Night in Tehran

by Kaplan, Philip

  And what was that supposed to mean? Weiseman inclined his head toward Moshe Regev.

  The Israeli took off his sunglasses, one stem at a time, as if they might crack. He began to clean them, carefully. “Our American friend,” he said, as if coaching the Turk.

  Yilmaz leaned forward. “We invited you, Mr. Weiseman, because the United States is our partner. We need your help to make this come out right.”

  So the table was set. He felt their eyes upon him as he succinctly presented his program. He spoke softly and had their complete attention. It was time for Ajax Two, he told them, but with a central Asian twist. This time the Shah would not return. That was the endgame, and it would be his task to win the Shah’s confidence, and eventually lead him to the plane carrying him away. A bit of a white lie, perhaps, he said, but surely it was in the Shah’s interest and that of all of those around this table. It was, after all, only a matter of time before illness or political circumstance would force the Shah out. Surely a decent exit would be preferable, more dignified for a king than what the ayatollahs had in mind for him.

  But arranging the Shah’s exit, Weiseman added, would depend on keeping his trust while simultaneously and, secretly, finding a reliable successor.

  He detected slight smiles as he spoke.

  Then he sat back and took in the fabled cynicism of the East. The allies of the Shah were ready to sell him out and replace him with a figurehead who would serve them. That was how London and Moscow had deposed his father in 1941. Except now the regional powers, deciding that Britain was out of the game and France was too cozy with the mullahs, were stepping into the vacuum, apparently eager to work with America.

  Good. It fit into his plans to replace the Shah and preempt the ayatollahs. He would gain assets necessary to get the job done—political support from Iran’s neighbors, and military assets should they become necessary—capabilities the student network could not muster. Perhaps a Turkish plane could take the Shah out on the fateful day. Perhaps the neighbors would provide military forces if it came to that. Yes, there would be many tactical details to be sorted out—but he felt a sense of relief that the strategic concept was finally on the table.

  Of course, he knew he shouldn’t trust what they say. If the price was right, Yilmaz would report everything to Hanif. Turkey and Israel would cut each others’ throats for an imagined tactical advantage with the next shah. Whoever he might be.

  When they concluded their discussions, Moshe Regev handed him a card with his name and the simple title, Representative. “Yes, Israel has an embassy to the Shah’s court,” he added. “I see the Shah rather often, when I need to.”

  General Irmak told him that Colonel Yilmaz would be at his disposal, then invited them all for a stroll in his private gardens. Outside, Weiseman spotted a man with owlish glasses in a charcoal-gray suit and green tam-o’-shanter strolling in a grove of trees. Irmak exchanged a brisk handshake with the man, then moved off to sniff the roses.

  Regev kept his distance. He shrugged, as if saying, a necessary evil.

  Mustafa Yilmaz introduced Weiseman to Tariq Aziz, Saddam Hussein’s foreign minister. Aziz steered him away from the others, toward the hedges.

  Weiseman had never been to Baghdad, but he knew about Aziz, Saddam’s odious right-hand man, ready to pronounce whatever messages Saddam put in his mouth. This man was someone who served the Iraqi dictator the way those around Hitler once served the führer.

  Weiseman felt himself tighten up. He knew of the need, sometimes, to deal with abominable people. But Saddam’s man?

  Who set this up? The Turks? Perhaps. The Israelis? Regev the professed chum of the Shah? Unlikely, but who knew? Most likely Trevor, fond of quoting nineteenth-century British statesman Palmerson’s adage that power politics were guided by permanent national interests. Trevor, always keeping his options open, probably saw an Iraqi connection as a gift to David Weiseman.

  Aziz gripped his arm. “I think one day we may be working together.”

  Weiseman nodded and extracted his arm from the Iraqi’s grasp. “Good evening,” he said, and made his way back to the car where Colonel Yilmaz was awaiting him, ready for the flight back to Tehran.

  10

  MOSSAD’S MAN

  WEISEMAN WAS BACK in Tehran by nightfall, mapping out the plan, asking himself hard questions. The hardest one, always, was, Where could it go wrong?

