by Ken Follett
The phone rang, and she snatched it up. "Hello?"
"Emily? This is Jim Nyfeler."
"Hi, Jim, what's the news?"
"Just that they've been moved to another jail."
Why was there never any good news?
"It's nothing to worry about," Jim said. "In fact, it's good. The old jail was in the south of the city, where the fighting is. This one is further north, and more secure--they'll be safer there."
Emily lost her cool. "But, Jim," she yelled, "you've been telling me for three weeks that they're perfectly safe in jail. Now you say they've been moved to a new jail and now they'll be safe!"
"Emily--"
"Come on, please don't lie to me!"
"Emily--"
"Just tell it like it is and be upfront, okay?"
"Emily, I don't think they have been in danger up till now, but the Iranians are taking a sensible precaution, okay?"
Emily felt ashamed of herself for getting mad at him. "I'm sorry, Jim."
"That's all right."
They talked a little longer, then Emily hung up and went back to her needlepoint. I'm losing my grip, she thought. I'm going around in a trance, taking the kids to school, talking to Dallas, going to bed at night and getting up in the morning ...
Visiting her sister Vickie for a few days had been a good idea, but she didn't really need a change of scene--what she needed was Bill.
It was hard to keep on hoping. She began to think about how life might be without Bill. She had an aunt who worked at Woody's Department Store in Washington: maybe she could get a job there. Or she could talk to her father about getting secretarial work. She wondered whether she would ever fall in love with anyone else, if Bill should die in Tehran. She thought not.
She remembered when they were first married. Bill had been at college, and they were short of money; but they had gone ahead and done it because they could not bear to be apart any longer. Later, as Bill's career began to take off, they prospered, and gradually bought better cars, bigger houses, more expensive clothes ... more things. How worthless those things were, she thought now; how little it mattered whether she was rich or poor. Bill was what she wanted, and he was all she needed. He would always be enough for her, enough to make her happy.
If he ever came back.
Karen Chiapparone said: "Mommy, why doesn't Daddy call? He always calls when he's away."
"He called today," Ruthie lied. "He's fine."
"Why did he call when I was at school? I'd like to talk to him."
"Honey, it's so difficult to get through from Tehran--the lines are so busy. He just has to call when he can."
"Oh."
Karen wandered off to watch TV, and Ruthie sat down. It was getting dark outside. She was finding it increasingly difficult to lie to everyone about Paul.
That was why she had left Chicago and come to Dallas. Living with her parents and keeping the secret from them had become impossible. Mom would say: "Why do Ross and the fellows from EDS keep calling you?"
"They just want to make sure we're okay, you know," Ruthie would say with a forced smile.
"That is so nice of Ross to call."
Here in Dallas she could at least talk openly to other EDS people. Moreover, now that the Iran business was certain to be closed down, Paul would be based at EDS headquarters, at least for a while, so Dallas would be their home; and Karen and Ann Marie had to go to school.
They were all living with Jim and Cathy Nyfeler. Cathy was especially sympathetic, for her husband had been on the original list of four men whose passports Dadgar had asked for: if Jim had happened to be in Iran at the time, he would now be in jail with Paul and Bill. Stay with us, Cathy had said; it will only be for maybe a week; then Paul will be back. That had been at the beginning of January. Since then Ruthie had proposed getting an apartment of her own, but Cathy would not hear of it.
Right now Cathy was at the hairdresser's, the children were watching TV in another room, and Jim was not yet home from work, so Ruthie was alone with her thoughts.
With Cathy's help she was keeping busy and putting on a brave face. She had enrolled Karen in school and found a kindergarten for Ann Marie. She went out to lunch with Cathy and some of the other EDS wives--Mary Boulware, Liz Coburn, Mary Sculley, Marva Davis, and Toni Dvoranchik. She wrote bright, optimistic letters to Paul, and listened to his bright, optimistic replies read over the phone from Tehran. She shopped and went to dinner parties.
