On Wings of Eagles

by Ken Follett

  By noon on the following day, the battlefield had widened to include most of the city.

  That day John Howell and Keane Taylor went downtown for a meeting.

  Howell was convinced they would get Paul and Bill released within hours. They were all set to pay the bail.

  Tom Walter had a Texas bank ready to issue a letter of credit for $12,750,000 to the New York branch of Bank Melli. The plan was that the Tehran branch of Bank Melli would then issue a bank guarantee to the Ministry of Justice, and Paul and Bill would be bailed out. It had not worked quite that way. The deputy managing director of Bank Melli, Sadr-Hashemi, had recognized--as had all the other bankers--that Paul and Bill were commercial hostages, and that once they were out of jail EDS could argue in an American court that the money had been extorted and should not be paid. If that happened, Bank Melli in New York would not be able to collect on the letter of credit--but Bank Melli in Tehran would still have to pay the money to the Iranian Ministry of Justice. Sadr-Hashemi said he would change his mind only if his New York lawyers told him there was no way EDS could block payment on the letter of credit. Howell knew perfectly well that no decent American attorney would issue such an opinion.

  Then Keane Taylor thought of Bank Omran. EDS had a contract to install an on-line computerized accounting system for Bank Omran, and Taylor's job in Tehran had been to supervise this contract, so he knew the bank's officials. He met with Farhad Bakhtiar, who was one of the top men there as well as being a relative of Prime Minister Shahpour Bakhtiar. It was clear that the Prime Minister was going to fall from power any day, and Farhad was planning to leave the country. Perhaps that was why he was less concerned than Sadr-Hashemi about the possibility that the $12,750,000 would never be paid. Anyway, for whatever reason, he had agreed to help.

  Bank Omran did not have a U.S. branch. How, then, could EDS pay the money? It was agreed that the Dallas bank would lodge its letter of credit with the Dubai branch of Bank Omran by a system called Tested Telex. Dubai would then call Tehran on the phone to confirm that the letter of credit had been received, and the Tehran branch of Bank Omran would issue the guarantee to the Ministry of Justice.

  There were delays. Everything had to be approved by the board of directors of Bank Omran, and by the bank's lawyers. Everyone who looked at the deal suggested small changes in the language. The changes, in English and Farsi, had to be communicated to Dubai and to Dallas; then a new telex had to be sent from Dallas to Dubai, tested, and approved by phone with Tehran. Because the Iranian weekend was Thursday and Friday, there were only three days in the week when both banks were open; and because Tehran was nine and a half hours ahead of Dallas, there was never a time of day when both banks were open. Furthermore, the Iranian banks were on strike a good deal of the time. Consequently a two-word change could take a week to arrange.

  The last people who had to approve the deal were the Iranian central bank. Getting that approval was the task Howell and Taylor had set themselves for Saturday, February 10.

  The city was relatively quiet at eight-thirty in the morning when they drove to Bank Omran. They met with Farhad Bakhtiar. To their surprise, he said that the request for approval was already with the central bank. Howell was delighted--for once something was happening ahead of time in Iran! He left some documents with Farhad--including a signed letter of agreement--and he and Taylor drove farther downtown to the central bank.

  The city was waking up now, the traffic even more nightmarish than usual, but dangerous driving was Taylor's specialty, and he tore through the streets, cutting across lanes of traffic, U-turning in the middle of freeways, and generally beating the Iranian drivers at their own game.

  At the central bank they had a long wait to see Mr. Farhang, who would give approval. Eventually he stuck his head out of his office door and said the deal had already been approved and the approval notified to Bank Omran.

  This was good news!

  They got back into the car and headed for Bank Omran. Now they could tell that there was serious fighting in parts of the city. The noise of gunfire was continuous, and plumes of smoke rose from burning buildings. Bank Omran was opposite a hospital, and the dead and wounded were being brought in from the battle zones in cars, pickup trucks, and buses, all the vehicles having white cloths tied to their radio antennae to signify emergency, all hooting constantly. The street was jammed with people, some coming to give blood, others to visit the sick, still others to identify corpses.

