pocket of fighting flared up and men shoved forward to help or elbowed space to retreat and they left her and him together.
she fought him with her nails and feet and voice, his breath and obscenities choking her. with a final effort she called on god for help, hacked upward and missed and remembered her gun. her hand grasped it, shoved it into him, and pulled the trigger. the man screamed, most of his genitals blown off, and he collapsed howling. there was a sudden hush around her. and space. her hand came out of the pocket still holding the gun. a man near to her grabbed it.
blankly she stared down at her attacker who twisted and moaned in the dirt.
"god is great," she stuttered, then noticed her disarray and pulled her jacket together, looked up and saw the hatred surrounding her. "he was attacking me... god is great, god is great..."
"she's just saying that, she's a leftist..." a woman screeched.
"look at her clothes, she's not one of us..."
just a few yards away, lochart was picking himself out of the dirt, head hurting, ears ringing, hardly able to see or to hear. with a great effort he stood upright, then shouldered his way forward toward the dark mouth of the alley and safety. others had had the same thought and already the entrance was clogged. then her voice, mingled with shouting, reached him and he turned back.
he saw her at bay, backed against a wall, a mob around her, clothes half torn off, the sleeve of her jacket ripped away, eyes staring, a grenade in her hand. at that second a man made a move at her, she pulled the pin out, the man froze, everyone began to back off, lochart burst through the cordon to reach her and seized the grenade, keeping the lever down. "get away from her," he roared in farsi and stood in front of her, protecting her. "she's muslim, you sons of dogs. she's muslim and my wife and i'm muslim!"
"you're a foreigner and she's a leftist by god!"
lochart darted at the man and his fist now armored with the grenade crushed the man's mouth in, shattering his jaw. "god is great," lochart bellowed. others took up the shout and those who disbelieved him did nothing, afraid of him but more afraid of the grenade. holding her tightly with his free arm, half guiding, half carrying her, lochart went at the first rank, grenade ready. "please let us pass, god is great, peace be with you." the first rank parted, then the next, and he shoved through, muttering, "god is great... peace be with you," continually until he had broken out of the cordon and into the crowded alley, stumbling in the filth and potholes, bumping people here and there in the darkness. a few lights were on outside the mosque ahead. at the fountain he stopped, broke the ice, and with one hand scooped some water into his face,
the torrent in his brain still raging. "christ," he muttered and used more water. "oh, tommyyyy!" sharazad cried out, her voice far off and strange, near breaking. "where did you come from, where, oh i... i was so afraid, so afraid."
"so was i," he stammered, the words hard to get out. "i've been searching for hours for you, my darling." he pulled her to him. "you all right?"
"oh, yes, yes." her arms were tight around him, her face buried in his shoulder.
sudden firing, more shrieks back toward the street. instinctively he held her tighter but sensed no danger here. just half-seen crowds passing in the semidarkness, the firing becoming more distant and the noise of the riot decreasing.
we're safe at last. no, not yet, there's still the grenade no pin to make it safe, no way to make it safe. over her head and those of the passersby, he saw a burned-out building by the side of the mosque across the little square. i can get rid of it there safely, he persuaded himself, not thinking clearly yet, holding on to her and gathering strength from her embrace. the crowds had increased, now packing the alley. until their numbers lessened it would be difficult and dangerous to dispose of the grenade across the square so he moved her closer to the fountain where the darkness was deeper. "don't worry. we'll wait a second, then go on." they were talking english, softly so much to tell, so much to ask. "you sure you're all right?"
"yes, oh, yes. how did you find me? how? when did you get back? how did you find me?"
"i... i flew back tonight and went to the house but you'd gone." then he burst out, "sharazad, i've become muslim."
she gaped at him. "but... but that was just a trick, a trick to get away from them!"
