“Good evening, Prime Minister.”
“I’m here to meet with some Iranian friends of Israel,” the Israeli leader said. “Moshe has asked me to see you. He says you have a concept, but do you have a workable plan? We can’t afford to look like fools, or destroy our relationship with Iran.”
“I’m ready to offer the Shah safe passage to Rome, as in the first Ajax operation. We’re reviewing possible successors but haven’t yet—”
The Israeli interrupted. “There are many figureheads available. Each has his own price.”
So Weiseman asked for the prime minister’s advice on the generals and the businessmen, on Hanif, and last of all on Ayatollah Seyyed.
“The generals are too timid,” the Israeli said tersely, pushing those outsized black horn-rimmed glasses back up his nose. “But this Seyyed, that’s interesting. Will he do it? Can he?”
“We’ll help, but—”
“David,” Regev said. “Menachem needs the details.”
Weiseman laid it out. Supply of arms and air cover. Logistics. Propaganda. Political action. Sabotage. Some of it real, arranged through Trevor and Sims, much of it still on the drawing board.
“I see,” Begin said and rose to his full five foot four. He was a tiny man from Poland who had survived the Holocaust and looked more like a rabbi than a statesman entrusted with the fate of the State of Israel. “We’ll do what we can. We know the Persians better than you. We have assets here. You’ll work with Moshe.”
“Thank you, sir. I will. We intend to count on your assets.”
“Don’t thank me.” Begin removed his eyeglasses, took the pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket, and cleaned them slowly, inspecting them in the light above his head before putting them back on and eyeing Weiseman. “We act in our national interests. So understand, Ayatollah Seyyed can not be installed as Imam of Iran on the wings of the Israeli air force. If you want him to replace the Shah, that’s America’s job. I hope you’re up to it.”
“Actually, Prime Minister, your security is involved more than ours. It’s a team effort: you and us and the Turks. We’ll have to do it together.”
* * *
—
WEISEMAN SAW THE Shah the next morning to prepare him for the inevitable. This time, he offered no reassurances.
“It’s a matter of time, Your Majesty. We’re working on a compromise. We’ve arranged a trip to Rome for you and Empress Farah.”
“Just as before.”
“We hope.”
“So this time you will be in Kim Roosevelt’s shoes.”
“They are big shoes to fill, sir.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” Weiseman repeated.
It was surreal. The elaborate French gold clock on the desk was set ten minutes ahead of time; on its base perched a pair of owls, omens of good and evil, like the djinn, the evil spirits.
But the Shah seemed almost relieved. He went through the motions, asked whether his son, Reza, might move up, the way he had. “If necessary…you understand.”
“It’s under consideration.”
“You’ll let me know when.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
* * *
—
IT WAS 2: 00 a.m. at the church near the Italian embassy. Seyyed wore a black turtleneck sweater and blue jeans. They were alone, watched over only by a one-eyed sexton.
“There will be a change,” Weiseman said. “Soon.”
“Indeed. And what do you want of me?”
“My president is a religious man,” Weiseman said, “but he is also sensitive to American interests. I need to know what you wanted to tell me, before General Hanif interrupted us.”
Seyyed plucked a cigarette from a black leather case and lit up. He appeared to think it over, then began to speak of his growing up near Qom, his wild days in Rome and Paris before settling down as a mullah. He talked about how he became an ayatollah, the clerical discipline that lay heavily on his spirit, about how Ruhollah Khomeini told him often of his holy mission. Martyrs for missions, he said, made him uneasy.
“And if Khomeini takes over?” Weiseman asked.
“His whole life is his mission: to restore the caliphate to Iran.”
“With himself as caliph.”
“Of course. But he would rely on his acolytes to run the country—Sheikh Khalaji, Guido Montana, and others. The revolutionary guards will insist on harsh measures to preserve the revolution.”
Weiseman always assumed a reign of terror if the ayatollahs took over, but confirmation from Seyyed, from the inside, shook him.
“And you?” Weiseman asked.
