Night in Tehran

by Kaplan, Philip

  Palmer rang a little silver bell on the table, and the butler brought two tumblers filled nearly to the brim. They each took one, and Palmer said, “Santé,” then downed the whiskey. Weiseman sipped his. The butler returned with a silver dish with Beluga caviar on ice. Weiseman picked up the little mother of pearl spoon and enjoyed the tiny black eggs that burst in his mouth with the essence of the Caspian Sea.

  Go easy, he cautioned himself. This ambassador does not wish you well.

  “I’ve read your cables, sir,” he began cautiously. “They didn’t convey such a dark sense of the Shah’s dilemma.”

  Palmer was tapping his fingers on the side of his chair, still eying him. Weiseman decided he’d have to ask Trevor whether the two of them had had some kind of confrontation.

  “Why would I tell them that?” Palmer finally said, enunciating his words distinctly. “Washington does not know how to digest bad news. What would they do with it?”

  What indeed, Weiseman thought. Probably file away the report in a circular file.

  “Are you saying the Shah is finished?” he asked.

  Palmer picked up his glass and found it empty. He eyed the caviar and shrugged. The butler, hovering, edged forward with refills, but Palmer waggled an index finger of dismissal.

  “I didn’t say that, nor would I say that even if I believed it.”

  “I’m lost,” Weiseman said.

  “Are you, Weiseman? No, I think not.”

  Palmer got up from his chair and walked back to the piano. He lifted the framed photo of the Shah. “My pathetic friend,” he said derisively, then put the photo back down and started out of the room. “Come along. If you’re truly lost, I’ll help you find your way.”

  Weiseman rose and followed him through the archway and past the butler still standing there with two more filled glasses, into a study lined with books and illuminated by recessed amber lighting that cast an eerie glow around the room. The ambassador led him to one section after another of his collection: Vietnam, Guatemala, Congo. “That’s where I served our Republic,” he said, pointing to a raft of books in Spanish and English on Cuba. “This was my first posting, where I lost my illusions. Fidel and Che sent Batista packing, in the name of liberty, then they snuffed out the last spark of it.”

  Well, thought Weiseman, at least we have something in common, though it was Prague where I lost my innocence. Under Trevor.

  “So here we are with a dying autocrat,” Palmer said, pointing at a biography of the Shah. “These absolute rulers lose all sense of why they’re there. They have nowhere else to go, so they stay and stay, clinging to power till they’re brought down.”

  “And what do we do in the meantime?” Weiseman asked. “What do you do?”

  “We tell the Shah we support him, all the way, until we support his successor. I did that in Saigon, with Diem, until Washington arranged to have him…removed from office.”

  Removed from office—what a quaint way to describe Diem’s assassination, Weiseman thought. He said, “You would let the mullahs take over this country?”

  Palmer elevated his eyebrows as if to express his disappointment. “Weiseman, it’s their country,” he said. “It doesn’t do to get emotional. We Americans think we must solve all the world’s problems. We can’t. Washington won’t admit that, of course. We’re the superpower; we’re America.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, you meet the bazaari, the middle class, the professionals. There must be a capable business executive among all those Iranians who hate the Shah. There must be men with the ability to run a modernizing society efficiently. Isn’t that what we need here?”

  Palmer nodded to the butler and accepted another tumbler, which he dispatched. He shook his head vehemently. “I’m afraid it’s their problem. We’ll live with the outcome.”

  Weiseman felt a wave of disgust at Palmer. He’d been in the East too long, had drunk in the spirit of resignation that pervaded this place. He’d given up. Trevor should pull him out.

  “It will be the mullahs,” Palmer suddenly said. “We’ll say we support them. We’ll say we’ll work with them.”

  “And if they tell us to go to the devil?”

  “Then we’ll go, and let them sink with their stinking nostrums until they call for us to return and bail them out. And they will. And we’ll return…on our own terms, I hope.”

