Night in Tehran

by Kaplan, Philip

  “About?”

  “A delegation of business leaders came here last week, with my minister of finance. They wanted me to modernize the economy. They suggested that I introduce reforms. They had no idea about my White Revolution. And after all I’ve done for education…”

  “Your Majesty. Perhaps they mean—”

  “General Hanif was here, just now. He asked me to appoint him prime minister. He asked for a free hand to govern under martial law.”

  The Shah crossed his legs, reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette and lit it. “You don’t think Hanif can be controlled, David, do you?”

  “I’ll be frank with you, Your Majesty. It would be the end of your reign.”

  “Yes, yes, Empress Farah said the same thing. I thought about that, but something must be done. There’s a revolution brewing, so I really have no choice. I’ll announce the new military government in the morning, after you inform President Carter.”

  “Sir—”

  “No, David. Not Hanif; I’ve just dismissed him from all his posts. There will be a new man heading SAVAK. You see, I’ve taken your advice.”

  Weiseman wondered if he’d informed Hanif that he was following his advice as he watched Mohammad Reza Pahlavi snuff out his cigarette in a crystal dish inlaid with gold. “I won’t let the military crush my people,” the Shah said. “Gramont assured me he’ll keep a close eye on Khomeini. I’m preparing reforms now…for my son to carry out.”

  “Your Majesty, may I speak candidly?”

  “You always do.”

  Weiseman looked up to see Empress Farah. She wore a white silk dress, a diamond choker at her throat, but her tiny body barely filled the dress. She, too, had shrunk physically from what she had formerly been.

  “And you must always do so,” she added. “My husband must hear the truth. It’s such a stranger in this place. In the palace, the Shah is told what his advisors think he wants to hear.”

  It’s the same in the Oval Office, Weiseman thought, and saw the Shah look at his wife tenderly, for the first time in his presence revealing personal emotion. She evidently was his rock, the one he appeared to cling to for what strength he had left.

  “Go ahead, David,” the Shah said. The Empress stood behind him, the consort with her hand reassuringly on his shoulder.

  “When we met before, sir, I urged you to reach out to your people.”

  “Yes, I’ve done that. The White Revolution—it’s my legacy to them, my bequest.”

  “Reza,” the Empress said, all pretense gone now. “Listen to what David has to tell you.”

  “That’s just it, Your Majesty.” Weiseman continued, “It’s not your bequest. It’s their right. Your people want to decide these things for themselves. They want the Majles to be a true parliament. They want to make their own mistakes, their own reforms. When you make all the decisions, they have no stake in them, no investment in the future you’re mapping out for them.”

  “No!” The Shah was red in the face. “My subjects aren’t ready. They lack the education. This is Iran, not rural Virginia. They’ll be seduced by Khomeini, this Velayat-e-Faqih, this fake philosopher king who will give them Sharia law.”

  Weiseman shook his head but saw the glimmer of understanding in Farah’s eyes.

  “Don’t you see?” the Shah said, breathing hard now. “It’s either Khomeini or me. It’s either throwing out everything I’ve done for thirty-seven years or repression by the fanatical ayatollahs and their thugs. And I—”

  The Shah clutched his side and grimaced in pain. Weiseman rose to assist him, but the Empress was at his side, pouring water from a sterling silver pitcher into a crystal glass, handing him a tablet to swallow. The Shah’s head rested on his wife’s slight breast. He closed his eyes.

  “Is he…”

  The eyes opened. “Yes, David, I’m alive. But you see, I’m trapped; my country is about to descend into a long night.”

  The Shah pushed himself up, and Farah helped him from the chair, then slowly led her husband from his throne. Weiseman watched them go, reflecting that the drama was almost Shakespearean. The power of the Pahlavi dynasty was draining away, and Khomeini and the Shah were like two alienated brothers fighting over the inheritance, with the only sure loser being the ordinary people of Iran.