  He had made good progress. He now had allies among the regional powers who knew the territory and their own interests. They shared his distrust of Hanif and had been intrigued by the plan he called Ajax Two. He hadn’t gone into the inner layers of the plan, of course; details were still to be worked out. He let them read into his words what they wanted, doubtless more and less than his true intentions. He hadn’t worked for Trevor for nothing.

  But this was no game. These were sovereign governments that would focus relentlessly on their own individual interests. It was a rough neighborhood, where diplomacy was like brokering a truce among rival street gangs in order to fight the police together. Bizarrely, Weiseman had been introduced to them all by Hanif, the very person they were all ready to betray. Nevertheless, each would—for his own nation’s interest—do all he could to avoid an Iran ruled by Ayatollah Khomeini. They wanted, they needed, America’s help to do so.

  Still, Hanif was dangerous, Weiseman thought. He could find himself in Evin Prison if Hanif got wind of his plans. What could Trevor do about that?

  And then there was the business with Tariq Aziz, hinting at future cooperation but leaving it undefined, deniable for the moment—the diplomatic practice of constructive ambiguity with an Iraqi spin. Weiseman had faced distasteful choices before, but this one bordered, perhaps transgressed, the line of moral turpitude. Did the end justify the means? Wasn’t Saddam worse than the Shah? Wasn’t Aziz worse than Hanif?

  Weiseman knew he was treading close to the edge of the envelope—near the boundary line between Johann’s values and Trevor’s methods. He wondered, how did one make such calculations?

  He knew there was no barometer of morality in this game, but one thing was sure: if this transpired, Saddam’s agent would one day present America with an invoice for payment in kind, perhaps a slice of Iran or an assurance of silence while Saddam liquidated his own dissenters. Or worse.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT EVENING, Weiseman made a phone call from a booth outside his hotel and quickly found the cab with the right number. Sammy grinned to see him again and shot off into the night. It took twenty minutes to reach the brick building tucked away in an alley in North Tehran. He rang the doorbell once. A peephole opened; a blue eye examined his own. Moshe Regev drew him inside.

  Weiseman stared up at the light fixture above their heads, a tired old chandelier, rusty gold trimming utterly lacking in charm. Regev said, “Don’t worry. We swept the room before you arrived. It’s clean.”

  Of course it was, Weiseman thought. The only bugs here would have been those placed by Mossad.

  The Israeli went to a wet bar, returning with a vodka for each of them. Weiseman didn’t ordinarily drink vodka, but he felt he needed to do so in the circumstances. He swallowed it in one shot and felt the liquid burn his throat and stomach. Regev offered him a refill. “No, enough,” Weiseman said.

  Regev led him to a small table and came right to the point. “America put all its chips on the Shah,” he said, “and now he’s called your bet—the way he did in ’53. That’s why your idea—Ajax Two—intrigued me. I shared it with Jerusalem. The prime minister wants to know more.”

  Regev pointed to a map on the wall. “Iran is in our neighborhood. The Shah is our ally. We don’t make a big display of it, but everybody knows. We work together to check the wild beasts in our neighborhood, like Aziz and his master. If Mohammad Reza goes, it won’t be decent moderates who take his place. We remember what happened to Saul.”

  “Saul?”

  “Our king who died at the hands of the Philistines
. The name we used for Reza Shah.”

  Weiseman understood at once. For Israelis, this was an existential matter. It impacted their essential security. Islamists were their new Philistines.

  “Agreed,” he said. “We can’t let that happen here.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Regev said, and gave Weiseman the weary smile he half-expected. It was like talking to Trevor.

  “Listen to me, David. There’ll be madmen like Qadhafi among these ayatollahs, and who knows, one of them may build a nuclear bomb. Can Washington live with that? What will you do when some mullah threatens to destroy Israel? Would you wait until Menachem decides to obliterate Iran first?”

  “He would do that?”

  “You have to ask?”

  Weiseman glanced at the empty glass before him and Regev refilled it. They both swallowed their vodkas simultaneously. Weiseman said, “Then you’re on board.”

  Regev gave him an incredulous look. “David, on board what? We’re a small country. We find the Shah a reliable partner. Hanif, too.”

