“He’s probably not too unhappy down there. Africa has a plentiful supply of underage girls.”
“Truly a prince among men,” Grotesqcu sighed.
“Was it just a coincidence that you were talking to Rachel Millstein in the hotel lobby?”
“Yes and no. It was a coincidence that I saw her, but following her to your hotel was deliberate. I try to keep track of what the Mossad is up to, as well as the CIA, and when a Mossad agent goes to the hotel of my CIA assignment, is that a coincidence? I’ve not worked directly with Miss Millstein before, but we’ve plenty of friends and allies in Israel, fellow socialists who opted for a more amenable existence. In both Russia and Israel they’re surrounded by anti-Semites, but in Israel it’s permissible for the Jews to shoot at them. And, of course, it’s easier and less dangerous to make money there.”
With that disclosure the day shot beyond its weirdness quota. Rachel in the Mossad, the Israeli secret service? She said Ben was still a player. Still, what on earth did they think I’m doing, that Rachel would come following me?
“This is all very interesting, Emil, but I think you are right that we should not be seen spending time together. I’ve been in the café long enough for a mid-day snack, so I’d better resume my walk-around.”
“Quite so. But it’s important that we stay in touch. This country is about to blow, big trouble looms—bigger than anyone is imagining. Here’s the card for my hotel. If there’s anything I can do for you, ask for Vitaly Smirnoff. Say, in the future do you suppose you can get the CIA to assign you to Cap d’Antibes? Or Lake Como? I’d even settle for Copenhagen. You wind up in these pestholes. I shouldn’t complain—you got me out of an Afghanistan assignment, even worse than here.”
“Oh, what’s going on over there?”
“As if you didn’t know,” he said with a wink. “Until we meet again, Jake.” He got up and left the café, sticking me with the bill, as usual.
I’d now been in town five days. Jetlag was past, I was used to the climate. I had the lay of the land—some of it anyhow—a few first impressions and a lot of questions. I called Hoveyda and said I was ready. He told me to take a cab to the airport the next day and buy a round trip ticket to Bahrain: he specified the flights and assured me that space would be available. When I arrived I would be met and taken care of. I was to carry no luggage. He advised me to leave for the airport several hours prior to departure. I followed his instructions, and I informed the desk at the Semiramis on my way out that I was off on a buying trip to Mashhad for a couple of days.
The trip went smoothly enough, if you discount the traffic and the press at the airport. Bahrain is a cluster of desert islands about 600 miles south of Tehran, off the Arabian coast across the Persian Gulf. The two hour flight showed me a lot of Iran, a big country that looked mostly brown and barren. As we neared the Gulf we passed over the high-dam reservoirs and the lush farmland of the Kuhzistan plain that they irrigate. Presently the massive Kharg Island refinery/tank farm/port facility came into view and then trailed away as we traversed the blue Persian Gulf.
Bahrain would be home to a handful of fishermen, pearl divers, camel jockeys and pirates except for one thing: the vast pool of petroleum beneath it. Because of that boon it dripped with nouveau riches, sporting Rolls Royces, Jaguars, lavish residential compounds and shopping districts Rodeo Drive would be lost in. That is, the local Arabs lived like that. The poor foreigners they brought in to do the actual work of the place lived hardly better than they had in the destitute countries from which they’d been lured, and probably had less freedom. What scenery there might have been was not enhanced by the oil rigs, refineries and shipping facilities. But then, in that climate who would want to spend much time gallivanting around gawking at dubious scenery? It also was the home port of the US Fifth Fleet, with about 6,000 American sailors based there to liven the place up.
