I thanked him, got out and walked in through the front door. A receptionist noted my entry and consulted a date book. “Mr. Fonko, is it? Mr. Hoveyda will be with you in a moment. Please be seated. Would you like some tea?”
I accepted the tea and planted myself on the offered chair. She brought it on a tray, along with a dish of sugar cubes. The custom, I’d read, was to drink the tea through a sugar cube clenched in your front teeth. I wasn’t about to try it and risk dribbling tea down my shirt, so just sipped at the tea as is. A couple of minutes later a dapper, balding man in a business suit came out of a hallway and approached me. “Mr. Fonko? I am Amir Abbas Hoveyda, the Shah’s Minister of Court. He has asked me to acquaint you with the situation in preparation for your appointment.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hoveyda,” I replied. He looked like somebody’s competent, successful uncle. We shook hands, and he had me follow him down a short hallway.
“You are probably wondering why his Excellency has chosen to meet with you at the Ministry of Trade. He does not want you to be seen meeting with him, and certainly an American carpet buyer would not be received in the Niavaran Palace. Whereas the Ministry of Trade is a natural venue for you to visit.”
I followed him into a conference room. Three other distinguished men were seated at the table. They were middle-aged with hair ranging from greying to receding, sleek and obviously well-fed. My off-the-rack hopsack suit was decidedly downscale compared to the fine tailoring greeting me. Mr. Hoveyda introduced them: Farokh Najmabadi, the Minister of Mines and Industry. General Gholamreza Azahri, the Shah’s Chief of Staff. And General Nasser Moghadam, head of the SAVAK.
As each was introduced we shook hands. Formalities over, each in turn made a short presentation, very briefly summarizing his perspective. When all were finished Mr. Hoveyda asked me if I had any questions. No, not right then, I said. Then each presented me with a thick binder of papers. I thanked them, we exchanged more formalities, and the three ministers departed.
“That’s a more important contingent than I’d have thought I rated,” I remarked.
“It was for their benefit, not yours,” said Hoveyda “The Shah wanted them to meet you, because they know you will be working for him. There is some concern about what you might tell him.”
“I suppose the contents of these binders is highly confidential?”
“Not especially so. Most of it is general knowledge, though perhaps not reported in the foreign press. Essentially, that information is what each of those gentlemen want you to know, for their own benefit.”
“I’ll read it with great interest. General Moghadam—he seemed more than reserved, almost hostile. Did I do something wrong?”
“It is the way of the SAVAK, that is all. They are the Shah’s secret police, feared by all, as it should be. Their reputation for ruthlessness is perhaps a little overblown, but certainly they can be if the situation warrants. They serve the Shah well. Some would say too well.”
“Should I watch my step with them?”
“No more than you watch your step with any police. You are working for the Shah. They know that.” I didn’t feel comfortable with Moghadam’s vibe, but had no more to say about it. After a short pause, Hoveyda continued, “The Shah will be here presently. I will leave you to wait for him. After your interview with him I will talk to you again.”
“Does the Shah speak English? Or will I need a translator?”
“English is one of the five languages he speaks.” And with that he left, shutting the door behind him.
After a few minutes the door at the other side of the room opened, and a greying, hesitant man in an ordinary business suit shuffled in. This was Shah Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, Shahanshah, King of Kings, the proud monarch whose be-medaled visage festooned Iran from border to border? He looked more like an old tortoise who had lost his shell. Tired, wan, wary, a little stooped over. They weren’t going to festoon Iran with any photos taken recently. I rose to meet him.
“Mr. Jake Fonko? I am pleased to meet you. I have heard many favorable things about you.”
“I am honored, your Excellency,” I replied, shaking his offered hand. He bade me be seated.