  Weiseman took a last look at the throne room, suspecting it would be his last time there, then passed through the antechamber. General Hanif was in the same gilded chair, staring into space, his former vigor depleted, a gray shadow of what he had been when he and his master had ruled the country together. He looked at Weiseman curiously, as if in another world.

  “General…”

  “So,” Hanif said, a glint in his eye. “You see, now I’m liberated from my oath.”

  Weiseman listened silently as Hanif told him how Trevor said he was America’s man, how together they would stop the mullahs, how finally he would succeed his beloved Reza Shah.

  23

  LAUNCHING THE OPERATION

  OUTSIDE THE PALACE, the smog was so thick that Weiseman couldn’t see the mountains surrounding the city, but there was a crowd of people wearing white masks over their mouths for protection from the polluted air. A half dozen students sprinkled among them held up placards of Khomeini’s glaring face. When the Ayatollah came to power, he knew, demonstrations would no longer be allowed, but this crowd didn’t know that or didn’t want to believe it. Weiseman was struck by the fear that he had waited too long and lost critical leverage.

  In the taxi, he pulled the typed sheet from his breast pocket and felt at least its reassurance: Arrived safely. In Baghdad with Iraqi military friends. Awaiting your instructions. Jafar

  The cab driver pushed a tape into his audio system, and a forbidding voice filled the vehicle. “The Imam,” the driver said, kissing the image of Khomeini that hung beneath his rear view mirror. “It’s time for the mosque.”

  * * *

  —

  WEISEMAN HAD ALREADY laid the groundwork with the Turks and Israelis, handed out assignments to the network, and reached an understanding, however contingent, with Ayatollah Seyyed. Once he set the plan in motion, the Shah would have little choice but to take his second Roman holiday. It would be safer for him than being on hand when Khomeini arrived in Tehran.

  He met them all again, one at a time.

  Colonel Yilmaz told him that the Israeli cabinet was ready to go, and that General Irmak wanted to get on with it—operations deferred were opportunities lost. But Turkish politicians, like politicians everywhere, were dragging their feet. Meanwhile, he boiled down his choice for successor to the Shah to three Iranian generals—the two Weiseman had met before plus one other. All were eager to take the lead now that they thought Hanif was out of the game. They were patriots, intelligent men educated at West Point or Sandhurst, dedicated to the kind of secular republic Atatürk had established in Turkey. But such men often are—until they acquire ultimate power.

  Still, Yilmaz admitted other matters had come to the forefront. “My generals are preoccupied with internal politics in Ankara. They want to get this done, to free their hands.”

  Weiseman took in again that there was likely a coup coming in Turkey, and told Yilmaz just that he had promised each of his candidates a role, but had so far promised no one the gold ring.

  Moshe Regev, in their meeting, told him he was receiving a stream of questions from his superiors. Perhaps David would come to Jerusalem? A meeting with the inner cabinet would satisfy their curiosity. Weiseman told him they were out of time. Khomeini could be flying in at any moment. That was the heart of the matter: they needed to replace the Shah before Khomeini landed in Tehran. After that, it would come down to planning a coup against a new and ruthless regime bitterly hostile to America.

  Regev shrugged, then repeated, “Menachem needs the details.”

  Of course, Weiseman thought, and then weeks of delay, picking them apart.

  “Ajax Two is on,” Weiseman reiterated to him. �
��It’s time for the Shah to go to Rome.”

  * * *

  —

  OVER THE NEXT seventy-two hours, days and nights blended into one another for Weiseman. Final plans were laid for propaganda, political action, funding the operation, and fake passports. Weiseman set in motion a proactive program to smuggle out those in danger; that was a promise he had made to himself. And Ronald Sims quietly arranged logistical and air support…just in case.

  Millicent called him every day for assurances that no harm would come to the Shah and the Empress, and that their possessions would be flown out of the country, not left for the “scavengers.”

  Lyman Palmer did his bit by remaining away on home leave.

  Realizing that the odds of blocking an Islamist takeover were declining rapidly, Weiseman revved up plans to counter the mullahs. He met Seyyed every night, always in a different location. Seyyed was more and more open in expressing his distrust of Khomeini. It was too late to block Khomeini’s return, but Seyyed would be his confidential agent within.