A couple of the Shah’s handlers were there to meet and greet. They spent the next two days duding me up as Macaroni Primo, visiting the shops of Mssrs. Boss, Armani, Gucci, Zegna, Magli, Ferragamo, St. Laurent, Patek, BVLGARI, Vuitton and some others I’d never heard of. A hair stylist figured out a way to give me a jet-set look without compromising the original Jake Fonko, essentially slicking my hair down and combing it straight back with no part. Morphing back to Jake Fonko, carpet buyer, I give it just a wash and tousle-dry. He told me to sit in the sun for a few hours to touch up my fading Malibu tan, and to wear my wraparound designer shades at all times. By the time they got through with me, the character I saw in the mirror was somebody who, if I found him defiling my beachfront, I’d want to punch in the nose.
Then there was the issue of persona: What kind of Italian was I going to be? Michael Corleone? Frank Sinatra? Dean Martin? Chef Boyardi? The Fonz? Rocky? For Gianni Franco, I decided the best model was La Dolce Vita—Marcello Mastroianni. Too bad I didn’t have the looks, but I could fake the manner. The problem was, I saw it about 15 years ago and it was vague in my memory. Well, what did Iranians know from Italians anyhow? I wouldn’t be doing extended public appearances, just bustling through the Hilton lobby to my transportation out front. Most likely, people wouldn’t even notice.
My return trip was an upgrade, to say the least. One of the Shah’s private jets picked me up and dropped me off at the Shah’s opulent airport terminal, set wide apart from the one the little people used. My re-entry was squared with passport control: I’d returned as Jake Fonko, not Gianni Franco, to keep the accounting straight. It made sense. Had I come in as Gianni I might have some explaining to do the next time Jake left the country. I had no passport for Gianni in any case, and there’s no law against coming back from Bahrain dressed as an Italian fop. I’m sure it happened here all the time. Uniformed porters carried my matched leather luggage out to the curb and deposited me, it and one of the Shah’s handlers in a chauffeur-driven, silver Bentley. We careered to the Hilton no faster than before, but certainly in more stately fashion.
We pulled up at the curb. The Shah’s man dispatched porters to my luggage and me to the desk. “Welcome, Mr. Franco,” beamed the manager himself. “How are things in Venice?”
“Bene, bene,” I muttered, gazing around the lobby insouciantly—Italian jet-set cool, you know. Wouldn’t think of paying attention to a mere desk clerk. My airline seat mate was passing through on the arm of a fat, balding greasy-looking man in a fine suit that he hardly did justice to. No doubt on the way to an extravagant evening, she was dressed and groomed to a sparkle. She paid me more than just casual attention.
“Here is your room key and a message,” said the manager earnestly. “I hope your stay will be pleasant.”
“Grazi, grazi,” I muttered as I accepted them languidly. My handler shepherded me and the squad of bellmen charged with my baggage to the elevator and up to my room, a different one from my previous stay. That too was quite an upgrade, an elegant suite this time. Gianni Franco traveled in style.
My gear stowed, he tipped them and sent them off. “The Princess will come for you tomorrow morning,” he informed me. “She left a note stating the particulars. Do not concern yourself with the bill or any expenses you may charge to it. Good day to you,” he concluded with a little bow, and left.
The Princess would call for me at the front entrance, 1000 sharp, the note said. Be out there, waiting. It was nearing the dinner hour. Between that and prepping myself for my meeting with the Shah, my evening was booked.
The next morning I assumed my station out front promptly at 0958, togged out in gigolo finery. My airline seatmate had been leaving the coffee shop after breakfast as I left my key at the desk, and she stopped before she reached the elevators. From my bored slouch at curbside I could see her peering through the window as the Princess and her entourage pulled up.
Bored no longer. The lead and following cars were black 7-series BMWs. The first one screeched in, expelling two husky men in sharp suits—obv
iously SAVAK—who shooed all the other traffic away. Then the Princess drove up in the most amazing car I’d ever seen. It was a silvery Mercedes of pre-World War II vintage, a two-seater convertible at least 14 feet long. Its front fenders swooped down and back about half the length of the body. Even parked it looked like it was barreling along at 90 miles an hour. The trailing car stopped close behind, and two more husky suits piled out and took stations.