“First thing, Jake, if I may call you ‘Jake’, is, do not call me ‘Excellency’ or ‘Majesty’. Every time I hear ‘Excellency’ or ‘Majesty’ I know that either I was just lied to, or that I am about to be lied to. I am surrounded by people calling me ‘your Excellency,’ all the while buttering me up and telling me nothing but self-serving inventions. Oh, I don’t mean they are necessarily malicious in these lies, it’s just that this society is so damnably polite. Never criticize or contradict, you might embarrass somebody! These times require better than that. Americans are very rude by our standards, meaning that they speak their minds without caring overmuch for the other person’s feelings. That is what I need now, and that is why you are here. No one calls me by my name, but for you, ‘Sir’ will be just fine. Did you find the briefing informative?” he asked.
“They were cursory, but I’m sure these binders they gave me will tell me much I need to know.”
The Shah snorted. “Not likely. Minister Najmabadi is pocketing oil company money. General Azhari is collecting bribes and commissions from defense contractors. General Moghadam is padding a Swiss account with payoffs from the foreign banks, among others. All my other ministers, and their deputies, likewise. My own family is awash in corrupt business dealings. I know all that. I wish they would not do it, but they are my family…what can I do? I admonish them but they know they can get away with it. You think there’s any truth in those binders? Or anything useful? Those men, every one else in my government, have been led to believe that you are here to interpret American intelligence and sort out the wheat from the chaff. But that is not our problem. The Americans are not the issue here. It is possible that your CIA and the British MI6 harbor some plots against me, they always have, it’s expected; but good heavens, they’re just part of the throng. No, if you make proper allowances where self-interests arise, the Americans are probably the most trustworthy of the lot. Their corporations deliver good value for money, and while your government agencies might be circumspect and occasionally ineffectual or uninformed, at least they are not outright mendacious, like the Russians and the British.”
“Well, sir, then what is it that you want me to do?”
“I want you to find out the truth for me, however you have to do it. Nobody will do that. ‘Everyone was afraid to lie to my father, but to me they are afraid to tell the truth’—that’s what people say. It is to some extent accurate, and much my own fault, I’ll admit. I can be harsh with disagreement or when my plans are thwarted. So I am routinely misinformed, by my own people, and it is your job to solve that. Without letting anyone know. You were chosen because my sources gave you highest marks for integrity and honesty.”
“I’m flattered that you say that. In my combat unit and my intelligence work that was mandatory, and it’s a policy I strive to adhere to.”
“No one will tell me the truth about what is going on in my own country! That’s your assignment. Find out, then tell me.”
“Not just vetting reports, but actual on the ground intelligence work, then.”
“Exactly. Go out in the city. Go to other cities. Poke around. Talk to people. You are a carpet buyer. Go into the Bazaar. Roam around, see what’s going on. Use your own eyes and ears.”
Lordy, lordy. The exact thing Evanston warned me against. “Okay. Once I learn something of value, how do I report it to you?”
“This is the difficult part, because Tehran teems with spies on every side from every faction. Assume that you are being watched at all times by many interested parties, the SAVAK, the student rebel groups, probably your own CIA, who knows who all? Never forget that, trust no one, and act accordingly. Be especially careful of the SAVAK. Supposedly they’re my secret police and on y
our side, but some of them have interests that your inquiries may threaten. And they are ruthless, the most feared and hated section of my government. They are necessary to my government, but be warned.
“You arrived here as an American carpet buyer, so you must maintain that guise. It is natural that you will have dealings with the Ministry of Trade, so there is no harm in your being seen here. People wish to assassinate me, so coming here is a big risk I do not take lightly, bullet-proof cars notwithstanding. Therefore your contact will be Mr. Hoveyda. He is the one in government nearest to being honest; he may not even be on the take anywhere. Nevertheless, he is not to know the true nature of your work. He and I have had a falling out, but I know that you can rely on him. When you have something to tell me, let him know and he will arrange the meeting.