She had killed a lot of time house-hunting. She did not know Dallas well, but she remembered Paul saying that Central Expressway was a nightmare, so she looked for houses well away from it. She had found one she liked and decided to buy it, so there would be a real home for Paul to come back to, but there were legal problems because he was not here to sign the papers: Tom Walter was trying to sort that out.
Ruthie was making it look good, but inside she was dying.
She rarely slept more than an hour at night. She kept waking up wondering whether she would ever see Paul again. She tried to think about what she would do if he did not come back. She supposed she would return to Chicago and stay with Mom and Dad for a while, but she would not want to live with them permanently. No doubt she could get some kind of a job ... But it was not the practical business of living without a man and taking care of herself that bothered her: it was the idea of being without Paul, forever. She could not imagine what life would be like if he were not there. What would she do, what would she care about, what would she want, what could possibly make her happy? She was completely dependent on him, she realized. She could not live without him.
She heard a car outside. That would be Jim, home from work: perhaps he would have some news.
A moment later he came in. "Hi, Ruthie. Cathy not home?"
"She's at the hairdresser's. What happened today?"
"Well ..."
She knew from his expression that he had nothing good to tell her and he was trying to find an encouraging way of saying so.
"Well, they had a meeting scheduled to talk about the bail, but the Iranians didn't turn up. Tomorrow--"
"But why?" Ruthie fought to keep calm. "Why don't they turn up when they arrange these meetings?"
"You know, sometimes they're called out on strike, and sometimes people just can't move around the city because of ... because of the demonstrations, and so on ..."
She seemed to have been hearing reports like this for weeks. There were always delays, postponements, frustrations. "But, Jim," she began; then the tears started and she could not stop them. "Jim ..." Her throat tightened up until she could not speak. She thought: All I want is my husband! Jim stood there looking helpless and embarrassed. All the misery she had kept locked up for so long suddenly flooded out, and she could not control herself any longer. She burst into tears and ran from the room. She rushed to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and lay there sobbing her heart out.
Liz Coburn sipped her drink. Across the table were Pat Sculley's wife, Mary, and another EDS wife who had been evacuated from Tehran, Toni Dvoranchik. The three women were at Recipes, a restaurant on Greenville Avenue, Dallas. They were drinking strawberry Daiquiris.
Toni Dvoranchik's husband was here in Dallas. Liz knew that Pat Sculley had disappeared, like Jay, in the direction of Europe. Now Mary Sculley was talking as if Pat had gone not just to Europe but to Iran.
"Is Pat in Tehran?" Liz asked.
"They're all in Tehran, I guess," Mary said.
Liz was horrified. "Jay in Tehran ..." She wanted to cry. Jay had told her he was in Paris. Why couldn't he tell the truth? Pat Sculley had told Mary the truth. But Jay was different. Some men would play poker for a few hours, but Jay had to play all night and all the next day. Other men would play nine or eighteen holes of golf: Jay would play thirty-six. Lots of men had demanding jobs, but Jay had to work for EDS. Even in the army, when the two of them had been not much more than kids, Jay had to volunteer for one of the most dangerous assignments, helicopter pilot
. Now he had gone to Tehran in the middle of a revolution. Same old thing, she thought: he's gone away, he's lying to me, and he's in danger. She suddenly felt cold all over, as if she were in shock. He's not coming back, she thought numbly. He's not going to get out of there alive.
3____
Perot's good spirits soon passed. He had got into the prison, defying Dadgar, and had cheered up Paul and Bill; but Dadgar still held all the cards. After six days in Tehran he understood why the political pressure he had been putting on in Washington had been ineffectual: the old regime in Iran was struggling for survival and had no control. Even if he posted the bail--and a lot of problems had to be solved before that could happen--Paul and Bill would still be held in Iran. And Simons's rescue plan was now in tatters, ruined by the move to the new prison. There seemed to be no hope.
That night Perot went to see Simons.
He waited until dark, for safety. He wore his jogging suit with tennis shoes and a dark businessman's overcoat. Keane Taylor drove him.