"no, i swear it! i really have. i swear it. i said the shahada in front of three witnesses, meshang and zarah and jari, and i believe. i do believe. everything's going to be all right now."
her disbelief vanished seeing the joy in him, his voice telling her over and over what had happened. "oh, how wonderful, tommy," she said, beyond herself with happiness, at the same time utterly certain that, for them, nothing would change. nothing will change meshang, she thought. meshang will find a way to destroy us whether my tommy's a believer or not. nothing will change, the divorce will stay, the marriage will stay. unless...
her fears vanished. "tommy, can we leave tehran tonight? can we run away tonight, my darling?"
"there's no need for that, not now. i've wonderful plans. i've quit s-g. now that i'm muslim i can stay and fly for iranoil, don't you see?" both
were oblivious of the crowds passing, packed more tightly, anxious to be home. "no need to worry, sharazad."
someone stumbled and jostled him, then another, a pileup beginning that encroached on their little sanctuary. she saw him shove a man away and others began to curse. quickly she took his hand, and pulled him into the mainstream. "let's go home, husband," she said loudly in coarsened farsi, cautioning him, holding on tightly, then whispered, "speak farsi," then a little louder, "we're not safe here and we can talk better at home."
"yes, yes, woman. better we go home." walking was better and safer and sharazad was here and tomorrow would solve tomorrow, tonight there would be a bath and sleep and food and sleep and no dreams or only happy ones.
"if we wanted to leave tonight secretly, could we? could we, tommy?"
tiredness washed over him and he almost shouted at her that didn't she understand what he had just told her? instead he held back the anger and just said, "there's no need to escape now."
"you're quite right, husband, as always. but could we?"
"yes, yes, i suppose so," he said wearily, and told her how, stopping and starting again with the rest of the pedestrians as the alley narrowed, more claustrophobic every moment.
now she was aglow, quite sure she could convince him. tomorrow they would leave. tomorrow morning i'll collect my jewels, we'll pretend to meshang we'll meet him in the bazaar at lunchtime, but by then we will be flying south in tommy's plane. he can fly in the gulf states or canada or anywhere, you can be muslim and canadian without harm, they told me when i went to the embassy. and soon, in a month or so we'll come home to iran and live here forever...
contentedly she went even closer to him, hidden in the crowd and by the darkness, not afraid anymore, certain their future would be grand. now that he's a believer he will go to paradise, god is great, god is great, and so will i, and together, with the help of god, we will leave sons and daughters behind us. and then, when we are old, if he dies first, on the fortieth day i will make sure his spirit is remembered perfectly, and then, afterward, i will curse his younger wife or wives and their children, then put my affairs in order and peacefully wait to join him in god's time. "oh, i do love you, tommy, i'm so sorry that you've had so much trouble... trouble over me..."
now they were breaking out of the alley into a street. the crowds were even heavier, swarming all over the roadway and in the traffic. but there was a lightness on them all, men, women, mullahs, green bands, young and old, the night well spent doing god's work. "allah-u akbar!" someone shouted, the words echoed and reechoed by a thousand throats. ahead an impatient car
lurched, bumped into some pedestrians who bumped into others who brought down others amid curses and laughter. sharazad and lochart among them, no one hurt. he had caught her safely and, laughing together, they rested on the ground a moment, the grenade still tight in his hand. they did not hear its warning hiss without knowing it, in falling he had slackened the lever an instant, but just enough. for an infinity of time he smiled at her and she at him. "god is great," she said and he echoed her just as confidently. and, the same instant, they died.
saturday march 3
~112~'
ez3~
al shargaz: 6:34 a.m. the tip of the sun crested the horizon and turned black desert into a crimson sea, staining the old port city and chows in the gulf beyond. from the minaret loudspeakers muezzins began but the music in their voices did not please gavallan or any of the other s-g personnel on the veranda of the oasis hotel, finishing a hurried breakfast. "it gets to you, scrag, doesn't it?" gavallan said.