  * * *

  —

  IN THE END, Lyman Palmer surprised Weiseman by inviting him to accompany him the next day for his weekly Wednesday morning audience with the Shah. This would be his first time with the man Trevor had sent him here to displace. He hadn’t planned to meet the Shah; now he’d be dealing with a human being, not just the image conjured up by his friends and enemies.

  At the palace, Weiseman was surprised to meet a mere shadow of the regal figure who had gotten his way with Jimmy Carter on New Year’s Eve. His face was gaunt with worry; he had lost weight. His martial posture had given way to a slight stoop, like the slouch that afflicted Lyman Palmer.

  The Shah granted Weiseman a sad smile. “So,” he said, “Director Trevor has sent you here to see if we will overcome the present difficulties, Lyman Palmer and I.”

  Weiseman turned toward Palmer, but the ambassador stared straight ahead, as if he were merely a silent observer. The fierce turf warrior now seemed all too content to let Weiseman occupy his space.

  “Your Majesty,” Weiseman said, “I bring you greetings from Director Trevor. America wants you to act, to—”

  “To do what, Mr. Weiseman? Our friend Lyman assures me of American support every Wednesday at this hour, but he offers no advice. He tells me I am the Shah, so I must decide.”

  “And so you are, and you must do, Your Majesty,” Palmer said, suddenly stirring to life.

  “Yes, Lyman, thank you for that. And you, Mr. Weiseman, what message do you bring from Washington? Do you have something more specific to offer?”

  “This is my first trip to Iran, Your Majesty, but I hear many things around the city. The mullahs are stoking religious fervor since Moharram, since—”

  “Since your president’s unfortunate remark on New Year’s Eve. Yes, statesmen should not flatter each other in such an inept manner.”

  “Frankly, sir, Washington believes your security services are making things worse. We hear in the bazaars and universities that many who fear the mullahs are nevertheless turning against the Shah.”

  The Shah listened calmly as Weiseman urged him to reach out to his people.

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” Palmer interjected, “these are merely anecdotal impressions of one who speaks no Farsi, who has been in this country only a short time, who is not well acquainted with all the forces that are influential here.”

  The Shah shook his head. “Is that true, Lyman? Or is Mr. Weiseman speaking as a keen observer with a fresh eye on our present situation? Perhaps he has been investigating our city in some old, dirty car with Iranian friends who speak our language. Or perhaps he is simply offering us today the views of the CIA.”

  Weiseman felt a chill at the reference to Shapour’s Pontiac. The Shah fixed him with a stare that said he knew more than he revealed, that SAVAK kept him well briefed.

  Weiseman hesitated for an instant, then said, “Your Majesty, the best I can do is refer to a book that you may wish to consider. It’s called The Leopard, and it’s the story of how change came to Sicily late in the last century. A young man dares to say to the prince something we all might do well to consider now: ‘If we want things to stay as they are, things will have to change.’ ”

  The Shah permitted himself a bittersweet smile. “I have read this book,” he said. “So tell me, my friend, what would you have us change?”

  “Trust your people, Your Majesty. There are too many of them simply to be rounded up. And there are educated people who share the aspirations of your White Revolution and who fear the mullahs. You need to give them an alternative. Reach out to them. Appeal for their support.”

&n
bsp; “Appeal?” The Shah spoke the word as if it were an epithet. “Mr. Weiseman, a Persian monarch does not beg his people. The Shah of Iran is the embodiment of his people. We are one. My people will follow me.” The Shah stood to signal that the audience was over. “You tell that to Director Trevor.”

  * * *

  —

  “EXACTLY WHAT DID you think you were doing in there?” Palmer exploded as the Cadillac steered out of the palace gates.

  “He seemed lifeless, as though he’s lost his will to survive. All right, I shouldn’t have said appeal—but maybe they would give him a chance rather than surrendering to the mullahs.”

  Palmer was only inches away in the back seat. “You really are rather naïve, aren’t you, Weiseman. He is almost lifeless. His doctors give him two years to live. At most! He knows it’s too late, that after all these years there are no more chances. And you really need to accept that.”

