On Wings of Eagles

by Ken Follett

  "There's no air traffic control over Iran, so the plane has to take off before nightfall. We aren't sure what's going to happen, but there's not much time left. Your people may be taken off the plane."

  "You can't let them do that!"

  "I'll keep you in touch."

  T. J. hung up. After all that Paul and Bill and the Dirty Team had been through, would EDS now end up with more of its people in a Tehran jail? It did not bear thinking about.

  The time was six-thirty A.M. in Dallas, four P.M. in Tehran. They had two hours of daylight left.

  T. J. picked up the phone. "Get me Perot."

  "Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot, "Paul John and William Deming have not been located. The man in charge on the ground will now do another passport check."

  The passengers groaned.

  Howell wondered who was the man in charge on the ground.

  Dadgar?

  It might be one of Dadgar's staff. Some of them knew Howell, some did not.

  He peered along the aisle.

  Someone came aboard. Howell stared. It was a man in a Pan Am uniform.

  Howell relaxed.

  The man went slowly down the plane, checking each of five hundred passports, doing a face-to-picture identification, then examining the photographs and seals to see whether they had been tampered with.

  "Ladies and gentlemen. Captain speaking again. They have decided to check the baggage as it is loaded. If you hear your claim check number called, would you please identify yourself."

  Cathy had all the claim checks in her handbag. As the first numbers were called, Howell saw her sorting through the checks. He tried to attract her attention, to signal her not to identify herself: it might be a trick.

  More numbers were called, but nobody got up. Howell guessed everyone had decided they would rather lose their baggage than risk getting off this plane.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, please identify yourselves when these numbers are called. You will not have to get off the plane, just hand over your keys so the bags can be opened for searching."

  Howell was not reassured. He watched Cathy, still trying to catch her eye. More numbers were called, but she did not get up.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, some good news. We have checked with Pan Am's European headquarters, and have been given permission to take off with an overload of passengers."

  There was a ragged cheer.

  Howell looked over at Joe Poche. Poche had his passport on his chest and he was sitting back with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. Joe must have ice in his veins, Howell thought.

  There was sure to be a lot of pressure on Dadgar as the sun went down. It had to be obvious that Paul and Bill were not on the plane. If a thousand people were deplaned and escorted back to the Embassy, the revolutionary authorities would have to go through the whole rigmarole again tomorrow--and somebody up there was bound to say "No way!" to that.

  Howell knew that he and the rest of the Clean Team were certainly guilty of crimes now. They had connived at the escape of Paul and Bill, and whether the Iranians called that conspiracy, or being an accessory after the fact, or some other name, it had to be against the law. He went over in his mind the story they had all agreed to tell if they were arrested. They had left the Hyatt on Monday morning, they would say, and had gone to Keane Taylor's house. (Howell had wanted to tell the truth, and say the Dvoranchik place, but the others had pointed out that this might bring down trouble on the head of Dvoranchik's landlady, whereas Taylor's landlord did not live on the premises.) They had spent Monday and Tuesday at Taylor's, then had gone to Lou Goelz's house on Tuesday afternoon. From then on, they would tell the truth.

  The story would not protect the Clean Team: Howell knew all too well that Dadgar did not care whether his hostages were guilty or innocent.

  At six o'clock the captain said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have permission to take off."

  The doors were slammed and the plane was moving within seconds. The passengers without seats were told by stewardesses to sit on the floor. As they taxied, Howell thought: surely we wouldn't stop now, even if we were ordered to ...

  The 747 gathered speed along the runway and took off.

  They were still in Iranian airspace. The Iranians could send up fighter jets ...

  A little later the captain said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have now departed Iranian airspace."

  The passengers gave a weary cheer.

  We made it, Howell thought.

  He picked up his paperback thriller.

  Joe Poche left his seat and went to find the chief steward.

  "Is there any way the pilot could get a message through to the States?" he asked.

  "I don't know," the steward said. "Write your message, and I'll ask him."

  Poche returned to his seat and got out paper and a pen. He wrote: To Merv Stauffer, 7171 Forest Lane, Dallas, Texas.