"right you are, sport," scragger said. he, rudi lutz, and pettikin shared gavallan's table, all of them tired and dispirited. whirlwind's almost complete success was turning into a disaster. dubois and fowler still missing in bahrain, mciver not yet out of danger. tom lochart back in tehran, god knows where. no news of erikki and azadeh. no sleep for most of them last night. and sunset today still their deadline.
from the moment yesterday when the 212s had started landing, they had all helped to strip them, removing rotors and tail booms for storing on the jumbo freighters when they arrived, if they arrived. last night roger newbury had returned from the al shargaz palace meeting with the foreign minister in a foul humor: "not a bloody thing i can do, andy. the minister said he and the sheik had been asked to make a personal inspection of the airport by the new iranian representative or ambassador who had seen eight or nine strange 212s at the airport, claiming them to be their 'hijacked' iran registereds. the minister said that of course his highness, the sheik, had agreed how could he refuse? the inspection's at sunset with the ambassador, i'm 'cordially invited' as the british rep for a thorough check of ids, and if any're found to be suspect, old boy, tough titty!"
gavallan had been up all night trying to bring the arrival of the freighters forward, or to get substitutions from every international source he could conjure up. none were available. the best his present charterers could do was "perhaps" to bring forward the eta to noon tomorrow, sunday. "bloody people," he muttered and poured some more coffee. "when you've got to have a couple of 747s there're none and usually with a single phone call you can get fifty."
pettikin was equally worried, also about mciver in bahrain hospital.
no news was expected until noon today about the seriousness of mclver's heart attack. "pas probleme," jean-luc had said last night. "they've let genny stay in the next room at the hospital, the doctor's the best in bahrain, and i'm here. i've canceled my early flight home and i'll wait, but send me some money tomorrow to pay the bills."
* * *
pettikin toyed with his coffee cup, his breakfast untouched. all yesterday and last night helping to get the helicopters ready so no chance to see paula and she was off again to tehran this morning, still evacuating italian nationals, and would not be back for at least two days. gavallan had ordered an immediate retreat of all whirlwind participants out of the gulf area, pending review. "we can't be too careful," he had told them all. "everyone's got to go for the time being."
later pettikin had said, "you're right, andy, but what about tom and erikki? we should leave someone here i'd be glad to volun "
"for christ's sake, charlie, give over," gavallan had flared. "you think i'm not worried sick about them? and fowler and dubois? we have to do it one step at a time. everyone who's not necessary is out before sunset and you're one of them!" that had been about 1:00 a.m. this morning in the office when pettikin had come to relieve scot who was still blearily manning the hf. the rest of the night he had sat there. no calls. at 5:00 a.m. nogger lane had relieved him and he had come here for breakfast, gavallan, rudi, and scragger already seated. "any luck with the freighters, andy?"
"no, charlie, it's still tomorrow noon at the earliest," gavallan had said. "sit down, have some coffee." then had come the dawn and the muezzins. now their singsong ceased. some of the violence left the veranda.
scragger poured himself another cup of tea, his stomach still upset. another sudden chill zapped up from his bowels and he hurried to the bathroom. the spasm passed quickly with very little to show for it, but there was no blood therein, and doc nutt had said he didn't think it was dysentery: "just take it easy for a few days, scrag. i'll have the result of all the tests tomorrow." he had told doc nutt about the blood in his urine and the pain in his stomach over the last few days. to hide it would have been an unforgivable added danger, both to his passengers and to his chopper. "scrag, best you stay here in hospital for a few days," doc nutt had said.
"get stuffed, old cock! there's things to do and mountains to conquer."
going back to the table he saw the brooding gloom upon everyone and hated it, but had no solution. nothing to do except wait. no way to transit out because they would have to go through saudi, emirate, or oman airspace and no possibility of a clearance for a few days. he had suggested, jokingly, they reassemble the helicopters, find out when the next british supertanker was outbound through hormuz and then take off and land on her: "... and we just sail off into the wild blue and get off in mombasa, or sail on around africa to nigeria."