  “So we walk away?” Weiseman asked. “We let them turn Iran into a repressive theocracy? Khomeini will attack our interests across the Middle East. He’ll carry the sword of revolution against his neighbors, lead the battle against Israel. And you’re content to sit and let it happen?”

  Palmer was silent. Weiseman knew he had said too much to a powerful ambassador who wouldn’t forget or forgive. A diplomat shouldn’t indulge himself this way. But the man’s indifference was infuriating. And he felt a tremor of satisfaction that he had told it as it was.

  The Cadillac sped up and darted through an open gate, past redbrick walls, into the embassy complex, into the cold basement. Palmer climbed out of the car and pointed to an embassy Ford. “I’ve done my duty to Trevor,” he said. “That car will drive you to your hotel. Don’t give Hanif an excuse to pick you up. I won’t be there to help if they toss you in Evin.”

  Weiseman absorbed the warning as Lyman Palmer disappeared behind the doors of the parking garage elevator, then watched it bear him to the office at the top of America’s diplomatic fortress.

  12

  A VISIT

  THE NEXT MORNING, the ringing of Weiseman’s phone awoke him from a deep sleep.

  “It’s Françoise,” she said, her voice as clear as if she were down in the lobby. “We need to talk, but not here. There’s a private club. A Citroën will wait for you at noon, at the hotel entrance. The driver’s name is Luic.”

  He hadn’t seen Françoise since she disappeared from the hotel with Jacques Schreiber, the night after the New Year’s Eve celebration at the palace. He realized he was relieved to hear from her.

  The French driver arrived at the front door of the hotel at twelve noon, sharp. Weiseman eased into the back seat of the dark blue Citroën and they sped away. The driver said nothing as they went across town to a district Weiseman didn’t know. Twenty-five minutes later, the car pulled up in front of an ordinary, gray, two-story brick building, and Luic turned off the key. Weiseman stepped out and looked around, but there was no one to be seen on the street.

  He climbed the three steps to the front door and, unbidden, the door opened and Françoise was there, looking pale and uncharacteristically uncertain. He stepped forward and greeted her with air-kisses.

  “Come, David,” she said. “There’s a small park where we can talk.”

  She slipped her arm in his and led him silently a couple of blocks away, into a secluded park where they sat side by side on a green wooden park bench.

  He began to say how pleased he was to see her again, but she spoke quickly. “There is something I need to clarify with you. Laurent summoned me to meet with him. He had received a report that made him angry, that made him suspect your intentions. I listened to what he said and told him I would take care of it. Chérie, Laurent wants to know what you were doing in Ankara.”

  He had dreaded this moment. He knew he couldn’t tell her the entire truth. She would then be obliged to tell Gramont about Ajax Two, the plan to keep the ayatollahs out of power.

  “There was intel from Trevor,” he said. “Elements of the Turkish military considering options that could upset the delicate diplomacy in Iran. I was asked to visit Ankara, to get things under control. Of course, they denied it all.”

  “Of course,” she said. He could tell she didn’t believe him. “C’est tout? That’s all?”

  It was true as far as he told her, and the least he could say. He was determined not to lie to her, and he had cleared it with Trevor in case Gramont called to check up.

  “Of course,” he said, “you can never exclude some majors and colonels embroidering the story to make themselves look important.”

  “David, you expect me to rely on this?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “We can’t always share everything, but we can each accomplish our mission if we work together when we can.”

  Françoise stared at him, mulling it over, conceding nothing.

  “How about this,” he said. “We each go about our separate duties, me reporting to Trevor and you to Gramont. But privately, we’ll be a committee of two. Trevor once told me no effective intel operation could be run without at least two confidential agents, protecting each other’s backs.”

  “I’ve got to go,” she said, rising off the bench. “Laurent wants me back in Paris tonight. I need to speak with Alain de Rose.”

  He knew she hadn’t agreed to anything, but neither had he.

  But there weren’t even air-kisses goodbye this time.