  “I spoke to Madame Françoise,” he told Weiseman. “She told me to trust you, to work with you.”

  One night as he arrived for a meeting at what Seyyed had told him was a safe location, Weiseman stopped short as he saw General Hanif, now the ex-SAVAK director general, exiting to a waiting car. When he asked Seyyed about it, the priest said he’d need to call on whatever assets he could. “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “Of course not.”

  It set him thinking, though, about how he was pressing to overthrow the Iranian monarchy and replace it with people recommended by others that he barely knew. Once you started down this road, sheer gravity impelled you forward. How did you find an off-ramp? Should he find one now?

  In his mind he asked Johann what gave him the moral authority to play God, to take on the role of Kim Roosevelt. Did vague guidance from Justin Trevor suffice? No, for Weiseman it was the moral certainty that rule by the ayatollahs would be a disaster for Iran and for the United States.

  On Saturday night, Karim Nasir called, his voice ragged with worry. “My Selim never went to the airport. He’s gone missing…Can you call Evin?”

  “It was all arranged,” Weiseman said, “just as I told you.” Then he asked, “Could Selim have gone to ground?”—thinking, Had he gone over to the ayatollahs out of hatred of the Shah?

  “I warned my son against the ayatollahs,” Karim said. “But he hated the Shah and thought he knew better, that his generation would have the courage to show us what we should have done.”

  “I’ll have my people ask around,” Weiseman told him, thinking that Alana’s network of young people might discover where Selim was. But he knew that they were all working twenty-four seven and didn’t have time to hunt for Selim—whom, he hoped, most likely had gone underground.

  * * *

  —

  SUNDAY WAS D-DAY.

  At a final meeting on Saturday night, Colonel Yilmaz suddenly asked if the United States would be ready to land troops at Mehrabad to block Khomeini’s return. Before he could reply, Moshe Regev said, “I’m sorry, Jerusalem says no.”

  All the air left the room.

  Weiseman had always known that the United States would have to take the lead in the operation, but America needed the political cover and the operational capabilities of Israeli and Turkish forces; it was to be the three allies of Iran stepping in to preserve the alliance that sustained their interests in the Mideast. Sure, Regev had warned that Israel would not take the lead, would at best operate in support of the United States. But the plan had always contemplated active participation by the IDF as well as Turkish forces. Weiseman had made that clear to the Israeli prime minister.

  Now Regev had pulled the rug out from under him.

  He turned to the Turk. “Colonel? Do you want to talk to Ankara about—”

  “Not necessary, sir. I know what they’ll say. Without the Israeli air force, the Iranian generals will back off. Turkey can’t be in a position of bombing a Muslim neighbor. We have to live with Iran.”

  Weiseman glared at Regev.

  Regev rose and placed a hand on Weiseman’s shoulder. “David, it’s not tragic. The mullahs will be snarled up in their reign of terror for years. They can be bought. It’s the Middle East.” The Mossad man cleared his throat. “And we have an insurance policy.”

  Weiseman excused himself, stepped out of the room and dialed the private number in Washington. From the comfort of his Wyoming Avenue home, Trevor said, “Ah, yes, I thought it would come to this. The Israelis would rather rely on their nukes.”

  That’s what the Israelis consider an insurance policy, Weiseman thought, before hearing Trevor’s signature cough. “Abort.”

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS 4: 00 a.m. when Weiseman reached the hotel. Daud was there waiting for him at the front door. In the lobby, a handful of Iranians were gathered in front of a television.

  “What’s going on?” Weiseman asked.

  “It’s the tapes,” Daud whispered. “They’re everywhere. They bring them in every day on order of the ayatollahs, on the Air France flight.”

  On the screen, Ayatollah Khomeini was sitting cross-legged on the prayer mat in Nauphle-le-Château, speaking to the people of Iran.

  “Who’s the courier?” he asked Daud.

  “Mullahs, Excellency. And there is the Frenchman, directing the deliveries. You’ve met him. Here.”

