he reached out for her but she darted back a step, laughing. "in the summer the public women of the night wear their chadors thus, so it is said."
"sharazad..."
"no."
this time he caught her easily. the taste of her, the sheen of her, her softness. "perhaps, master," she said between kisses, gently taunting him, "perhaps your slave will always wear her chador thus, in the streets, in the bazaar, many women do, so they say."
"no. the thought would drive me mad." he began to pick her up but she whispered, "no, beloved, let us stay here," and he replied, "but the servants..." and again she whispered, "forget them, they'll not disturb us, forget them, forget everything, i beg you, beloved, and only remember that this is your house, this is your hearth, and i am your eternal slave."
they stayed. as always her passion equated his though he could not understand how or why, only that with her he went to paradise, truly, stayed in the garden of the paradise with this nymph of paradise and then returned with her safe to earth again.
later, during dinner, the front doorbell disturbed their peace. her servant hassan answered it, then came back into the room, closing the door. "master, it's excellency general valik," he said softly. "he apologizes that he arrives
so late but it's important and asks if your excellency would grant him a few minutes."
lochart's irritation soared but sharazad reached over and touched him gently and it went away. "see him, beloved. i will wait for you in bed. hassan, bring a fresh plate and heat up the horisht, his excellency's bound to be hungry."
valik apologized profusely for arriving so late, refused food twice but of course allowed himself to be persuaded and ate ravenously. lochart waited patiently, fulfilling his promise to her father to remember iranian ways that family came first, that it was good manners to skirt an issue, never to be blunt, never to be direct. in farsi it was much easier than in english.
as soon as he could, he switched to english. "i'm very pleased to see you, general. what can i do for you?"
"i only heard half an hour ago that you were back in tehran. this horisht is easily the best i've had in years. i'm so sorry to disturb you so late."
"no trouble." lochart left the silence to prosper. the older man ate without embarrassment that he ate alone. a piece of lamb attached itself to his mustache and lochart watched it, fascinated, wondering how long it would remain there, then valik wiped his mouth. "my compliments to sharazad her cook is well trained. i will tell my favorite cousin, excellency jared."
"thank you." lochart waited.
again the silence hung between them. valik sipped some tea. "did the clearance for the 212 come through?"
"not by the time we'd left." lochart was unprepared for the question. "i know mac sent a messenger to wait for it. i'd phone him but unfortunately our phone's out. why?"
"the partners would like you to fly the charter."
"captain mciver's assigned captain lane, presuming there's a clearance."
"it will be granted." valik wiped his mouth again and helped himself to more tea. "the partners would like you to fly the charter. i'm sure mciver will agree."
"sorry, but i've got to get back to zagros, i want to make sure everything's okay." he told him briefly what had happened there.
"i'm sure zagros can wait a few days. i'm sure jared would be pleased you thought it important to do what the partners ask."
lochart frowned. "i'm happy to do anything. what's so important to the partners about this charter, a few spares, a few rials?"
"all charters are important. the partners are very concerned to give the best service. so that's all right, then?"
"i'd... first i'd have to take it up with mac, second i doubt if the 212'll be cleared, third i really should get back to my base."
valik smiled his nicest smile. "i'm sure mac will give his approval. you'll
have clearance to leave tehran airspace." he got up. "i'm going to see mac now and i'll tell him you're agreeable. thank sharazad again a thousand apologies for calling so late but these are troubled times."
lochart did not move from the table. "i still want to know what's so important about a few spares and a hundred thousand rials."
"the partners have decided it is, and so my dear young friend, hearing you were here and knowing your close relationship with my family, i presumed at once that you would be happy to do this if i asked you personally. we're the same family. aren't we?" it was said flat now, though the smile remained.
lochart's eyes narrowed. "i'm glad to do anything to help b "
"good, then it's settled. thank you. i'll see myself out." from the doorway valik turned and pointedly looked around at the apartment. "you are a very lucky man, captain. i envy you."
when valik had gone, lochart sat by the dying fire, staring at the flames. hassan and a maid cleaned away the dishes, said good night but he did not hear them nor sharazad who came back later, peered at him, then went quietly back to bed, dutifully leaving him to his reverie.
lochart was sick at heart. he knew that valik was aware that everything of value in the apartment, along with the apartment itself, had been a wedding gift from sharazad's father. fared bakravan had even given him de facto ownership of the whole building at least the rents thereof. few knew of their argument: "as much as i appreciate your generosity i can't accept all this, sir," lochart had said. "it's impossible."