  He thought for a minute about what his message should be. He recalled EDS's recruiting motto: "Eagles don't flock--you have to find them one at a time." He wrote:

  The eagles have flown their nest.

  2_____

  Ross Perot wanted to meet up with the Clean Team before returning to the States: he was keen to get everyone together, so that he could see and touch them all and be absolutely sure they were safe and well. However, on Friday in Istanbul he could not confirm the destination of the evacuation flight that would bring the Clean Team out of Tehran. John Carlen, the laid-back pilot of the leased Boeing 707, had the answer to that problem. "Those evacuation planes must fly up over Istanbul," he said. "We'll just sit on the runway until they pass overhead, then call them on the radio and ask them." In the end that was not necessary: Stauffer called on Saturday morning and told Perot the Clean Team would be on the Frankfurt plane.

  Perot and the others checked out of the Sheraton at midday and went to the airport to join Boulware and Simons on the plane. They took off late in the afternoon.

  When they were in the air Perot called Dallas: with the plane's single-sideband radio it was as easy as calling from New York. He reached Merv Stauffer.

  "What's happening with the Clean Team?" Perot asked.

  "I got a message," said Stauffer. "It came from the European headquarters of Pan Am. It just says: 'The eagles have flown their nest.' "

  Perot smiled. All safe.

  Perot left the flight deck and returned to the passenger cabin. His heroes looked washed out. At Istanbul Airport he had sent Taylor into the duty-free shop to buy cigarettes, snacks, and liquor, and Taylor had spent over a thousand dollars. They all had a drink to celebrate the escape of the Clean Team, but nobody was in the mood, and ten minutes later they were all sitting around on the plush upholstery with their glasses still full. Someone started a poker game, but it petered out.

  The crew of the 707 included two pretty stewardesses. Perot got them to put their arms around Taylor, then took a photograph. He threatened to show the photo to Taylor's wife, Mary, if Taylor ever gave him a hard time.

  Most of them were too tired to sleep, but Gayden went back to the luxurious bedroom and lay down on the king-size bed. Perot was a little miffed: he thought Simons, who was older and looked completely drained, should have had the bed.

  But Simons was talking to one of the stewardesses, Anita Melton. She was a vivacious blond Swedish girl in her twenties, with a zany sense of humor, a wild imagination, and a penchant for the outlandish. She was fun. Simons recognized a kindred soul, someone who did not care too much about what other people thought, an individual. He liked her. He realized that it was the first time since the death of Lucille that he had felt attracted to a woman.

  He really had come back to life.

  Ron Davis began to feel sleepy. The king-size bed was big enough for two, he thought; so he went into the bedroom and lay down beside Gayden.

  Gayden opened his eyes. "Davis?" he said incredulously. "What the hell are you doing in bed with me?"

  "Don't sweat it," said Davis. "Now you can tel
l all your friends you slept with a nigger." He closed his eyes.

  As the plane approached Frankfurt, Simons recalled that he was still responsible for Paul and Bill, and his mind went back to work, extrapolating possibilities for enemy action. He asked Perot: "Does Germany have an extradition treaty with Iran?"

  "I don't know," said Perot.

  He got The Simons Look.

  "I'll find out," he added.

  He called Dallas and asked for Tom Luce, the lawyer. "Tom, does Germany have an extradition treaty with Iran?"

  Luce said: "I'm ninety-nine percent sure they do not."

  Perot told Simons.

  Simons said: "I've seen men killed because they were ninety-nine percent sure they were safe."

  Perot said to Luce: "Let's get a hundred percent sure. I'll call again in a few minutes."

  They landed at Frankfurt and checked into a hotel within the airport complex. The German desk clerk seemed curious, and fully noted all their passport numbers. This increased Simons's unease.

  They gathered in Perot's room, and Perot called Dallas again. This time he spoke to T. J. Marquez.

  T. J. said: "I called an international lawyer in Washington, and he thinks there is an extradition treaty between Iran and Germany. Also, he said the Germans are kind of legalistic about stuff like this, and if they got a request to pick up Paul and Bill, they'd probably go right ahead and do it."