  They had resolved the bail problem not a moment too soon. Not only Paul and Bill, but now Howell and Taylor and all of them, were in grave danger. They had to get out of Iran fast.

  Howell and Taylor went into the bank and found Farhad.

  "The central bank has approved the deal," Howell told him.

  "I know."

  "Is the letter of agreement all right?"

  "No problems."

  "Then, if you give us the bank guarantee, we can go to the Ministry of Justice with it right away."

  "Not today."

  "Why not?"

  "Our lawyer, Dr. Emami, has reviewed the credit document and wishes to make some small changes."

  Taylor muttered: "Jesus Christ."

  Farhad said: "I have to go to Geneva for five days."

  Forever was more likely.

  "My colleagues will look after you, and if you have any problems just call me in Switzerland."

  Howell suppressed his anger. Farhad knew perfectly well that things were not that simple: with him away, everything would be more difficult. But nothing would be accomplished by an emotional outburst, so Howell just said: "What are the changes?"

  Farhad called in Dr. Emami.

  "I also need the signatures of two more directors of the bank," Farhad said. "I can get those at the board meeting tomorrow. And I need to check the references of the National Bank of Commerce in Dallas."

  "And how long will that take?"

  "Not long. My assistants will deal with it while I am away."

  Dr. Emami showed Howell the changes he proposed in the language of the credit letter. Howell was happy to agree to them, but the rewritten letter would have to go through the time-consuming process of being transmitted from Dallas to Dubai by Tested Telex and from Dubai to Tehran by telephone.

  "Look," said Howell, "let's try to get all this done today. You could check the references of the Dallas bank now. We could find those other two bank directors, wherever in the city they are, and get their signatures this afternoon. We could call Dallas, give them the language changes, and get them to send the telex now. Dubai could confirm to you this afternoon. You could issue the bank guarantee--"

  "There is a holiday in Dubai today," said Farhad.

  "All right, Dubai can confirm tomorrow morning--"

  "There is a strike tomorrow. Nobody will be here at the bank."

  "Monday, then--"

  The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a siren. A secretary put her head around the door and said something in Farsi. "There is an early curfew," Farhad translated. "We must all leave now."

  Howell and Taylor sat there looking at each other. Two minutes later they were alone in the office. They had failed yet again.

  That evening Simons said to Coburn: "Tomorrow is the day."

  Coburn thought he was full of shit.

  2____

  In the morning on Sunday, February 11, the negotiating team went as usual to the EDS office they called "Bucharest." John Howell left, taking Abolhasan with him, for an eleven o'clock meeting with Dadgar at the Ministry of Health. The others--Keane Taylor, Bill Gayden, Bob Young, and Rich Gallagher--went up on the roof to watch the city burn.

  Bucharest was not a high building, but it was located on a slope of the hills that rose to the north of Tehran, so from the roof they could see the city laid out like a tableau. To the south and east, where modern skyscrapers rose out of the low-rise villas and slums, great palls of smoke billowed up into the murky air, while helicopter gunships buzzed a
round the fires like wasps at a barbecue. One of EDS's Iranian drivers brought a transistor radio up to the roof and tuned it to a station that had been taken over by the revolutionaries. With the help of the radio and the driver's translation, they tried to identify the burning buildings.

  Keane Taylor, who had abandoned his elegant vested suits for jeans and cowboy boots, went downstairs to take a phone call. It was the Cycle Man.

  "You need to get out of there," the Cycle Man told Taylor. "Get out of the country as quickly as you can."

  "You know we can't do that," Taylor said. "We can't leave without Paul and Bill."

  "It's going to be very dangerous for you."

  Taylor could hear, at the other end of the line, the noise of a terrific battle. "Where the hell are you, anyway?"

  "Near the bazaar," said the Cycle Man. "I'm making Molotov cocktails. They brought in helicopters this morning and we just figured out how to shoot them down. We burned four tanks--"

  The line went dead.

  Incredible, Taylor thought as he cradled the phone. In the middle of a battle, he suddenly thinks of his American friends, and calls to warn us. Iranians will never cease to surprise me.