  “And you know the Shah is mortally ill.”

  Weiseman waited for Regev to respond but got only slightly arched eyebrows, as if the Mossad man wondered how he could imagine the Israelis knew less than the Americans.

  The silence was suffocating.

  He was there to enlist Israeli intelligence and perhaps military assets to beat back an enemy they both found beyond the pale. They were good at this sort of thing, but Regev was guarding his options, wanting to know how the Americans intended to solve the problem.

  Weiseman finally asked, “Okay. What do you suggest we do?”

  “Do? Well, David, you kick this king’s ass, tell him what to do. Or, you replace him—and then, you’d better get it right.”

  * * *

  —

  CARRYING OUT TREVOR’S orders had suddenly become far more complex. Everyone was playing double games. It was no accident that diplomacy was called the second oldest profession. And there was his double game with Françoise.

  From his hotel room, Weiseman peered out at the city. Despite the huge oil resources there were few lights outside; Tehran was covered by a blanket of darkness. Sitting in the dark room, his mind turned over the horrid choices he now faced. His plan was full of trapdoors, vulnerable to all sorts of imponderables, deceptions, and other unknowns. He thought of Trevor and Gramont, of Hanif and the hard men at Ankara, of Moshe Regev who had left no doubt that Israel would act in its own unilateral interest, and of Tariq Aziz, Saddam’s man from Baghdad.

  Who do you trust, he wondered, in a community of spymasters? His father had once warned him you should always keep an eye on your enemies, but above all beware of those who pretend to be your friends. He knew that, when it came down to it, Jimmy Carter wouldn’t want to save the Shah. Surely this was something the Turks and the Israelis, not to mention the Iraqis, also understood.

  And then there was Regev: there was no happy talk with him. No sentiment. Regev was a man scarred by the battles of a lifetime. When Weiseman referred to the alliance of Iranians, Turks, and Israelis that was supposed to guarantee peace and security in the Middle East, Regev had reminded him that there were no Arabs in the arrangement. “Turks are Turks and Iranians are Iranians,” he had said. “Arabs are Arabs.”

  And Israelis?”

  “Ah, Israel.” There was a sad smile. “You see, David, we look after ourselves.” And that’s when Regev had given him that deep brace of reality, the nuclear scenario he’d outlined.

  So, Weiseman understood. There were to be no heroes in this mission, only survivors.

  He got up, switched on a light and walked into the bathroom to wash his face with cold water. He stared in the mirror. Whenever he grappled with a problem beyond his control, Johann would say, “Erfrisch, David!” Freshen up. Focus.

  Returning to the suite, he saw the red light on the phone and called the operator.

  Daud again. “A call for you, Excellency, the American ambassador.” Before Weiseman could say anything, he was holding for Lyman Palmer.

  Trevor had warned him that Palmer was known for guarding his turf. He didn’t like outsiders interfering with his mandate.

  Palmer spoke in a deep, Irish-tinted baritone. “Justin Trevor told me you’d be in my country,” he said. “Did you plan to call on the American ambassador, Weiseman?”

  “It would be my honor, sir.”

  Silence, for maybe ten seconds. “Then I’ll see you the day after tomorrow at six-thirty, at my residence.” Palmer wheezed. “Do you need a car?”

  “No, sir. I’ll get there myself.”

  “Very well, Weiseman. I’ve been told you may have your own agenda.”

  “Sir?”

  “And the room? Trevor asked me to look after you. You are at the Intercon, aren’t you?”

  “Of course, Ambassador. The room…it’s splendid, more than I need.”

  Palmer cleared his throat. “Six-thirty, Sunday evening, then. Goodbye.”

  * * *

  —

  WEISEMAN TURNED ON the television news station and switched the channel to Dubai. A peaceful demonstration coursed through Tehran’s dark streets—young people in casual Western wear, older ones in coats and ties and dresses, or sober traditional Iranian dress. Their signs called on the Shah to open up Evin and let the prisoners out.

  The camera panned through the marchers. He couldn’t spot any signs demanding the end of the monarchy. But it was eerie, a silent procession of those who would be repressed if the Islamists took over.

