by Ken Follett
"How much?" said Boulware.
"I don't know. Too many people know about this, in Ankara as well as Istanbul."
"How about five thousand dollars?"
"For that, they would sell their mothers."
"Fine," said Boulware. "Let's get it on."
Mr. Fish made a phone call, then said: "My lawyer will meet us at the jail near the airport."
Boulware and Mr. Fish got into Mr. Fish's battered old car, leaving Sculley to pay the hotel bill.
They drove to the jail and met the lawyer. The lawyer got into Mr. Fish's car and said: "I have a judge on the way. I've already talked to the police. Where's the money?"
Boulware said: "The prisoner has it."
"What do you mean?"
Boulware said: "You go in there and bring the prisoner out, and he will give you the five thousand dollars."
It was crazy, but the lawyer did it. He went into the jail and came out a few minutes later with Simons. They got into the car.
"We're not going to pay these clowns," said Simons. "I'll wait it out. They'll just talk themselves to death and let me go in a few days."
Boulware said: "Bull, please don't fight the program. Give me the envelope."
Simons handed over the envelope. Boulware took out five thousand dollars and gave it to the lawyer, saying: "Here's the money. Make it happen."
The lawyer made it happen.
Half an hour later, Boulware, Simons, and Mr. Fish were driven to the airport in a police car. A policeman took their passports and walked them through passport control and customs. When they came out on the tarmac, the police car was there to take them to the Boeing 707 waiting on the runway.
They boarded the plane. Simons looked around at the velvet curtains, the plush upholstery, the TV sets, and the bars, and said: "What the fuck is this?"
The crew were on board, waiting. A stewardess came up to Boulware and said: "Would you like a drink?"
Boulware smiled.
The phone rang in Perot's hotel suite, and Paul happened to answer it.
A voice said: "Hello?"
Paul said: "Hello?"
The voice said: "Who is this?"
Paul, suspicious, said: "Who is this?"
"Hey, Paul?"
Paul recognized the voice of Merv Stauffer. "Hello, Merv!"
"Paul, I got somebody here wants to talk to you."
There was a pause; then a woman's voice said: "Paul?"
It was Ruthie.
"Hello, Ruthie!"
"Oh, Paul!"
"Hi! What are you doing?"
"What do you mean, what am I doing?" Ruthie said tearfully. "I'm waiting for you!"
The phone rang. Before Emily got to it, someone picked up the extension in the children's room.
A moment later she heard a little girl scream: "It's Dad! It's Dad!"
She rushed into the room.
All the children were jumping up and down and fighting over the phone.
Emily restrained herself for a couple of minutes, then took the phone away from them.
"Bill?"
"Hello, Emily."
"Gee you sound good. I didn't expect you to sound ... Oh, Bill, you sound so good."
In Dallas, Merv began to take down a message from Perot in code.
Take ... the ...
He was now so familiar with the code that he could transcribe as he went along.
... code ... and ...
He was puzzled, because for the last three days Perot had been giving him a hard time about the code. Perot did not have the patience to use it, and Stauffer had had to insist, saying: "Ross, this is the way Simons wants it." Now that the danger was past, why had Perot suddenly started to use the code?
... stick ... it ... where ...
Stauffer guessed what was coming, and burst out laughing.
Ron Davis called room service and ordered bacon and eggs for everyone.
While they were eating, Dallas called again. It was Stauffer. He asked for Perot.
"Ross, we just got the Dallas Times-Herald. "
Was this to be another joke?
Stauffer went on: "The headline on the front page says: 'Perot men reportedly on way out. Overland exit route from Iran indicated.' "
Perot felt his blood start to boil. "I thought we were getting that story killed!"
"Boy, Ross, we tried! The people who own or manage the paper just don't seem to be able to control the editor."
Tom Luce came on the line, mad as hell. "Ross, those bastards are willing to get the rescue team killed and destroy EDS and see you jailed just to be the first to print the story. We've explained the consequences to them and it just doesn't matter. Boy, when this is over we should sue them, no matter how long it takes or how much it costs--"
"Maybe," said Perot. "Be careful about picking a fight with people who buy ink by the barrel and paper by the ton. Now, what are the chances of this news reaching Tehran?"
"We don't know. There are plenty of Iranians in Texas, and most of them will hear about this. It's still very hard to get a phone line to Tehran, but we've managed it a couple of times, so they could, too."
"And if they do ..."
"Then, of course, Dadgar finds out that Paul and Bill have slipped through his grasp--"
"And he could decide to take alternative hostages," Perot said coldly. He was disgusted with the State Department for leaking the story, furious with the Dallas Times-Herald for printing it, and maddened that there was nothing he could do about it. "And the Clean Team is still in Tehran," he said.
The nightmare was not over yet.
Fourteen
1_____
At midday on Friday, February 16, Lou Goelz called Joe Poche and told him to bring the EDS people to the U.S. Embassy that afternoon at five o'clock. Ticketing and baggage checkin would be done at the Embassy overnight, and they could leave on a Pan Am evacuation flight on Saturday morning.