The rescue team had moved out of Taylor's house. Taylor had now met Dadgar face-to-face, and Dadgar had started examining EDS's records: it was possible, Simons had reasoned, that Dadgar would raid Taylor's house, looking for incriminating documents. So Simons, Coburn, and Poche were living in the home of Bill and Toni Dvoranchik, who were now back in Dallas. Two more of the team had made it to Tehran from Paris: Pat Sculley and Jim Schwebach, the short but deadly duo who had been flank guards in the original, now useless, rescue scenario.
In a typical Tehran arrangement, Dvoranchik's home was the ground floor of a two-story house, with the landlord living upstairs. Taylor and the rescue team left Perot alone with Simons. Perot looked around the living room distastefully. No doubt the place had been spotless when Toni Dvoranchik lived here, but now, inhabited by five men, none of whom was very interested in housekeeping, it was dirty and rundown, and it stank of Simons's cigars.
Simons's huge frame was slumped in an armchair. His white whiskers were bushy and his hair long. He was chain-smoking, as usual, drawing heavily on his little cigar and inhaling with relish.
"You've seen the new prison," Perot said.
"Yeah," Simons rasped.
"What do you think?"
"The idea of taking that place with the kind of frontal attack we had in mind just isn't worth talking about."
"That's what I figured."
"Which leaves a number of possibilities."
It does? thought Perot.
Simons went on: "One: I understand there are cars parked in the prison compound. We may find a way to get Paul and Bill driven out of there in the trunk of a car. As part of that plan, or as an alternative, we may be able to bribe or blackmail this general who is in charge of the place."
"General Mohari."
"Right. One of your Iranian employees is getting us a rundown on the man."
"Good."
"Two: the negotiating team. If they can get Paul and Bill released under house arrest, or something of that kind, we can snatch the two of them. Get Taylor and those guys to concentrate on this house-arrest idea. Agree to any conditions the Iranians care to name, but get 'em out of that jail. Working on the assumption that they would be confined to their homes and kept under surveillance, we're developing a new rescue scenario."
Perot was beginning to feel better. There was an aura of confidence about this massive man. A few minutes ago Perot had felt almost hopeless: now Simons was calmly listing fresh approaches to the problem, as if the move to the new jail, the bail problems, and the collapse of the legitimate government were minor snags rather than total catastrophe.
"Three," Simons went on, "there's a revolution going on here. Revolutions are predictable. The same things happen every damn time. You can't say when they'll occur, only that they will, sooner or later. And one of the things that always happens is, the mob storms the prisons and lets everyone out."
Perot was intrigued. "Is that so?"
Simons nodded. "Those are the three possibilities. Of course, at this point in the game we can't pick one: we have to prepare for each of them. Whichever of the three happens first, we'll need a plan for getting everyone out of this goddam country just as soon as Paul and Bill are in our hands."
"Yes." Perot was worried about his own departure: that of Paul and Bill would be a good deal more hazardous. "I've had promises of help from the American military--"
"Sure," Simons said. "I'm not saying they're insincere, but I will say they have higher priorities, and I'm not prepared to place a great deal of reliance on their promises."
"All right." That was a matter for Simons's judgment, and Perot was content to leave it to him. In fact, he was content to leave everything to Simons. Simons was probably the best-qualified man in the world to do this job, and Perot had complete faith in him. "What can I do?"
"Get back to the States. For one thing, you're in danger here. For another, I need you over there. Chances are, when we eventually come out, it won't be on a scheduled flight. We may not fly at all. You'll have to pick us up somewhere--it could be Iraq, Kuwait, Turkey, or Afghanistan--and that will take organizing. Go home and stay ready."
"Okay." Perot stood up. Simons had done to him what Perot sometimes did to his staff: inspired him with the strength to go one more mile when the game seemed lost. "I'll leave tomorrow."
He got a reservation on British Airways flight 200, Tehran to London via Kuwait, leaving at 10:20 A.M. on January 20, the next day.