  Suddenly, the camera stuck on a tall erect man with a thin mustache at the edge of the crowd. Hanif raised his right hand, as if giving a command. The TV screen seemed to crackle in light, flares lit up the parade. Some people froze, most scattered, but every corner was filled with steel-helmeted riot police carrying metal shields and upright batons.

  Rifle shots burst across the screen. Demonstrators fell. The new-model German color TV caught the bodies sagging to the asphalt road, the sticky red flow of blood.

  Hanif, the enforcer, believed he was protecting his shah, but he was doing so from the wrong enemies. His victims today were the good people the Shah would need in order to survive. Hanif’s men mowed them down the way the czar’s police did on that Bloody Sunday in 1905 in St. Petersburg, opening the way to the Russian Revolution. The way those bakers and butchers marching with puffed up chests had seized Berlin Jews and sent them east.

  Weiseman stared in rage at the TV, knowing that Khomeini’s mullahs were watching it as well, all with grim pleasure.

  11

  PALMER & THE SHAH

  AFTER THE GRUELING visit to Turkey and the follow up with Regev, Weiseman spent the next day recovering in the hotel, doing laps in the indoor pool and lifting weights in the gym, studying his Farsi language cards, going over and over his language tapes. He treated himself to an American-style hamburger and prepared himself for Lyman Palmer.

  On Sunday night, down the street from the hotel, he saw the beat-up Pontiac with the long tail fins. Alana’s brother, Shapour, was in the driver’s seat. Weiseman climbed in and gave him an address. The Pontiac stuttered slowly in the maddening Tehran traffic, past countless dull high-rises, and the ever-present piles of uncollected curbside refuse. The late afternoon air had turned frigid. Sleet drew icy designs on the windshield. Peering through the obstructed view, Shapour shook his head. “The defroster, it’s broken. Like this country.”

  They stopped at the stone wall that encircled the ambassador’s residence like a moat around a Persian palace. A security guard, in an outlandish red uniform, a blue cape, leather gloves, and spurred boots, opened the iron gate and frowned at the dirty Pontiac. Weiseman rolled down the window and said his name. The guard snapped a salute, froze for a moment in the cold air of protocol, and accepted Weiseman’s passport. After checking a visitors list in his guard booth, he handed back the passport and said, “I’m afraid you’ll have to alight here, sir. We have no record of thi
s…automobile.”

  Weiseman, bundled up in his overcoat, walked between sculptured hedges coated with evening frost toward a splendid redbrick mansion that was said to be one of the finest American ambassadorial residences in the world. Lyman Palmer was waiting for him in a small parlor with dark green walls and dark wood wainscoting. The ambassador was tall and lean, ascetic in appearance; he stood slightly slouched, hands on hips, and peered at Weiseman from under thick eyebrows as if suspecting his visitor was an intruder.

  “Sir.”

  “Yes, yes, Weiseman. You’d better come in, then. Take a seat, over there on the sofa.”

  Weiseman sank into the cushions, and felt immediately uncomfortable, at a disadvantage. Palmer stood on the plush mauve carpet, examining him, seeking to decipher his purpose. Finally, he picked up a tumbler from the piano and polished off the contents.

  On the piano, Weiseman spotted a gold framed photo of the Shah. He pushed himself out of the cushion and went over. “May I?” he asked and saw Palmer nod. The inscription read: To our trusted friend and brother Lyman, in peace. Mohammad Reza Pahlavi.

  “As a matter of fact,” Palmer said, “the Shah has no friends, only Farah. He sits on a throne of thorns. He’s hated as an autocrat for giving the whip to Hanif and SAVAK, and despised by those of us who know him for his vacillation.”

  Weiseman thought back to when he had first seen the Shah on New Year’s Eve, a mere two months before. Now the man was surrounded by enemies on all sides, the product of many years of tyranny. Yet the American ambassador was saying the Shah was incapable of decisive action.

  Palmer gestured back to the sofa and took a seat in a huge leather chair—a throne of his own. There was a chair on the other side of a coffee table, facing Palmer. “May I?” Weiseman said, and sat. Better, he thought, and pushed himself back into the chair.