John Howell was nervous. He knew, from Abolhasan, that Dadgar was still active. He did not know what had happened to the Dirty Team. If Dadgar were to find out that Paul and Bill had gone, or if he were simply to give up on them and take a couple more hostages, the Clean Team would be arrested. And where better to make the arrests than at the airport, where everyone had to identify himself by showing his passport?
He wondered whether it was wise for them to take the first available flight: there would be a series of flights, according to Goelz. Maybe they should wait, and see what happened to the first batch of evacuees, whether there was any kind of search for EDS personnel. At least then they would know in advance what the procedures were.
But so would the Iranians. The advantage of taking the first flight was that everything would probably be confused, and the confusion might help Howell and the Clean Team slip out unnoticed.
In the end he decided the first flight was best, but he remained uneasy. Bob Young felt the same way. Although Young no longer worked for EDS in Iran--he was based in Kuwait--he had been here when the Ministry contract was first negotiated, he had met Dadgar face-to-face, and his name might be on some list in Dadgar's files.
Joe Poche also favored the first flight, although he did not say much about it--he did not say much at all: Howell found him uncommunicative.
Rich and Cathy Gallagher were not sure they wanted to leave Iran. They told Poche quite firmly that, regardless of what Colonel Simons had said, Poche was not "in charge" of them, and they had the right to make their own decision. Poche agreed, but pointed out that if they decided to take their chances here with the Iranians, they should not rely on Perot sending another rescue team in for them if they got thrown in jail. In the end the Gallaghers also decided to go on the first flight.
That afternoon they all went through their documents and destroyed everything that referred to Paul and Bill.
Poche gave each of them two thousand dollars, put five hundred dollars in his own pocket, and hid the rest of the money in his shoes, ten thousand dollars in each. He
was wearing shoes borrowed from Gayden, a size too large, to accommodate the money. He also had in his pocket a million rials, which he planned to give to Lou Goelz for Abolhasan, who would use the money to pay the remaining Iranian EDS employees their last wages.
A few minutes before five, they were saying goodbye to Goelz's houseman when the phone rang.
Poche took the call. It was Tom Walter. He said: "We have the people. Do you understand? We have the people."
"I understand," Poche said.
They all got into the car, Cathy carrying her poodle, Buffy. Poche drove. He did not tell the others about his cryptic message from Tom Walter.
They parked in a side street near the Embassy, and left the car: it would stay there until somebody decided to steal it.
There was no relief of tension for Howell as he walked into the Embassy compound. There were at least a thousand Americans milling about, but there were also scores of armed revolutionary guards. The Embassy was supposed to be American soil, inviolate; but clearly the Iranian revolutionaries did not take any notice of such diplomatic niceties.
The Clean Team was herded into a queue.
They spent most of the night waiting in line.
They queued to fill in forms, they queued to hand in their passports, and they queued for baggage checks. All the bags were put in a huge hall; then the evacuees had to find their own bags and put the claim checks on. Then they queued to open their bags so the revolutionaries could search them: every single piece was opened.
Howell learned that there would be two planes, both Pan Am 747s. One would go to Frankfurt, the other to Athens. The evacuees were organized by company, but the EDS people were included with Embassy personnel who were leaving. They would be on the Frankfurt flight.
At seven o'clock on Saturday morning they were boarded on buses to go to the airport.
It was a hell of a ride.
Two or three armed revolutionaries got on each bus. As they drove out of the Embassy gates, they saw a crowd of reporters and television crews: the Iranians had decided that the flight of the humiliated Americans would be a world television event.
The bus bumped along the road to the airport. Close to Poche was a guard about fifteen years old. He stood in the aisle, swaying with the motion of the bus, his finger on the trigger of his rifle. Poche noticed that the safety catch was off.
If he stumbled ...
The streets were full of people and traffic. Everyone seemed to know that these buses contained Americans, and their hatred was palpable. They yelled and shook their fists. A truck pulled alongside, and the driver leaned out of his window and spat on the bus.
The convoy was stopped several times. Different areas of the city seemed to be under the control of different revolutionary groups, and each group had to demonstrate its authority by stopping the buses and then giving them permission to proceed.
It took two hours to drive the six miles to the airport.
The scene there was chaotic. There were more television cameras and reporters, plus hundreds of armed men running around, some wearing scraps of uniform, some directing traffic, all of them in charge, all having a different opinion on where the buses should go.
The Americans finally got inside the terminal at nine-thirty.
Embassy personnel started distributing the passports they had collected during the night. Five were missing: those of Howell, Poche, Young, and the Gallaghers.
After Paul and Bill had given their passports to the Embassy for safekeeping back in November, the Embassy had refused to return them without informing the police. Would they pull the same trick now?
Suddenly Poche came pushing through the crowd with five passports in his hand: "I found them on a shelf behind a counter," he said. "I guess they got put there by accident."
Bob Young saw two Americans holding photographs and scanning the crowd. To his horror, they started to approach the EDS people. They walked up to Rich and Cathy Gallagher.
Surely Dadgar would not take Cathy hostage?
The people smiled and said they had some of the Gallaghers' luggage.
Young relaxed.