Seyyed didn’t hesitate. “In the madrassa, we were taught there was no wavering between right and wrong. Ruhollah Khomeini accepted that literally.”
“And you?” Weiseman repeated.
“Perhaps I was corrupted in Rome and Paris.”
“Some of the greatest kings once were corrupted priests.”
“It’s true,” Seyyed said. “My best friend in school is now a general. He taught me that timing is everything, that you have to strike at exactly the right time.”
“Well then,” Weiseman said. “You asked me what we want of you. We want you to save this country. I’ll be back to you soon with the details.”
Seyyed nodded, committing himself to nothing but open to what might come next. Even ayatollahs needed to concern themselves with their security.
“Inshallah,” Weiseman said, thinking, this may be our Persian prince.
Iran’s future could depend on whether there was sufficient lust for power in the priest’s soul, and whether he’d get the timing right.
* * *
—
THAT EVENING, WEISEMAN called Hanif to keep him on the wrong track. He would tell him his moment of glory was imminent. Hanif wouldn’t trust him—things had gone too far for that, but seeing the prize before him might induce enough self-deception to freeze him long enough.
He was told that the general was at Evin.
When he called the prison, a male clerk put him on hold, then came back on the line and said General Hanif was busy. There were reports of insurrection, threats to His Majesty. The general was preparing to round up the traitors.
Weiseman waited a quarter hour. Then, determined to reach Hanif, he called Hannah’s direct line. A woman answered, a voice he hadn’t heard before. She asked who was calling, then said, “The director is unavailable.”
He asked to speak with Hanif’s personal secretary.
“Ah, you must mean Hannah,” said the new voice. “She isn’t here anymore.”
20
MASSACRE
FOR WEISEMAN, THE TURNING POINT began when he heard rumors that mundane requests for permission to stage rallies for the Eid al-Fitr holiday, celebrating the end of Ramadan, were being turned down by wary bureaucrats under Hanif’s thumb. But the demonstrations were staged anyway, and the government did not intervene.
Sensing weakness, the mullahs called for a general strike and confrontation with the government. Students and businessmen joined in; then so did working people. Street assemblies took place every night. Cries flew from every rooftop—Allahu Akhbar! God is great!
The Shah’s new prime minister, a sad-looking, bald-headed man with a lisp, appeared on television and imposed the martial law decree that Hanif had worked on through the night.
Weiseman knew what that meant. Hard men did their work at night and presented the bitter fruits of their labor at sunrise.
At midnight, he received a message from Mahmoud, the brave young man who had infiltrated the mosques and was his contact point with dissident priests. Weiseman hadn’t seen him in two weeks. You must take care, Mahmoud warned: “Montana is telling Sheikh Khalaji that you’re a poison weed that needs to be plucked. It’s very dangerous for you now.”
Weiseman, recalling his run-in with Montana during his visit to Sheikh Khalaji, followed up by assigning a trusted embassy guar
d to shadow the young man whenever he went out.
By the morning of September 8, twenty thousand people were congregating in downtown Tehran for a religious rally. Weiseman stood within sight of Jaleh Square, recalling a soggy day in Prague’s Old Town Square, waiting for the Red Army to crush the Prague Spring. Now, ten years later, he observed uniformed army troops and SAVAK paramilitary amassing on the edges of the square, and he felt a similar foreboding.
Through a bullhorn, a harsh voice shouted in Farsi to the crowd: Disperse! Go home!
No one moved.
And then a fusillade was unleashed upon the crowd, and the first line of demonstrators went down. Shouts and screams filled the air. Weiseman told himself he couldn’t just stand there while the mayhem unfolded before his eyes. It was a sin, Johann had told him, to hide in the face of murder, to remain uninvolved, and thus be a silent coconspirator.
Despite the danger, he weaved his way across the bloodstained cobblestones, stepping around fallen bodies, searching for any of the young people who had joined the network. The smell of death hung like a macabre cloud over the square. Before him, a weeping woman hugged a child—her child—whose face was shattered beyond recognition.