“Now, it would be unheard of for a common American carpet buyer to visit the Niavaran Palace. For you to do so would arouse suspicions. Therefore I have cooked up another identity for you. You will visit the Palace as my twin sister’s latest toy boy, ‘Gianni Franco’, an Italian jet-setter. You were checked in at the Hilton Hotel under that name last night, and the senior staff there is privy to this scheme. But as Jake Fonko, carpet buyer, you will be staying at Hotel Semiramis, which is closer to the Bazaar, the Ministry of Trade and the US Embassy, and which will be your base of operations henceforth. Your belongings have already been transferred from the Hilton. Take a few days to get rested and comfortable and to find your way around, then contact Mr. Hoveyda. Tell the staff at Hotel Semiramis that you are going to some carpet center for a buying tour—Isfahan, Shiraz, Tabriz, Mashhad, you know the spots. In fact, some trips out to these locations would inform your intelligence gatherings.
“You will then come to the Ministry of Trade, inconspicuously. You will be flown to Bahrain, outfitted as ‘Gianni Franco’, and returned on one of the Royal jets, to the Hilton. My sister will pick you up there and bring you to the Palace, and we will confer. When you go back to being a carpet buyer, you will simply inform the Hilton desk that ‘Gianni’ is off on another escapade to some jet-set watering hole, then inconspicuously repair to the Semiramis. Do you anticipate any problems with this plan?”
“No, I think I can execute it with no difficulties.” Hoo boy! He hired me to tell him the truth, and already I was telling him lies. Well, maybe it would work out. Did I have any better ideas? Not right now.
“Good, it is as I expected. Now, for the business side of our arrangement. If you are successful in finding out useful and important truths and conveying them to my satisfaction, you will be given the number of a Swiss Bank account in which Mr. Hoveyda has deposited one million American dollars. In the meantime you will be paid the equivalent of eight thousand dollars each month, plus an unlimited amount for legitimate expenses, including your hotels. Of course, in Tehran you will live in a style that befits a commercial traveler, that is to say frugally. I cannot estimate how long your assignment will last. We will both know when it should come to a conclusion.
“Thank you for coming to help me, Jake. I look forward to your reports. But for our first meeting in the Palace, you are not obliged to report anything. Rather, we will discuss what I do not know and what, therefore, you must find out. Mr. Hoveyda is in the room on the other side of that door. He will set up your arrangements and familiarize you with some of the ins and outs and eccentricities of Tehran. After which a cab will take you to the Hotel Semiramis. I will next see you in a few days. Good day, and good luck.”
The Shah left, and I went through the door he indicated into a smaller room where Hoveyda was waiting. Our conference was brief, mostly covering the logistics of getting around Tehran, the layout of the city, the currency, the account he’d set up for me at one of the banks in town, and various local customs and practices he thought I should know. He told me that half my first month’s salary had been deposited in my account—available in any currency I wished—and handed me a packet containing the other half, in rials. He then arranged for a cab and escorted me to the door.
“I think you will find the Semiramis satisfactory. Not as posh as the Hilton, but adequate. It is at a good location in the central district. Many foreigners stay there, business and government people.”
“We carpet buyers do not bask in luxury,” I assured him. “Thank you for your help and advice, Mr. Hoveyda. I will be in touch in a few days. I should call the number on your card?”
“Yes, I am usually there, but if not leave a message and I’ll return the call promptly. Good luck, Mr. Fonko. The Shah is counting on you.”
The cab deposited me at my new digs, a several story off-white building with a lot of windows, fronting on Roosevelt Avenue about a block from the US Embassy. The lobby was small, not suited to large gatherings. Their restaurant occupied the top floor, but I noted a room off to the side where breakfast was served. The general condition of the place qualified as seedy. I went to the reception desk, and before I could utter a word the Hajj-capped clerk said, “Has your morning gone well, Mr. Fonko? I think it will be a little cooler today. Did you sleep well last night? I hope everything has been to your satisfaction. Here is your key. I believe the maids have straightened up your room already.”
I was supposed to act like I’d already stayed here. The room number was on the key, so I did not have to ask what it was, and the elevator was in plain sight. “I enjoyed my morning stroll,” I remarked. “Tehran is a fine city.”