  Perot repeated all of that to Simons.

  "Okay," said Simons. "We're not going to take any chances at this point in the game. There's a movie house with three screens down at the basement level in this airport. Paul and Bill can hide in them ... where's Bill?"

  "Gone to buy toothpaste," someone said.

  "Jay, go find him."

  Coburn went out.

  Simons said: "Paul goes into one theater, with Jay. Bill goes into another, with Keane. Pat Sculley stands guard outside. He has a ticket, so he can go in and check on the others."

  It was interesting, Perot thought, to see the switches turn and the wheels start rolling as Simons changed from an old man relaxing on a plane to a commando leader again.

  Simons said: "The entrance to the train station is down in the basement, near the movies. If there's any sign of trouble Sculley gets the four men out of the movies and they all take a subway downtown. They rent a car and drive to England. If nothing happens, we get them out of the movies when we're about to board the plane. All right, let's do it."

  Bill was down in the shopping precinct. He had changed some money and bought toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a comb. He decided that a fresh new shirt would make him feel human again, so he went to change some more money. He was standing in line at the currency-exchange booth when Coburn tapped him on the shoulder.

  "Ross wants to see you in the hotel," Coburn said.

  "What for?"

  "I can't talk about it now, you need to come on back."

  "You've got to be kidding!"

  "Let's go."

  They went to Perot's room, and Perot explained to Bill what was happening. Bill could hardly believe it. He had thought for sure he was safe in modem, civilized Germany. Would he ever be safe? he wondered. Would Dadgar pursue him to the ends of the earth, never resting until Bill was returned to Iran or killed?

  Coburn did not know whether there was any real chance of Paul and Bill getting into trouble here in Frankfurt, but he did know the value of Simons's elaborate precautions. Much of what Simons had planned, over the past seven weeks, had come to nothing: the attack on the first jail, the idea of snatching Paul and Bill from house arrest, the route out via Kuwait. But then, some of the contingencies for which Simons planned had come to pass, often the most far-fetched ones: the Gasr Prison had been stormed and Rashid was there; the road to Sero, which Simons and Coburn had carefully reconnoitered, had in the end been their route out; even making Paul and Bill learn all the information on their false passports had turned out to be crucial when the man in the long black overcoat started asking questions. Coburn needed no convincing: whatever Simons said was okay with him.

  They went down to the movie house. There were three films: two were porno movies and the third was Jaws II. Bill and Taylor got Jaws II. Paul and Coburn went in to see something about naked South Sea maidens.

  Paul sat staring at the screen, bored and tired. The movie was in German, not that the dialogue appeared to count for much. What could be worse, he thought, than a bad X-rated movie? Suddenly he heard a loud snort. He looked at Coburn.

  Coburn was fast asleep, snoring.

  When John Howell and the rest of the Clean Team landed at Frankfurt, Simons had everything set up for a quick turnaround.

  Ron Davis was at the arrival gate, waiting to pull the Clean Team out of the line and direct them to another gate where the Boeing 707 was parked. Ralph Boulware was watching from a distance: as soon as he saw the first member of the Clean Team arrive, he would go down to the movie theater and tell Sculley to round up the guys inside. Jim Schwebach was in the roped-off press area, where reporters were waiting to see the American evacuees. He was sitting next to writer Pierre Salinger (who did not know how close he was to a really good story) and pretending to read a furniture advertisement in a German newspaper. Schwebach's job was to tail the Clean Team from one gate to the other, just to make sure no one was following them. If there was trouble, Schwebach and Davis would start a disturbance. It would not matter much if they were arrested by the Germans, for there was no reason for them to be extradited to Iran.

  The plan went like clockwork. There was only one hitch: Rich and Cathy Gallagher did not want to go to Dallas. They had no friends or family there, they were not sure what their future would be, they did not know whether the dog, Buffy, would be allowed to enter the U.S.A., and they did not want to get on another plane. They said goodbye and went off to make their own arrangements.

  The rest of the Clean Team--John Howell, Bob Young, and Joe Poche--followed Ron Davis and boarded the Boeing 707. Jim Schwebach tailed them. Ralph Boulware rounded up everyone else, and they all got on board for the flight home.