A bomb exploded, seemingly only a few feet away, and Weiseman staggered off to find shelter in a café on the fringe of the square. Falling into a wicker chair, it took him a moment to overcome the ringing in his ears and notice the man who had literally crawled up to him, whispering “Mr. American” before ceasing to move. Weiseman felt as if his head might explode. He bent down and closed the eyelids of Hashemi, the man at the port who, because of him, decided to change sides to make a better Iran.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, SHAPOUR arrived at Weiseman’s hotel, bandages covering his entire head, only the fierce coal eyes peering out of the slots the doctors left so he could see.
On television, Hanif stood tall in his general’s uniform and recited government estimates that placed the casualties of the demonstrations at 122 killed and 1,000 to 1,500 wounded. Shapour cursed at the TV set. According to the doctor who had saved his eyes, there were 300 to 400 killed, and at least ten times that number wounded.
Outside, Weiseman heard a commotion and threw open his windows. Allahu Akhbar!
Another demonstration was proceeding unimpaired on the streets below. A line of high priests passed in front of the hotel. Weiseman spotted Ali Amin, his right fist shooting into the air, no longer the timid Texas professor. Ayatollah Seyyed strode alongside him, waving a green Islamist flag. Weiseman wondered, what was his Persian prince up to?
On the building across the street, the images of the Shah and Empress were gone, replaced by the fierce, penetrating gaze of Ayatollah Khomeini.
* * *
—
“YOU’RE NEEDED.” IT was an hour later, a woman’s squeaky voice. The operator must have connected her to his hotel room.
“Who is this?” he blurted out.
“Virginia.”
“Who?”
“Not who, where. You understand?”
It was CIA. He told her he understood.
“All right, then. I have a message. See Zed. Then go back to Paris. Goodbye.”
This was from Trevor, now concerned that Weiseman’s life might be at stake. Justin only intervened in extreme circumstances.
Weiseman called Daud at once.
“Excellency?”
“I’m leaving for Paris tonight, Daud. The 11:00 p.m. Air France flight. Can you arrange—”
“Of course, Excellency, at your command. Consider it done.”
* * *
—
STILL IN THE sport shirt and khaki pants he’d had on in Jaleh Square, Weiseman pulled on a windbreaker and dark sunglasses, took the back stairs, and slipped by the reception desk. He strolled down the hill and, amazingly, noticed no tail. Maybe Daud had passed the word: don’t worry, he’s on his way out.
At the foot of the hill, he hailed a taxi and told the driver to head toward the American embassy. Ten minutes later he got out in front of the safe house. He went in and saw Nouri, washing plates and beer mugs, drying them meticulously, one by one. The effect was hypnotic.
There was a shuffle of feet behind an amber drape that Weiseman hadn’t seen earlier. A hand parted the drape. He walked through, into a dark corridor.
“Come.” She turned on her heels and he followed her slowly, into a room lit by several blue and gold mosaic lanterns. The walls were covered with purple velvet. Madame Zed wore a widow’s black dress. Her gray hair was covered by a simple black cloth scarf. The colored lights sparkled on her rimless glasses.
“My name is Marion Parsi,” she said. “My late husband worked for the Agency. Mr. Trevor asked me to advise you regarding your trip to Paris.”
On the table, between them, lay a card with the face of Ayatollah Khomeini. “The Iraqi Mukhabarat has taken Khomeini from his house in Najaf. Saddam will be glad to see him gone.”
“Where is Khomeini now?”
“Laurent Gramont was here, in Tehran. He convinced the Shah it was better to have the Ayatollah five thousand miles away than across the border in Iraq.”
Weiseman was incredulous. Did the Shah actually think Khomeini will stay in Paris? If so, Gramont had conned him with a ruse worthy of Justin Trevor. Or, was it Françoise?