  He went back up on the roof.

  "Look at this," Bill Gayden said to him. Gayden, the jovial president of EDS World, had also switched to off-duty clothes: nobody was even pretending to do business anymore. He pointed to a column of smoke in the east. "If that isn't the Gasr Prison burning, it's damn close."

  Taylor peered into the distance. It was hard to tell.

  "Call Dadgar's office at the Ministry of Health," Gayden told Taylor. "Howell should be there now. Get him to ask Dadgar to release Paul and Bill to the custody of the Embassy, for their own safety. If we don't get them out, they're going to burn to death."

  John Howell had hardly expected Dadgar to turn up. The city was a battlefield, and an investigation into corruption under the Shah now seemed an academic exercise. But Dadgar was there in his office, waiting for Howell. Howell wondered what the hell was driving the man. Dedication? Hatred of Americans? Fear of the incoming revolutionary government? He would probably never know.

  Dadgar had asked Howell about EDS's relationship with Abolfath Mahvi, and Howell had promised a complete dossier. It seemed the information was important to Dadgar's mysterious purposes, for a few days later he had pressed Howell for the dossier, saying: "I can interrogate the people here and get the information I need," which Howell took as a threat to arrest more EDS executives.

  Howell had prepared a twelve-page dossier in English, with a covering letter in Farsi. Dadgar read the covering letter, then spoke. Abolhasan translated: "Your company's helpfulness is laying the groundwork for a change in my attitude toward Chiapparone and Gaylord. Our legal code provides for such leniency toward those who supply information."

  It was farcical. They could all be killed in the next few hours, and here was Dadgar still talking about applicable provisions of the legal code.

  Abolhasan began to translate the dossier aloud into Farsi. Howell knew that choosing Mahvi as an Iranian partner had not been the smartest move EDS ever made: Mahvi had got the company its first small contract in Iran, but subsequently he had been blacklisted by the Shah and had caused trouble over the Ministry of Health contract. However, EDS had nothing to hide. Indeed, Howell's boss Tom Luce, in his eagerness to place EDS above suspicion, had filed details of the EDS-Mahvi relationship with the American Securities Exchange Commission, so that much of what was in the dossier was already public knowledge.

  The phone interrupted Abolhasan's translation. Dadgar picked it up, then handed it to Abolhasan, who listened for a moment, then said: "It's Keane Taylor."

  A minute later he hung up and said to Howell: "Keane has been up on the roof at Bucharest. He says there are fires down by Gasr Prison. If the mob attacks the prison, Paul and Bill could get hurt. He suggested we ask Dadgar to turn them over to the American Embassy."

  "Okay," Howell said. "Ask him."

  He waited while Abolhasan and Dadgar conversed in Farsi.

  Finally Abolhasan said: "According to our laws, they have to be kept in an Iranian prison. He can't consider the U.S. Embassy to be an Iranian prison."

  Crazier and crazier. The whole country was falling apart, and Dadgar was still consulting his book of rules. Howell said: "Ask how he proposes to guarantee the safety of two American citizens who have not been charged with any crime."

  Dadgar's reply was: "Don't be concerned. The worst that could happen is that the prison might be overrun."

  "And what if the mob decides to attack Americans?"

  "Chiapparone will probably be safe--he could pass for Iranian."

  "Terrific," said Howell. "And what about Gaylord?"

  Dadgar just shrugged.

  Rashid left his house early that morning.

  His parents, his brother, and his sister planned to stay indoors all day, and they had urged him to do the same, but he would not listen. He knew it would be dangerous on the streets, but he could not hide at home while his countrymen were making history. Besides, he had not forgotten his conversation with Simons.

  He was living by impulse. On Friday he had found himself at Farahabad Air Base during the clash between the homafars and loyalist Javadan Brigade. For no particular reason, he had gone into the armory and started passing out rifles. After half an hour of that he got bored and left.

  That same day he had seen a dead man for the first time. He had been at the mosque when a bus driver who had been shot by soldiers had been brought in. On impulse Rashid had uncovered the face of the corpse. A whole section of the head was destroyed, a mixture of blood and brains: it had been sickening. The incident seemed like a warning, but Rashid was in no mood to heed warnings. The streets were where things were happening, and he had to be there.

