On Saturday evening there had been many noises around the cabin that had added to his disquiet. Once he was sure he heard muffled voices. Quietly he doused the lights, slid the bolt back, and stood on the stoop, the Very pistol in his hand. With great care he had searched the darkness. Then he saw, or thought he saw, a movement thirty yards away, then another farther off.
“Who are you?” he called out, his voice echoing strangely. “What do you want?”
No one answered him. Another movement. Where? Thirty forty yards away - difficult to judge distances at night. Look, there’s another! Was it a man? Or just an animal or the shadow of a branch. Or perhaps - what was that? Over there by the big pine. “You! Over there! What do you want?” No answer. He could not make out if it was a man or not. Enraged and even a little frightened he aimed and pulled the trigger. The banggg seemed like a clap of thunder and echoed off the mountains and the red flare ripped toward the tree, ricocheted off it in a shower of sparks, sprayed into another to bury itself spluttering and spitting in a snowdrift. He waited. Nothing happened. Noises in the forest, the roof of the hangar creaking, wind in the treetops, sometimes snow falling from an overladen tree branch that sprang back, free once more. Making a big show he angrily stamped his feet against the cold, switched on the light, loaded the pistol again, and rebolted the door. “You’re getting to be an old woman in your old age,” he said aloud, then added, “Bullshit! I hate the quiet, hate being alone, hate snow, hate the cold, hate being scared and this morning at Galeg Morghi shook me, God curse it and that’s a fact - but for young Ross I know that SAVAK bastard would’ve killed me!”
He checked that the door was barred and all the windows, closed the curtains against the night, then poured a large vodka and mixed it with some frozen orange juice that was in the freezer and sat in front of the fire and collected himself. There were eggs for breakfast and he was armed. The gas fire worked well. It was cozy. After a while he felt better, safer. Before he went to bed in the spare bedroom, he rechecked the locks. When he was satisfied he took off his flying boots and lay on the bed. Soon he was asleep.
In the morning the night fear had disappeared. After a breakfast of fried eggs on fried bread, just as he liked it, he tidied the room, put on his padded flying gear, unbolted the door, and a submachine gun was shoved in his face, six of the revolutionaries crowded into the room and the questioning began. Hours of it.
“I’m not a spy, not American. I keep telling you I’m British,” over and over.
“Liar, your papers say you’re South African. By Allah, are they false too?” The leader - the man who called himself Fedor Rakoczy - was tough-looking, taller, and older than the others, with hard brown eyes, his English accented. The same questions over and over: “Where do you come from, why are you here, who is your CIA superior, who is your contact here, where is Erikki Yokkonen?”
“I don’t know. I’ve told you fifty times I don’t know - there was no one here when I landed at sunset last night. I was sent to pick him up, him and his wife. They had business in Tehran.”
“Liar! They ran away in the night, two nights ago. Why should they run away if you were coming to pick them up?”
“I’ve told you. I was not expected. Why should they run away? Where’re Dibble and Arberry, our mechanics? Where’s our manager Dayati and wh - ” “Who is your CIA contact in Tabriz?”
“I haven’t one. We’re a British company and I demand to see our consul in Tabriz. I dem - ”
“Enemies of the People cannot demand anything! Even mercy. It is the Will of God that we are at war. In war people get shot!”
The questioning had gone on all morning. In spite of his protests they had taken all his papers, his passport with the vital exit and residence permits, and had bound him and thrown him in here with dire threats if he attempted to run away. Later, Rakoczy and two guards had returned. “Why didn’t you tell me you brought the spares for the 212?”
“You didn’t ask me,” Pettikin had said angrily. “Who the hell are you? Give me back my papers. I demand to see the British consul. Undo my hands, goddamnit!”
“God will strike you if you blaspheme! Down on your knees and beg God’s forgiveness.” They forced him to kneel. “Beg forgiveness!” He obeyed, hating them. “You fly a 212 as well as a 206?” “No,” he said, awkwardly getting to his feet. “Liar! It’s on your license.” Rakoczy had thrown it on the table. “Why do you lie?”
“What’s the difference? You believe nothing I say. You won’t believe the truth. Of course I know it’s on my license. Didn’t I see you take it? Of course I fly a 212 if I’m rated.”
“The komiteh will judge you and sentence you,” Rakoczy had said with a finality that sent a shock wave up his spine. Then they had left him. At sunset they had brought him some rice and soup and gone away again. He had slept hardly at all and now, in the dawn, he knew how helpless he was. His fear began to rise up. Once in Vietnam he had been shot down and caught and sentenced to death by the Viet Cong but his squadron had come back for him with gunships and Green Berets and they had shot up the village and the Viet Cong with it. That was another time that he had escaped a certainty. “Never bet on death until you’re dead. Thataway, old buddy,” his young American commander had said, “thataway you sleep nights.” The commander had been Conroe Starke. Their helicopter squadron had been mixed, American and British and some Canadian, based at Da Nang. What another bloody mess that was!
Wonder how Duke’s doing now? he thought. Lucky bastard. Lucky to be safe at Kowiss and lucky to have Manuela. Now there’s one smasher and built like a koala bear - cuddly, with those big brown eyes of hers, and just the right amount of curves.
He let his mind wander, wondering about her and Starke, about where were Erikki and Azadeh, about that Vietnam village - and about the young Captain Ross and his men. But for him! Ross was another savior. In this life you have to have saviors to survive, those curious people who miraculously come into your life for no apparent reason just in time to give you the chance you desperately need, or to extract you from disaster or danger or evil. Do they appear because you prayed for help? At the very edge you always pray, somehow, even if it’s not to God. But God has many names. He remembered old Soames at the embassy with his, “Don’t forget, Charlie, Mohammed the Prophet proclaimed that Allah - God - has three thousand names. A thousand are known only to the angels, a thousand only to the prophets, three hundred are in the Torah, the Old Testament, another three hundred in the Zabur, that’s the Psalms of David, another three hundred in the New Testament, and ninety-nine in the Koran. That makes two thousand nine hundred and ninety nine. One name has been hidden by God. In Arabic it’s called: Ism Allah ala’zam: the Greatest Name of God. Everyone who reads the Koran will have read it without knowing it. God is wise to hide His Greatest Name, eh?”
Yes, if there is a God, Pettikin thought, cold and aching. Just before noon Rakoczy returned with his two men. Astonishingly, Rakoczy politely helped him to his feet and began undoing his bonds. “Good morning, Captain Pettikin. So sorry for the mistake. Please follow me.” He led the way into the main room. Coffee was on the table. “Do you drink coffee black or English style with milk and sugar?” Pettikin was rubbing his chafed wrists, trying to get his mind working. “What’s this? The prisoner was offered a hearty breakfast?” “Sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Nothing.” Pettikin stared at him, still not sure. “With milk and sugar.” The coffee tasted wonderful and revived him. He helped himself to more. “So it’s a mistake, all a mistake?”
“Yes. I, er, checked your story and it was correct, God be praised. You will leave immediately. To return to Tehran.”