“Indeed it is, sir. And with the cooler weather arriving, I am sure you will like it even more.”
I took the elevator to the fifth floor and found my room. It was small, verging on shabby. It contained a saggy bed, a table and chair, a dresser and an armoire. Rather than a seascape or a sunset like American motels, only a framed photo of the Shah adorned the walls. The window looked down on a street lined with shops, cafes and the like. Quite a comedown from the Hilton, but at least it had a bathroom en suite with a western toilet and toilet paper. A squat-hole in the floor and a hose were the norm in this part of the world, the bane of Americans (“Eat with your right hand, and never offer your left hand to anyone you do not wish to insult,” Hoveyda had advised me—the same as in Southeast Asia). My effects had been assembled and my luggage brought from the Hilton and left on the bed unpacked. I expected that it had been searched, but as it contained nothing incriminating nor valuable enough to be worth stealing, that didn’t bother me.
I arranged my things, then sat down to think. The morning’s meetings had gone well enough, though I faced a more complicated assignment than I’d been led to expect: basic recon in a hostile, third world city from a standing start. Phnom Penh all over again, but at least Tehran wasn’t a war zone (yet). My boning up prior to coming here wouldn’t go far: evidently things were happening not covered in general public knowledge, else why would the Shah have brought me in? I’d been in a plane, and an airport, and a car, and a hotel, and a car, and an office building, and a car, and now a hotel—not much exposure to the real Tehran so far. Step one was to range around and scope out the lay of the land. On the bright side, at least I was being adequately paid for the work I’d be doing…or so I thought.
It was now the lunch hour, so I hung up my suit and donned a casual shirt and trousers. The restaurant upstairs served a decent meal, though the service was surly and sloppy—notwithstanding which the staff lined up when you left, expecting tips. Tehran was drowsy during the heat of the day, so I nursed my tea for a while before setting out for a stroll around town. Hotel Semiramis sat in the business district, the sprawling “center of town.” The US Embassy was visible from the rooftop restaurant, and I spotted the Ministry of Trade about a half mile in the other direction. The Bazaar was over a mile to the south, though I couldn’t see it from atop Hotel Semiramis.
The air was hot and dusty, the sun unrelenting. Still subject to jetlag and travel fatigue, I limited my first foray in town to a leisurely afternoon walkabout. Tehran was a
drab place on the outside, though often colorful within—carpets, mirrored walls, garish decor. Most buildings I saw were older, low, surfaced with plaster, stucco or brick. Newer ones were taller, had more windows. This was a district of foreign embassies, banks, money-changers, bookstores, mid-range hotels, restaurants, airline offices, businesses of all descriptions with their signs in Farsi, often also in English, sometimes French thrown in for good measure. Around the district core the ambiance was quaint and “third-world striving”—trying hard to be modern but having not yet solved problems such as traffic control and air-conditioning. The main streets were clogged with late model cars originating from a variety of countries; motorbikes and bicycles; plus the occasional horse cart and donkey wagon, all creeping, or crashing around if someone found an opening. The streets were surprisingly clean. A low smog hung in the air, one more reminder of L.A. Along the main boulevards, clear water burbled gently down culverts on both sides, with shade trees planted alongside.
A number of older masonry buildings were coming down, taller steel frame buildings going up. Out with the old, up with the new. The old joke about the construction crane being the national bird pertained here. The workers did not seem to be Iranian.
I found my bank too early for the afternoon hours. So I strolled around some more, taking in different streets and blocks, getting a feel for the place. At the US Embassy Westerners entered one guarded entrance, while locals mobbed around another. The locals did not seem friendly. A dispirited long line waited admittance for Embassy business (visas to get into the US, that is), while other groups demonstrated and protested, brandishing signs in English and Farsi, “Down With America” and “Yankee Go Home” being popular themes. Armed troops and SAVAK kept an eye on them. Embassies of other nations (for example the Netherlands, France and Russia) did not attract the same degree of disgruntlement as the Great Satan (a local nickname for the US of A).
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 30