Marion Parsi picked up a remote lying on the table. For a few seconds the television screen blinked snow, then he could see images of the dour ayatollah in black robes and distinctive black, round turban at Basra, where the frontiers of Iraq, Iran, and Kuwait come together. An Iraqi border patrol circled about Khomeini and guided him to a waiting van.
* * *
—
THE TAXI FROM Orly took him directly to Alain de Rose’s Sûreté office in the massive Concierge that dominated the Île de la Cité. De Rose was waiting for him in his office, standing before a window with a commanding view of the Seine and the gothic spires and flying buttresses of Notre Dame. Down river, the outlines of the Mosque de Paris were half-concealed in the evening fog.
De Rose drew deeply on a Gauloise, then stubbed it out in a Cinzano ashtray. He pulled the drapes shut and took a seat at his small desk piled high with dossiers. In the dim light, Weiseman thought it resembled a policeman’s office in a provincial town, although de Rose’s white Van Dyck beard, sunken cheekbones, and gravely voice lent the scene a surreal air. De Rose was the French security official who impressed him the most.
“So now you’ll have to decide what to do, David,” de Rose said.
The door opened and Laurent Gramont walked in. Weiseman had been hoping Françoise would be with him. But she wasn’t.
“When are you bringing him out?” he asked wearily.
“Soon,” de Rose said, glancing toward Gramont, who simply nodded.
“And then?”
“Then we’ll see,” Gramont said. “It’s really not up to us, you know.”
“The Shah has to fix this himself,” de Rose explained. “Unless you Americans do it for him again.” He gave Weiseman a searching look, as if offering him a last chance to stop the plan Gramont had set in motion.
“Exactly,” Gramont chimed in. “How many times do you save him?”
“So we get Khomeini,” Weiseman protested, “and the fanatics instead—”
“Oh, no,” Gramont interrupted. “We don’t. The Persians do.”
“And our interests?” Weiseman demanded.
Gramont sighed. “Tell him, Alain.”
De Rose spoke in his gruff voice. “I told you. Either you preempt and install a successor, as you did in ‘53, or you bow to the inevitable and see what good can be made to come of it. That’s what it comes down to.”
Alain was correct; you act or you live with the consequences.
All right, Weiseman thought, it hadn’t happened yet. But the moral abasement of it all enraged him. “You mean appeasement,” Weiseman shot back. “Put your money on Khomeini and the
mob he’ll bring with him to Tehran. Sell out the decent Iranians. Well, you’re good at that kind of thing.”
Gramont shrugged dismissively. “Call it what you like. Nations do what they must.”
“And the Iranian people? It’s the twentieth century, not the Middle Ages.”
“Well, it’s up to them,” Gramont said.
Weiseman walked to the window, stared silently at the Seine, then turned back to them. “And you, Alain. How long do you think it will take the Iranians to grow out of it?”
De Rose turned to the dossiers on his desk, acknowledging defeat but refusing to validate their cynicism.
“As long as it takes,” Gramont said softly. “It took twenty-six years from our revolution until Napoleon was gone. It’s been twenty-six years since you Americans brought Pahlavi back from Rome. Be patient.” He smiled. “Give them time for their passions to cool. They’ll see how much they need us. How could they possibly get along without us?”
* * *
—
EXHAUSTED AFTER THE long flight, or maybe more so by the meeting with Gramont, Weiseman stopped outside the building for a moment, then walked down along the river, toward the location where the Bastille had been, the spot where the French Revolution had begun two-hundred years before. He passed by the Mosque de Paris and his senses froze at the scene of young boys playing soccer, whooping it up, happy, fearing nothing. He stood there watching the soccer game, so different from the one he’d watched in Tehran months ago. Sweet young demoiselles floated by, turning their heads shyly at the boys who were playing out their dreams…while Iranians began the decisive phase of their worst nightmare.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, HE phoned the private line at Langley, and “Virginia” patched him through.
“I have only a moment,” Trevor said. “They’re rather unsettled in the White House.”
“Everything is lined up, Justin. I’ve made commitments. I need a final go on Ajax Two.”
Night in Tehran Page 17