  Merv Stauffer in Dallas had called Frankfurt Airport and ordered food for the flight. He had asked for thirty superdeluxe meals, each including fish, fowl, and beef; six seafood trays with sauce, horseradish and lemon; six hors d'oeuvre trays; six sandwich trays with ham-and-cheese, roast beef, turkey, and Swiss cheese; six dip trays with raw vegetables and blue-cheese-and-vinaigrette dip; three cheese trays with assorted breads and crackers; four deluxe pastry trays; four fresh-fruit trays; four bottles of brandy; twenty Seven-Ups and twenty ginger ales; ten club sodas and ten tonics; ten quarts of orange juice; fifty cartons of milk; four gallons of freshly brewed coffee in Thermos bottles; one hundred sets of plastic cutlery consisting of knife, fork, and spoon; six dozen paper plates in two sizes; six dozen plastic glasses; six dozen Styrofoam cups; two cartons each of Kent, Marlboro, Kool, and Salem Light cigarettes; and two boxes of chocolates.

  There had been a mix-up, and the airport caterers had delivered the order double.

  Takeoff was delayed. An ice storm had dropped out of nowhere, and the Boeing 707 was last in the queue for deicing--commercial flights had priority. Bill began to worry. The airport was going to close at midnight, and they might have to get off the plane and return to the hotel. Bill did not want to spend the night in Germany. He wanted American soil beneath his feet.

  John Howell, Joe Poche, and Bob Young told the story of their flight from Tehran. Both Paul and Bill were chilled to hear how implacably determined Dadgar had been to prevent their leaving the country.

  At last the plane was de-iced--but then its Number 1 engine would not start. Pilot John Carlen traced the problem to the start valve. Engineer Ken Lenz got off the plane and held the valve open manually while Carlen started the engine.

  Perot brought Rashid to the flight deck. Rashid had never flown until yesterday, and he wanted to sit with the crew. Perot said to Carlen: "Let's have a really spectacu
lar takeoff."

  "You got it," said Carlen. He taxied to the runway, then took off in a very steep climb.

  In the passenger cabin Gayden was laughing: he had just heard that, after six weeks in jail with all-male company, Paul had been forced to sit through an X-rated movie; and he thought it was funny as hell.

  Perot popped a champagne cork and proposed a toast. "Here's to the men who said what they were going to do, then went out and did it."

  Ralph Boulware sipped his champagne and felt a warm glow. That's right, he thought. We said what we were going to do; then we went out and did it. Right.

  He had another reason to be happy. Next Monday was Kecia's birthday: she would be seven. Every time he had called Mary she had said: "Get home in time for Kecia's birthday." It looked like he was going to make it.

  Bill began to relax at last. Now there's nothing but a plane ride between me and America and Emily and the kids, he thought. Now I'm safe.

  He had imagined himself safe before: when he reached the Hyatt in Tehran, when he crossed the border into Turkey, when he took off from Van, and when he landed in Frankfurt. He had been wrong each time.

  And he was wrong now.

  3_____

  Paul had always been crazy about airplanes, and now he took the opportunity to sit on the flight deck of the Boeing 707.

  As the plane flew across the north of England, he realized that pilot John Carlen, engineer Ken Lenz, and first officer Joe Fosnot were having trouble. On autopilot the plane was drifting, first to the left and then to the right. The compass had failed, rendering the inertial navigation system erratic.

  "What does all that mean?" Paul asked.

  "It means we'll have to hand-fly this thing all the way across the Atlantic," said Carlen. "We can do it--it's kind of exhausting, that's all."

  A few minutes later the plane became very cold, then very hot. Its pressurization system was failing.

  Carlen took the plane down low.

  "We can't cross the Atlantic at this height," he told Paul.

  "Why not?"

  "We don't have enough fuel--an aircraft uses much more fuel at low altitudes."

  "Why can't we fly high?"

  "Can't breathe up there."

  "The plane has oxygen masks."

  "But not enough oxygen to cross the Atlantic. No plane carries that much oxygen."