  Jacques Schreiber?

  A head leaned out of a back office and someone called, “Mr. Daud, telephone, for you.”

  The little man shrugged his shoulders. “Will you forgive me, Excellency?”

  Weiseman went to his room, flicked on the light, tossed his suit jacket onto the bed—then sensed the presence of someone behind him. He turned and saw her face, as white with terror as that night long ago at Laurent Gramont’s black-tie dinner party in Paris. It was Yasmine de Rose.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

  “What are you doing here?” Weiseman asked, his voice harsh, astonished that she was in his room.

  “I saw him driving by,” she said, her voice as tight and tremulous as that night in Paris.

  “Him?”

  “The man who murdered Shirin near the Sorbonne.”

  She struggled to suppress a sob, and once again he sensed the heaving emotion that consumed her. Finally, eyes cast down, she was able to say what she’d come to say: “Papa has an intercept of a phone call from Nauphle-le-Château. It’s of Guido Montana, telling the Ayatollah that Françoise is poisoning his mind, that she’s an infidel. He intends to kill her…and you.”

  * * *

  —

  WEISEMAN LEFT THE hotel and went out to a telephone booth a block away. He reached Trevor on the private number.

  “I’m coming back in the morning, Justin. I’m ready to answer your questions.”

  “Excellent. I expected you would be. A car will collect you at Dulles, take you straight to me.”

  “Justin, you’re involved in all this with Gramont. The two of you together, right from the beginning—”

  There was the slight, telltale cough.

  “Well then, I’ll see you tomorrow evening, on Wyoming Avenue; you know the house.”

  “Not tomorrow, Justin, there’s something I need to do first, in Paris.”

  “David, the president is expecting you, so am I. Tomorrow—”

  “Goodbye, Justin.” He dropped the phone back in its cradle, cutting off Trevor’s protests.

  The phone rang again. Weiseman sat there, counting the rings…four, five, six…For a moment, he imagined Trevor’s cold fury. But then his mind was elsewhere.

  24

  VILLA SCHREIBER

  THEY MET AT the Fauchon café on the Boulevard de Madeleine, sitting by the window at a tiny table for two. She seemed almost imperious.

  “Tell me about your role in bringing Khomeini to Paris, Françoise,” Weiseman said. “I
need to know.”

  “Of course you do, David.”

  Out the window, he spotted a man who looked familiar, like a CIA officer who worked in Langley headquarters. One of Trevor’s staffers—O’Brien? The man came into the shop and pretended to examine the pastries.

  Françoise noticed, too. “A colleague of yours?” she asked.

  Weiseman bore down. “It’s Jacques, isn’t it? He ran the operation.”

  “No, it’s not Jacques.”

  She hadn’t touched her food, she hadn’t even taken a sip of her coffee. She lit a cigarette. He’d never seen her smoke before.

  The CIA man was coming their way now, carrying an espresso and a croissant. He walked right by them without a sign of recognition.

  She puffed nervously on the cigarette.

  “Françoise, you need to know…we have intel, Montana has been warning the Ayatollah about you. We believe he intends to kill—”

  “I know,” she said, now strangely calm, as if that was a professional hazard she was expected to manage. “And you, too,” she added. “You know that as well. Don’t you?”

  A waiter appeared and handed her a note. She read the note and folded it neatly, put it in her purse, then stood and handed him a name card. “Come to this address,” she said. “Tonight. Jacques may be there. I never know.”

  * * *

  —

  THE AGENT CAUGHT his arm on the way out the door. They walked in lockstep into the Place de la Madeleine and stopped, facing the church’s perfect Greco-Roman columns.

  Weiseman said, “What do you want?”

  “I’m Tim O’Brien. I work for Trevor.”

  “I know who you work for.”

  O’Brien lit up a cigarette, a Lucky Strike, and blew the smoke into the wind. “The ayatollahs are set to take over. Montana will run the security services. He’s after your ass. He intends to do to your girlfriend what he did to the Sorbonne student.”