Friends of the Gallaghers had salvaged some of the bags from the Hyatt, and had asked these two Americans to bring them to the airport and try to give them to the Gallaghers. The people had agreed, but they did not know the Gallaghers--hence, the photographs.
It had been a false alarm, but if anything, it increased their anxiety.
Joe Poche decided to see what he could find out. He went off and located a Pan Am ticket agent. "I work for EDS," Poche told the agent. "Are the Iranians looking for anyone?"
"Yes, they're looking pretty hard for two people," said the agent.
"Anybody else?"
"No. And the stop list is several weeks old."
"Thanks."
Poche went back and told the others.
The evacuees were starting to go from the checkin concourse through to the departure lounge.
Poche said: "I suggest we split up. That way we won't look like a group, and if one or two of you get into trouble, the others may still get through. I'll be last, so if anyone has to stay behind, I'll stay, too."
Bob Young looked at his suitcase and saw that it bore a luggage tag saying: "William D. Gaylord."
He suffered a moment of panic. If the Iranians saw that, they would think he was Bill and arrest him.
He knew how it had happened. His own suitcases had been destroyed at the Hyatt by the revolutionaries who had shot up the rooms. However, one or two cases had been left more or less undamaged, and Young had borrowed one. This was it.
He tore the luggage tag off and stuffed it into his pocket, intending to get rid of it at the first opportunity.
They all went through the "Passengers Only" gate.
Next they had to pay the airport tax. This amused Poche: the revolutionaries must have decided that airport tax was the one good thing the Shah introduced, he thought.
The next queue was for passport control.
Howell reached the desk at noon.
The guard checked his exit documentation thoroughly, and stamped it. Next he looked at the picture in the passport, then looked hard at Howell's face. Finally he checked the name in the passport against a list he had on his desk.
Howell held his breath.
The guard handed him his passport and waved him through.
Joe Poche went through passport control last. The guard looked extra hard at him, comparing the face with the photograph, for Poche now had a red beard. But eventually he, too, was allowed through.
The Clean Team was in a jovial mood in the departure lounge: it was all over, Howell thought, now that they had come through passport control.
At two in the afternoon they began to pass through the gates. At this point there was normally a security check. This time, as well as searching for weapons, the guards were confiscating maps, photographs of Tehran, and large sums of money. None of the Clean Team lost their money, however; the guards did not look in Poche's shoes.
Outside the gates, some of the baggage was lined up on the tarmac. Passengers had to check whether any of theirs was there, and if so to open it for searching before it was loaded onto the plane. None of the Clean Team's bags had been picked out for this special treatment.
They boarded buses and were driven across the runway to where two 747s were waiting. Once again, the television cameras were there.
At the foot of the ladder there was yet another passport check. Howell joined the queue of five hundred people waiting to board the Frankfurt plane. He was less worried than he had been: nobody was looking for him, it seemed.
He got on the plane and found a seat. There were several armed revolutionaries on board, both in the passenger cabin and on the flight deck. The scene became confused as people who were supposed to go to Athens realized they were on the Frankfurt plane, and vice versa. All the seats filled up, then the crew seats, and still there were people without seats.
The
captain turned on the public-address system and asked for everyone's attention. The plane became quieter. "Would passengers Paul John and William Deming please identify themselves," he said.
Howell went cold.
John was the middle name of Paul Chiapparone.
Deming was the middle name of Bill Gaylord.
They were still searching for Paul and Bill.
Clearly it was not merely a question of names on a list at the airport. Dadgar was firmly in control here, and his people were relentlessly determined to find Paul and Bill.
Ten minutes later the captain came on the loudspeakers again. "Ladies and gentlemen, we still have not located Paul John or William Deming. We have been informed that we cannot take off until these two people have been located. If anyone on board knows their whereabouts, will you please let us know."
Will I hell, thought Howell.
Bob Young suddenly remembered the luggage tag in his pocket marked "William D. Gaylord." He went to the bathroom and threw it into the toilet.
The revolutionaries came down the aisle again, asking for passports. They checked each one carefully, comparing the photograph with the face of the owner.
John Howell took out a paperback book he had brought from the Dvoranchik place and tried to read it, in an effort to look unconcerned. It was Dubai, Robin Moore's thriller about intrigue in the Middle East. He could not concentrate on a paperback thriller: he was living a real one. Soon, he thought, Dadgar must realize that Paul and Bill are not on this plane.
And what will he do then?
He's so determined.
Clever, too. What a perfect way to do a passport check--on the plane, when all the passengers are in their seats and no one can hide!
But what will he do next?
He'll come aboard this damn plane himself, and walk down the aisle, looking at everyone. He won't know Rich, or Cathy, or Joe Poche, but he'll know Bob Young.
And he'll know me best of all.
In Dallas, T. J. Marquez got a call from Mark Ginsberg, the White House aide who had been trying to help with the problem of Paul and Bill. Ginsberg was in Washington, monitoring the situation in Tehran. He said: "Five of your people are on a plane standing on the runway at Tehran Airport."
"Good!" said T.J.
"It's not good. The Iranians are searching for Chiapparone and Gaylord, and they won't let the plane take off until they find the guys."
"Oh, hell."