  13

  REACHING THE RADICALS

  AFTER THE DEPRESSING encounters with Palmer and the Shah, Weiseman decided it was time to explore whether an accommodation with the mullahs was possible, before it was too late. He had no illusions on that score, and he knew that Hanif’s men would be watching him even more closely once Hanif reviewed the taped transcript of his conversation with the Shah. And he recalled Serge Klein warning him about reaching out to the mullahs. But there was no choice; he had to play all the cards in the deck and keep all his options open.

  Meanwhile: Françoise. He knew she was deciding how much she could trust him. She was a thorough intelligence professional, weighing the options, capable of compartmentalizing the personal and the professional, like him. Perhaps he should call her, he thought.

  Instead, Weiseman called the Lebanese lawyer she’d recommended, the one she had said could get him a meeting with Khomeini’s people. Pierre Jubril told him he had already spoken to Françoise, and he was finalizing the arrangements. Leave it all to him, Jubril said. He’d call Weiseman back with the time and place.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS ALREADY DARK, the dirty skies cold and windy, by the time Weiseman approached the square in Tehran’s Jewish quarter where Jubril told him they’d meet. Weiseman strode past soot-stained windows, through a stench of home-fire cooking, and into the desolate square, wondering why the mullahs Jubril was supposed to introduce him to would choose this place to meet. Weiseman was flying blind, and hating it.

  A man in a sidewalk stall pointed him to a bookstore, and Weiseman crossed the street. Once in the bookstore he asked again, then walked through the back door and found himself in an inner courtyard. He spotted a bench on the left side, under a big leafy tree, and sat down. It was seven fifteen. He was a quarter hour late. He hoped Jubril hadn’t left without him.

  After a while, the back door of the bookshop opened. The proprietor came out clutching a paperback and walked right by without a word. No one else was in the square. It was cold. Weiseman, in a light topcoat, checked his watch. It was 7:25.

  The wind started blowing through the trees and a branch fell from above, landing in his lap. He picked it up and tossed it on the ground, brushed off his trousers. Thinking again, he stood and picked up the branch, wondering if perhaps a message were on it? But there was nothing.

  He stared into the darkening night, wondering if he had been set up. A streetcar could be faintly heard beyond the courtyard, clanging once, twice, a third time.

  He checked his watch agai
n: 7:40. It began to rain, a cold drizzle. A door closed, so slowly he could hear it squeak. Then the square was dead silent. He cursed, blamed himself for not taking an umbrella, and stood up from the bench, heading for the bookstore. He trotted up the stairs and turned the handle.

  Locked.

  He knocked on the door, calling out for someone to open up. Down the steps, he peered through the windows, but no one was there, so he jogged to the other side of the square, staring through the dark, but saw no doors. Who was this Jubril, he wondered, this champion of leftist causes? Why had Françoise entrusted his security to this Lebanese lawyer? And where was she?

  Worried, ready to cut his losses, he edged his way under the dark arcades, searching for a way out.

  He heard footsteps.

  A hand gripped his shoulder.

  Through his peripheral vision he glimpsed a black leather glove and a pair of thick, dark glasses before a hood slipped over his head.

  He turned, putting his strength into it, before it was too late.

  A second set of ungloved hands forced his hands behind his back, and a rough rope tightened around his wrists, cutting into his skin.

  A guttural voice said, “Come with us.”

  * * *

  —

  ONE OF THE men smelled of onions; the other smoked a cigarette. The windows of the car were closed. Weiseman was squeezed between the two men in the back seat as the car moved slowly in the city traffic. The driver grunted in an odd dialect. He knew a bit of Farsi but didn’t recognize what they were saying, thought it might be a dialect.

  The car broke out of traffic and accelerated, apparently leaving the city. “Where is Pierre?” he demanded. The smoker said something in Farsi, then, “Shut up.”

  The car swung around a curve, and he felt a blast of cold wind and rain as the driver apparently lowered his window, then the sound of coins hitting an automatic coin trough. A gate creaked. The window squeaked back up, cutting off the fresh air. The hood was oppressive; he was claustrophobic and found it really hard to take. Slouching down in his seat, he tried to surrender to the monotonous rhythm of the road.