"but these are material things, unimportant things."
"yes, but this is too much. i know my pay's not great, but we can manage. truly."
"yes, of course. but why shouldn't my daughter's husband live pleasantly? how else can you be at peace to learn iranian ways and fulfill your promise? i assure you, my son, these represent little value to me. now you are part of my family. family is most important in iran. family looks after family."
"yes, but i must look after her i must, not you."
"of course, and with the help of god you will, in time, provide for her in the way she is used to. but now this is not possible for you with the support for your ex-wife and child which you must provide. now it is my wish to arrange matters in a civilized way, our iranian way. you have promised to live as we live, no?"
"yes. but please, i cannot accept all this. give her what you like, not me. i must be allowed to do the best i can."
"i'm sure you will. meanwhile, this is all my gift to you, not to her. this makes my gift of her to you possible."
"give it to her not't "
jared bakravan had said sharply, "it is the will of god that man is the master of the house. if it is not your house then you will not be the master. i must insist. i am head of the family and sharazad will do what i say and for sharazad i must insist, or the wedding cannot take place. i realize your western dilemma though i don't understand it, my son. but here iranian ways dominate all else, and family looks after family..."
in the vast loneliness of the sitting room lochart nodded to himself. that's right and i chose sharazad, chose to accept but... but that sonofabitch valik threw it all in my face and made me feel dirty again and i hate him for it, hate not paying for everything, and know the only gift i can give her is freedom she would never otherwise have and my life if need be. at least she's canadian now and doesn't have to stay.
don't fool yourself, she's iranian and always will be. would she be at home in vancouver, b.c., with all that rain, no family, no friends, and nothing iranian? yes, yes, i think so; for a time i'd make up for all the other. for a while, of course not forever.
it was the first time he had confronted the real problem looming between them. our iran's gone forever, the old one, the shah one. never mind that perhaps the new will be better. she'll adapt and so will 1. i speak farsi and she's my wife and jared's powerful. if we have to leave temporarily, i'll make up for the temporary parting, no problem there. the future's still rosy and good and i love her so very much and bless god for her...
the fire was almost finished now and he smelled the comforting, burned wood fragrance and, with it, a thread of her perfume. the cushions still held the indentations where they had lain and though he was totally satisfied and spent, he ached for her. she's really one of the houris, the spirits of paradise, he thought sleepily. i'm in her spell and that's wonderful, i've no complaints and if i died tonight i know what paradise is like. she's wonderful, jared's wonderful, in due course her children will be wonderful and her family...
ah, family! family looks after family, that's the law, i have to do what valik asked, like it or not. have to, her father made that clear.
the last of the embers spluttered and, in dying, momentarily blazed up. "what's so important about a few spares and a few rials?" he asked the flames.
the flames did not answer him.
monday february 12
at tabriz one: 7:12 a.m. charlie pettikin was fitfully asleep, curled up on a mattress on the floor under a single blanket, his hands tied in front of him. it was just dawn and very cold. the guards had not allowed him a portable gas fire and he was locked into the section of erikki yokkonen's cabin that would normally be a storeroom. ice glistened on the inside of the panes of glass in the small window. the window was barred on the outside. snow covered the sill.
his eyes opened and he jerked upright, startled, not knowing where he was for the moment. then his memory flooded back and he hunched against the wall, his whole body aching. "what a damned mess!" he muttered, trying to ease his shoulders. with both hands he awkwardly wiped the sleep out of his eyes, and rubbed his face, feeling filthy. the stubble of his beard was flecked with gray. hate being unshaved, he thought.
today's monday. i got here saturday at sunset and they caught me yesterday morning. bastards! ~
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 reboiled 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."
