Whirlwind

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IN THE ZAGROS MOUNTAINS: SUNSET. Now the sun touched the horizon and the man reined in his horse tiredly, glad that the time for prayer had come. Hussain Kowissi was a powerfully built Iranian of thirty-four, his skin light and his eyes and beard very dark. Over his shoulder was a Soviet AK47 assault rifle. He was bundled against the cold and wore a white turban and travel-stained dark robes with a rough, nomad Kash’kai sheepskin jacket belted over them, and well-used boots. Because his ears were muffled he did not hear the distant scream of the approaching jet helicopter. Behind him his weary pack camel tugged at the halter, impatient for food and rest. Absently he cursed her as he dismounted.

The air was thin at this height, almost eight thousand feet, and cold, very cold, a heavy snow on the ground that the wind took into drifts, making the way slippery and treacherous. Below, the little-known track curled toward distant valleys, at length to Isfahan where he had been. Ahead the path wound dangerously upward through the crags, then to other valleys facing the Persian Gulf and to the town of Kowiss where he had been bom, where he now lived and from which he had taken his name when he had become a mullah. He did not mind the danger or the cold. The danger felt clean to him as the air was clean.

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