  This morning the atmosphere was electric. Crowds were everywhere. Hundreds of men and boys were toting automatic rifles. Rashid, wearing a flat English cap and an open-neck shirt, mingled with them, feeling the excitement. Anything could happen today.

  He was vaguely heading for Bucharest. He still had duties: he was negotiating with two shipping companies to transport the belongings of the EDS evacuees back to the States, and he had to feed the abandoned dogs and cats. The scenes on the streets changed his mind. Rumor said that the Evin Prison had been stormed last night; today it might be the turn of the Gasr Prison, where Paul and Bill were.

  Rashid wished he had an automatic rifle like the others.

  He passed an army building that appeared to have been invaded by the mob. It was a six-story block containing an armory and a draft registration office. Rashid had a friend who worked there, Malek. It occurred to him that Malek might be in trouble. If he had come to work this morning, he would be wearing his army uniform--and that alone might be enough to get him killed today. I could lend Malek my shirt, Rashid thought; and impulsively he went into the building.

  He pushed his way through the crowd on the ground floor and found the staircase. The rest of the building seemed empty. As he climbed, he wondered whether soldiers were hiding out on the upper floors: if so, they might shoot anyone who came along. He went on regardless. He climbed to the top floor. Malek was not there. Nobody was there. The army had abandoned the place to the mob.

  Rashid returned to the ground floor. The crowd had gathered around the entrance to the basement armory, but no one was going in. Rashid pushed his way to the front and said: "Is this door locked?"

  "It might be booby-trapped," someone said.

  Rashid looked at the door. All thoughts of going to Bucharest had now left him. He wanted to go to the Gasr Prison, and he wanted to carry a gun.

  "I don't think this armory is booby-trapped," he said, and he opened the door.

  He went down the staircase.

  The basement consisted of two rooms divided by an archway. The place was dimly lit by narrow strip windows high in the walls, just above street level. The floor was of black m
osaic tiles. In the first room were open boxes of loaded magazines. In the second were G3 machine guns.

  After a minute some of the crowd upstairs followed him down.

  He grabbed three machine guns and a sack of magazines and left. As soon as he got outside the building, people jumped all over him, asking for weapons: he gave away two of the guns and some of the ammunition.

  Then he walked away, heading for Gasr Square.

  Some of the mob went with him.

  On the way they had to pass a military prison. A skirmish was going on there. A steel door in the high brick wall around the garrison had been smashed down, as if a tank had rolled through it, and the brickwork on either side of the entrance had crumbled. A burning car stood across the way in.

  Rashid went around the car and through the entrance.

  He found himself in a large compound. From where he stood, a bunch of people were shooting haphazardly at a building a couple of hundred yards away. Rashid took cover behind a wall. The people who had followed him joined in the shooting, but he held his fire. Nobody was really aiming. They were just trying to scare the soldiers in the building. It was a funny kind of battle. Rashid had never imagined the revolution would be like this: just a disorganized crowd with guns they hardly knew how to use, wandering around on a Sunday morning, firing at walls, encountering halfhearted resistance from invisible troops.

  Suddenly a man near him fell dead.

  It happened so quickly: Rashid did not even see him fall. At one moment the man was standing four feet away from Rashid, firing his rifle; the next moment he lay on the ground with his forehead blown away.

  They carried the corpse out of the compound. Someone found a jeep. They put the body in the jeep and drove off. Rashid returned to the skirmish.

  Ten minutes later, for no apparent reason, a piece of wood with a white undershirt tied to its end was waved out of one of the windows in the building they had been shooting at. The soldiers had surrendered.

  Just like that.

  There was a sense of anticlimax.

  This is my chance, Rashid thought.

  It was easy to manipulate people if you understood the psychology of the human being. You just had to study the people, comprehend their situation, and figure out their needs. These people, Rashid decided, want excitement and adventure. For the first time in their lives they have guns in their hands: They need a target, and anything that symbolizes the regime of the Shah will do.