The Persian Price (28 page)

Peters had always believed in the power of the human will. He had seen men in the jungles of Chile, fighting and surviving in conditions lethal to civilized people. Dedication, fanaticism, these had been the driving forces in his life. Now it was fear that sent the adrenalin pumping, a personal fear so acute that it transcended actual injury to the central nervous system, forcing him to get up when his hurt brain was clamouring for rest.

He tied his shoes round his neck and waded slowly into the water. He had never prayed, even as a child. His family were agnostics who declined religious education for their children. He asked for no external help. He only knew he had to swim the distance and get to Eileen before the dawn came. He made the journey on his back for part of the way; his broken ribs made it impossible to swim effectively over-arm or even breast stroke. His legs were powerful and they drove him round the promontory. The water was warm and buoyant. For the last few metres he stretched out and swam, grunting with pain, and stumbled onto the rocks below the villa, where Madeleine liked to sunbathe. There were fifty steps up to the terrace. They looked as steep as a mountainside as he began to climb. The salt water had soaked through the dressing on his scalp and the wound was stinging. He didn't even notice it; the effort of getting up the steep, narrow stairway was taking all his concentration. When he reached the terrace he collapsed and blacked out. He lay sprawled in full view of the bedroom windows upstairs.

It was light when he recovered consciousness. The blackout had slid into a deep sleep that lasted through the rest of the night. He blinked and moved, confused by his surroundings. His wet clothes had dried on him. There was a rime of salt on his skin. He scrambled up, and froze, listening. There was no sound from inside the villa. The sun was not yet risen and he guessed by the grey light that it must be near five in the morning. His head ached ferociously but he felt stronger. The doors to the terrace were locked, but it only needed his weight to push them open and he was inside.

He stepped into the hall through the big living room and listened. Ahmed slept lightly and would be up within an hour. He came to the stairs and looked up. Eileen wouldn't be there. If she were still alive he knew exactly where they would have put her. He had to find the Algerian first. The door to the radio room opened silently. Peters couldn't see because the blinds were drawn, but after a moment he could hear movement and a grunt as Ahmed turned over on his cot. He edged through the door. Enough light came from outside to show him that the Algerian was huddled up asleep. There was no question of asking him for help. Ahmed had no personal loyalty to him, any more than to Resnais and Madeleine. He belonged to the PLO. Any attempt to rescue Eileen would have him screaming for the others. Peters killed him with a single blow on the throat as he slept. Then he switched on the light and began to search for the keys to the gates which were in Ahmed's keeping. He hadn't found them when he heard the transmitter call sign. He hesitated. His vision blurred again and he swore, catching on to the table to steady himself. His head was churning and pounding like a cement mixer. He had to think clearly. Resnais would have reported his death in the car accident. Damascus would expect Resnais or Madeleine to answer. He put on the earphones and threw the switch to receive. He gave the call sign in French and used Resnais's name. The message came through and was repeated twice. He knew the formula so well he could decode it in his head. ‘Our contact arrested in Tehran. The operation is blown. Execute the hostage immediately. Evacuate the villa and disperse.' It was signed by the chief of staff of the Palestine People's Army.

Eileen was sobbing in his arms. She was awake when he switched on the light and then opened the cellar door. She had slept lying in a huddle on the floor and woken stiff and cold. When she saw him in the doorway, she cried out. He tried to hush her, but she flung herself on him weeping hysterically. He held her in his arms and begged her to be quiet.

‘They said you were dead,' she repeated. ‘Oh, God, they said you were dead …'

He found it difficult to speak. She was alive and unhurt. It had taken all the effort of which he was capable to find her and suddenly he had nothing left. She found herself supporting him.

‘You're badly hurt,' she said. ‘Oh my darling …'

There was blood on her hands from the head wound which had opened and soaked through the dressing. She held him and wept. She was shivering with shock and chill. Peters made her look at him. He spoke gently but with firmness. It cost him a great effort.

