So, correctly, he had consulted Nitchak Khan and the Khan had agreed that a revolt should take place against their hereditary enemy the Pahlavi Shah, that to celebrate the revolution any who cared to could fire their arms at the stars and that, at dawn, he would lead the necessary investiture of the foreigners’ airfield.
They had arrived at dawn. Armed. Every man in the village. Nitchak Khan no longer wore his police uniform but tribal clothes. He was much shorter than Lochart, a hard-bodied man, spare, with hands of iron and legs of steel, a cartridge belt over his chest and rifle in his hands. By prearrangement, Lochart, accompanied by JeanLuc Sessonne - at the Khan’s request - met them at two hastily erected columns of stones that symbolized the gate to the base. Lochart saluted and agreed that Nitchak Khan had jurisdiction over the base, the two tiers of stones were formally knocked down, there were loud cheers from all sides and many guns were fired into the air. Then Nitchak Khan presented bouquets of flowers to JeanLuc Sessonne as a representative of France, thanking him on behalf of all the Galezan-Kash’kai for succoring and helping Khomeini who had rid them of their enemy, the Pahlavi Shah. “Thanks be to God that this self-dubbed Great King of Kings who dared sacrilege to try to connect his line back to Kings Cyrus and Darius the Great, men of courage and pride - this Light of the Aryans, this lackey of foreign devils - fled like a painted paramour from his Iraqi pasha!” Then there were brave speeches from both sides and the feast began and Nitchak Khan, the mullah beside him, had asked Tom Lochart, tribal chief of the foreigners at Zagros Three, to continue as before under the new regime. Lochart had gravely agreed.
“Let’s hope Rudi and his lads’re as lucky as you at Zagros, Tom.” McIver turned back to the windows, knowing there was nothing he could do to help them. “Things get worse and worse,” he muttered. Kyabi’s murder’s terrible, and a very bad sign for us, he thought. How the hell can I get Genny out of Tehran and where the hell’s Charlie?
They had not heard from Pettikin since he had left yesterday morning for Tabriz. From their ground staff at Galeg Morghi they had had garbled reports - that Pettikin had been kidnapped and forced to fly off with “three unknown persons,” or that “three Iranian Air Force pilots hijacked the 206 and fled for the border,” or that “the three passengers were high-ranking officers fleeing the country.” Why three passengers in every story? McIver had asked himself. He knew Pettikin must have got to the airfield safely because his car was still there, though the tanks were dry, the radio torn out, and the car vandalized. Bandar-e Pahlavi, where he was to have refueled, was silent - Tabriz was hardly ever in range. He cursed silently. It had been a bad day for McIver.
All day irate creditors had arrived to harass him, the phones weren’t working, the telex got jammed and took hours to clear, and his meeting at noon with General Valik who Gavallan had promised would supply cash weekly, was a disaster.
“As soon as the banks open we’ll pay what is owed.”
“For God’s sake, you’ve been saying that for weeks,” McIver said coldly, “I need money now.”
“So do we all,” the general had hissed back, shaking with rage, but very conscious of the Iranian employees in the outer office who would be sure to be listening. “There’s civil war going on and I can’t open the banks. You’ll have to wait.” He was a rotund man, balding, with darkish skin, an ex-army general, his clothes expensive, his watch expensive. He dropped his voice even lower. “If it wasn’t for stupid Americans who betrayed the Shah and persuaded him to curb our glorious armed forces, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“I’m British as you well know and you brought the mess on yourself.” “British, American, what’s the difference? It’s all your fault. You both betrayed our Shah and Iran and now you’re going to pay for it!” “With what?” McIver asked sourly. “You’ve got all our money.” “If it wasn’t for your Iranian partners - me particularly - you wouldn’t have any money. Andy’s not complaining. I had a telex from my revered colleague, General Javadah, that Andy was signing the new Guerney contracts this week.”
“Andy said he had a telex from you confirming that you promised him you’d provide us with cash.”
“I promised I’d try.” The general curbed his rage with an effort, for he needed McIver’s cooperation. He mopped his forehead and opened his briefcase. It was stuffed with high-denomination rials but he held the top carefully so it was impossible for McIver to see inside, then brought out a small sheaf of notes, closing the briefcase. With great deliberation he counted out 500,000 rials - about $6,000. “There,” he said with a great flourish, putting the rials on the table and the rest away again. “Next week I or one of my colleagues will bring some more. A receipt, please.” “Thank you.” McIver signed the receipt. “When can we exp - ” “Next week. If the banks open we can settle everything. We’re always good as our word. Always. Haven’t we arranged the Guerney contracts?” Valik leaned forward and dropped his voice even more. “Now, I have a special charter. Tomorrow I want a 212, to leave sometime in the morning.” “To go where?”
“I need to inspect some facilities at Abadan,” Valik said and McIver noticed the sweat.
“And how will I get the necessary permissions, General? With all your airspace controlled by the military and w - ”
“Don’t bother with permission, just hav - ”
“Unless we’ve a flight plan, approved by the military in advance, it’s an illegal flight.”
“You can always say you asked for permission and it was given verbally. What’s so difficult about that?”
“First it’s against Iranian law, General, your law, second even if cleared verbally and the aircraft got out of Tehran airspace, you’ve still got to give the next military air traffic controller your recorded number - all flight plans are recorded at your air force HQ and they’re even more twitchy about helicopters than civilians - and if you don’t have one the controller will say get your tail down at the next military base and report to the tower. And when you land, they’ll meet you very irritably - and correctly - in force, my aircraft will be impounded, and the passengers and crew put in jail.”
“Then find a way. It’s a very important charter. The, er, the Guerney contracts depend on it. Just have the 212 ready at nine o’clock, say at Galeg Morghi.”
“Why there? Why not at the International Airport?”
“It’s more convenient… and quiet now.”
McIver frowned. It was well within Valik’s authority to ask for and authorize such a flight. “Very well, I’ll try.” He pulled out the pad of blank flight plan forms, noticed that the last copy referred to Pettikin’s flight to Tabriz and again his anxiety mounted - where the devil is he? Under “passengers” he put General Valik, chairman of IHC, and handed it to him. “Please sign under authority.”
Valik shoved the form back imperiously. “There’s no need for my name to be put on it - just put four passengers - my wife and two children will be with me, and some luggage. We will be staying in Abadan for a week, then returning. Just have the 212 ready at 9:00 A.M. at Galeg Morghi.” “Sorry, General, the names have to be on the clearance or the air force won’t even accept the flight plan. All passengers have to be named. I’ll apply for clearance but I don’t hold out much hope for you.” McIver began to add the other names.