tight and tell the others if you can; also that we’re okay,” adding in English without missing a beat, “and I repeat we’ll be sending down cash for your people tomorrow.”
Ayre’s voice brightened. “No shit, old chap?”
Involuntarily Lochart laughed. “No shit. Keep a duty radio op on and we’ll call back progress. Here’s Captain McIver again. Insha’Allah!” He handed the mike back.
“Captain, have you heard from Lengeh, yesterday or today?” “No, we tried them but couldn’t raise them. Might be the sunspots. I’ll try again now.”
“Thanks. Give my regards to Captain Scragger and remind him his medical’s due next week.” McIver smiled grimly, then added, “Make sure Captain Starke calls the moment he returns.” He signed off. Lochart told him what Ayre had said. He poured himself another whisky.
“What about me, for God’s sake?” McIver said irritably.
“But, Mac, you kn - ”
“Don’t you start. Make it a light one.” As Lochart poured, McIver got up, went to the window, and stared out, seeing nothing. “Poor old Kyabi. Now there was a good man if ever there was one, good for Iran and fair to us. What’d they murder him for? Madmen! Rudi ‘ordering’ Duke and ‘ordering’ Marc - what the hell does that mean?”
“Only that there was trouble but Rudi’s got it in control. Freddy would have told me if Rudi hadn’t - he’s very sharp and his French’s good so he could’ve found a way. There was plenty of time, even though ‘they’ were listening, whoever the hell ‘they’ were,” Lochart said. “Maybe it was like at Zagros.”
At Zagros the villagers from Yazdek had come at dawn the day after Lochart had arrived back from leave. Their village mullah had received Khomeini’s orders to begin the insurrection against “the illegal government of the Shah,” and to take control of his area. The mullah had been bom in the village and was wise in the ways of the mountains that were snow-locked in winter and only accessible with great difficulty the rest of the year. And, too, the chief of police against whom he should lead the revolt was his nephew, and Nasiri, the base manager who was also a target, was married to his wife’s sister’s daughter who now lived in Shiraz. Even more important, they were all Galezan, a minor tribe of the nomad Kash’kai who had settled protectively - centuries ago - athwart this tiny crossroads, and the chief of police whose name was Nitchak Khan was also their kalandar, their elected tribal leader.