‘Listen to me,' he said. ‘You've got to get away. I've killed Ahmed. The others are asleep. There's nobody around. Take the keys in my pocket. They open the gates. There's a car in the driveway – take it. Go on now.'

Eileen looked at him. He was a dreadful grey colour and quite suddenly his legs gave way and he sat on the ground. He put his hand to his head. She knelt beside him.

‘I had an accident. I'm concussed to hell. I can't do any more. You take the car and get out of here.'

‘No.' She shook her head. She wiped her eyes and face with the back of her hand. ‘No,' she said, ‘I'm not going anywhere without you.'

He turned on her fiercely.

‘For Christ's sake! I've just had the radio order to kill you! Get going!'

He pushed her. Eileen didn't move.

‘I'm not leaving you here. If I'm gone those two will kill you. I stay, my darling, or we go together.'

He looked at her and she saw the glaze in his eyes.

‘I can't make it,' he said slowly. ‘I'm going to black out any minute. I love you. Will you for Christ's sake go now?'

She put her arms around him and drew his head onto her shoulder.

‘I love you too. And I'm not leaving you. We'll just have to wait till you've had a rest. It'll be all right. We'll get away together.'

He tried to say something but his eyes closed and he slid into the dark.

Eileen held him. She kissed him gently. The door was open and she had only to reach into his pocket for the keys. She could be free in a few minutes, provided she did as he wanted and left him behind. There wasn't even a moment when she considered it. She held him close to her and soothed him, although he couldn't hear. She felt very little fear. That had been conquered during the long night. If they were going to die, and she felt instinctively that this must be the end, then they would be together.

Upstairs, in the bed she had shared with Resnais, Madeleine awoke. He was still sleeping, his mouth slightly open, one leg stuck out over the edge of the bed. She had hated everything he did; she hated herself for submitting to it, and the situation which bound her to him. There was a moment, as she looked at him, when she thought of killing him and setting herself free. But it wasn't a real possibility and she gave up the idea. He had taken control. He was a vicious and unpredictable man of whom she was justifiably afraid. Until the mission ended, there was no way she could escape him. She went into her own room and took a shower. To her shame, tears mingled with the water, and they were for Peters. Crying for him reminded her of the prisoner in the cellar. She was the one responsible for everything going wrong. It was Eileen Field who was really to blame for Peters's death. She had soft brown hair which Madeleine imagined tearing out in handfuls. Resnais was not likely to wake up for some time. At least she could go down and see how she had enjoyed being left without food and water for nearly twenty-four hours. She dressed and went downstairs. The light was on in the radio room.

‘Ahmed?' she called out. She looked round the door and saw him lying in the cot. Blood was running out of his mouth. She had seen men killed like that before. She forgot about Eileen Field. She ran to the foot of the stairs and yelled for Resnais.

Logan was met at the airport by a government car flying the Iranian flag. James Kelly came to meet him. There were no customs formalities. He was hurried through by airline officials and James didn't explain anything until they were in the car.

‘The Shah has sent for you,' he said. ‘The Minister of the Court telephoned through this morning. Thank God the plane wasn't late.'

‘What the hell's happened?' Logan demanded. ‘Has anything gone wrong with Imshan?'

James could hardly bring himself to answer.

‘The whole thing has blown up in our faces,' he said. ‘That's why the Shah wants to see you.'

He gestured towards the driver; there was no partition between them.

‘I don't think it's wise to discuss it,' he spoke very quietly. ‘A lot of these Palace staff speak English. Anyway we're there.'

Saadabad Palace was a long, two-storey building of dazzling white stone at Tajrish. It was just visible beyond the towering ornamental gates. The car stopped and both men got out. An army officer came forward and James gave their names, which the officer checked against a list. They walked through onto a wide road, flanked on one side by trees, which led directly to the Palace. It was a very hot, clear morning and the sky behind the white building was a dazzling blue. It was a modern conception, built with a strong Greek classical influence, with a steep flight of wide steps to the entrance and flanked by pillars down each side.

‘What does he want?' Logan demanded. ‘For Christ's sake, what do you mean it's blown up in our faces!'