He called Margot and asked her to meet him in London. He wanted a few days alone with her: they might not get another chance, once the rescue started to unfold.
They had had good times in London in the past. They would stay at the Savoy Hotel. (Margot liked Claridge's, but Perot did not--they turned the heat too high, and if he opened the windows he was kept awake by the roar of the all-night traffic along Brook Street.) He and Margot would see plays and concerts, and go to Margot's favorite London nightclub, Annabel's. For a few days they would enjoy life.
If he got out of Iran.
In order to minimize the amount of time he would have to spend at the airport, he stayed at the hotel until the last minute. He called the airport to find out whether the flight would leave on time, and was told that it would.
He checked in a few minutes before ten o'clock.
Rich Gallagher, who accompanied him to the airport, went off to inquire whether the authorities were planning to give Perot a hard time. Gallagher had done this before. Together with an Iranian friend who worked for Pan Am, he walked through to passport control carrying Perot's passport. The Iranian explained that a VIP was coming through, and asked to clear the passport in advance. The official at the desk obligingly looked through the loose-leaf folder that contained the stop list and said there would be no problems for Mr. Perot. Gallagher returned with the good news.
Perot remained apprehensive. If they wanted to pick him up, they might be smart enough to lie to Gallagher.
Affable Bill Gayden, the president of EDS World, was flying in to take over direction of the negotiating team. Gayden had left Dallas for Tehran once before, but had turned back in Paris on hearing about Bunny Fleischaker's warning of more arrests to come. Now he, like Perot, had decided to risk it. By chance, his flight came in while Perot was waiting to leave, and they had an opportunity to talk.
In his suitcase Gayden had eight American passports belonging to EDS executives who looked vaguely like Paul or Bill.
Perot said: "I thought we were getting forged passports for them. Couldn't you find a way?"
"Yeah, we found a way," Gayden said. "If you need a passport in a hurry, you can take all the documentation down to the courthouse in Dallas; then they put everything in an envelope and you carry it to New Orleans, where they issue the passport. It's just a plain government envelope sealed with Scotch tape, so you could open it on the way to New Orleans, take out the photographs, replace them with photographs of Paul and Bill--which we have--reseal the envelope, a
nd, bingo, you've got passports for Paul and Bill in false names. But it's against the law."
"So what did you do instead?"
"I told all the evacuees that I had to have their passports in order to get their belongings shipped over from Tehran. I got a hundred or two hundred passports, and I picked the best eight. I bogused up a letter from someone in the States to someone here in Tehran saying: 'Here are the passports you asked for us to return so you could deal with the immigration authorities,' just so that I've got a piece of paper to show if I'm asked why the hell I'm carrying eight passports."
"If Paul and Bill use those passports to cross a frontier, they'll be breaking the law anyway."
"If we get that far, we'll break the law."
Perot nodded. "It makes sense."
His flight was called. He said goodbye to Gayden and to Taylor, who had driven him to the airport and would take Gayden to the Hyatt. Then he went off to discover the truth about the stop list.
He went first through a "Passengers Only" gate, where his boarding pass was checked. He walked along a corridor to a booth where he paid a small sum as airport tax. Then, on his right, he saw a series of passport-control desks.
Here the stop list was kept.
One of the desks was manned by a girl who was absorbed in a paperback book. Perot approached her. He handed over his passport and a yellow exit form. The form had his name at the top.
The girl took the yellow sheet, opened his passport, stamped it, and handed it back without looking at him. She returned to her book immediately.
Perot walked into the departure lounge.
The flight was delayed.
He sat down. He was on tenterhooks. At any moment the girl could finish her book, or just get bored with it, and start checking the stop list against the names on the yellow forms. Then, he imagined, they would come for him, the police or the military or Dadgar's investigators, and he would go to jail, and Margot would be like Ruthie and Emily, not knowing whether she would ever see her husband again.
He checked the departures board every few seconds: it just said "Delayed."