‘Homsi's been arrested,' James said. ‘He died under torture. Ardalan knows everything.'

‘Jesus,' Logan groaned.

They began the climb up the stairs to the palace entrance. A Palace Chamberlain, dressed in the magnificent blue, gold and white uniform of the Shah's court officials, met them at the door. They crossed a vast white hall, with chandeliers and a few pieces of huge gilded furniture, and were shown into a waiting room. The Chamberlain spoke to James, whom he knew well from previous visits.

‘His Imperial Majesty will see you and Mr Field in a few moments.'

The doors closed behind him. It was the largest room Logan had ever seen and he was not unused to palaces and presidents' official residences. There was an impression of extreme luxury about the furniture, which Kelly's more practised eye identified as French nineteenth-century of the best quality, and there was a huge colourful Qum carpet and alongside it a magnificent Nain, also fresh from the looms. A life-size portrait of the Empress Farah, dressed in ceremonial robes with the priceless Iranian emeralds on her brow, in her ears and round her neck, hung on one of the walls. The impression was one of overpowering wealth newly acquired. The gleam of gilt and mirror and multi-coloured chandeliers was pristine. Age had not had time to mellow anything. It glittered and dazzled like the incredible carpets. It was the showpiece of every self-made millionaire with little taste and a contempt for the antique. Its scale alone subdued criticism.

Logan didn't speak. He was marshalling his forces for the interview. He refused to allow the implications of what James had told him to penetrate beyond the immediate necessity of meeting the Shah. And of all the men in positions of power, Mohammed Riza Pahlavi was likely to be the most formidable. He remembered James's description of him. Cold, supremely intelligent, endowed with a quiet authority. Incapable of being fooled by bluff or intimidated by bluster. Absolute master of his country and his people; holding, by reason of his oil resources, the Western world in supplication at his gate. The Chamberlain came back and held the doors open.

‘His Imperial Majesty is ready to see you. Please come with me.'

They recrossed the hall and were shown into a small room, pleasantly decorated in pale green, with a fine reproduction desk between tall windows overlooking the Palace gardens and a comfortable sofa with two armchairs, separated by a long marble-topped coffee table.

The Shah of Iran came forward and shook hands with them. The Shadow of God, Shahanshah, King of Kings, Light of the Aryans. He was of medium height. Logan was the taller by at least four inches but it gave him no advantage. The face was deeply lined and thin, the hair grey and very curly. He wore slightly tinted glasses which made it difficult to see his eyes. His light grey suit and dull red tie were a contrast to the gorgeous uniforms of the court officials. He smiled at James.

‘How are you, Mr Kelly?'

‘Very well, thank you, sir.'

‘Sit down, Mr Field.' It was very informal; the Shah was relaxed and friendly. He reminded Logan of the head of a giant corporation more than a Middle-Eastern autocrat. ‘First,' the Shah said, ‘let me say that I am sorry we meet in such painful circumstances for you, Mr Field. I am extremely sorry to hear what has happened to your wife. It is a terrible outrage.'

‘Thank you, sir,' Logan said.

‘I understand that you have been negotiating for financial backing in Tokyo.' The Shah crossed one leg over the other.

Kelly understood that the audience would be conducted between him and Logan from now on. The Shah did not deal with subordinates when the chairman was present. He accepted his relegation without resentment. The Shah had enjoyed talking to him; it might be true to say that he had liked James Kelly to the extent of which he was capable of liking any foreigner, but nobody as experienced as James would have presumed upon the friendship. From now on, it was Logan Field who had to answer all the questions.

‘Yes, sir, I did. And I'm happy to say that my negotiations with the Japanese oil importers were followed by further negotiations with the Japanese Government. I saw the Deputy Prime Minister on Thursday. I explained the full potential of the Imshan oil-fields to him and also the terms put forward by Minister Khorvan. He appreciated our dilemma.'

‘I'm sure he also appreciated the strategic advantages,' the Shah interposed.

Logan nodded. He was not used to choosing his words with such care and he found it inhibiting.