The doorman swung the car door open, and I oozed down into the soft leather passenger seat. Princess Ashraf looked at me and strained to keep from laughing aloud. She was tiny, dark-haired, handsome and haughty. I could tell that she’d once been a fox, but nearing 60 she had to settle for the kind of glamor older women attain when a barrel of money is dumped over their heads. “Buon giorno, Gianni,” she said with a twinkle. “As my toy boy, you are to call me Princess and at all times be instantly attentive to my needs and whims, which are numerous, onerous, petty and arbitrary. If you satisfy me I will occasionally bestow upon you expensive but utterly useless gifts, say a three carat diamond tie tack, or a kilo of ambergris.” She chuckled. “Oh boy, wait until Mohammad sees this,” she chortled.
“Ever your faithful and devoted lapdog, Princess. What’s with this car?”
She signaled her escorts and put the car in gear. As we cleared the loading area she said, “It’s a Mercedes-Benz 500K, the ‘K’ signifying super-charged. Made in 1935. Hitler is said to have owned one, in which he loved to speed on his autobahns. Reza saw this at an exhibition and had to have it for his collection. We don’t use it much, only when we want to make an impression.”
“Wouldn’t you want to keep your toy boy sort of on the QT?”
“Nonsense, Mr. Fonko—forgive me, I can’t call you Gianni with a straight face—if I did that the people would think I was ashamed about it. We Pahlavis are never ashamed. Believe me, you aren’t the first. People have come to expect this of me. As for you—hide in plain sight. If we started off sneaking you around, it would arouse suspicions. What could be more innocent than another toy boy to comfort the fading Princess? Don’t worry, I won’t come after you. I know very well what is going on.”
She drove north, boxed between the Beemers, before which the traffic parted most obligingly. Building lots became lush and spacious, sites for houses that wouldn’t look out of place in Beverly Hills; and a few piles Beverly Hills couldn’t have afforded. We were let in through a gate manned by heavily armed military into a walled expanse of trees and lawn. The drive led past gardens, pools and fountains to a stately, two-story building of columns and porches—Niavaran Palace. It was modern, not medieval or exotic as I’d expected.
Don’t expect me to expound on the splendors of the palace or the thrill of sitting on the Peacock Throne. I was only the hired help, not visiting royalty. Didn’t meet the family, didn’t get the tour, didn’t even get a look. Princess Ashraf ushered me into a smaller, plain building, and straight to a well-appointed office—ceiling-high bookcases, highly polished rosewood desk. Paintings on the walls, expensive bric-a-brac on the counters. The Shah looked up from his work to greet us and came up short. “Jake,” he gasped, “is that really you?” Then he laughed and turned to his sister. “Ashraf, your taste in lovers becomes ever more desperate. Really, has our royal family sunk this low? Women have been stoned for less depravity than this.”
“Do not mock my toy boy, he’s the best an old bag like me can get these days,” she laughed. “I leave you gentlemen to your work. Urgent matters cry out for my attention. Nice to meet you, Mr. Fonko.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Princess.”
The Shah was a busy man, so we got down to business. This was basic orientation for me. I hadn’t learned much that he didn’t know already. But he was impressed with how much I’d picked up so far. I didn’t mention meeting Rachel and Grotesqcu, pending figuring out what was going on. Some of my questions he could not answer, and it bothered him, as they were cogent questions. An idea came to mind. “Is there any chance I could get an aerial tour of Tehran, sir? It is a huge city, and I can cover only so much on the ground. If I got the big picture I’d know better where to concentrate.”
“Do you mean, such as in a helicopter? I could arrange that. In fact it’s a good idea. We will go up together. I’ll find it instructive to see the city through an outsider’s eyes and will be on hand to answer any questions you might have.”
In the afternoon I returned to the Hilton. Rather than the Princess driving me back and depositing me, they gave me a car to drive, standard treatment for guests of the Princess. And not just any car. The Shah had a collection of about 120 classic and/or luxury cars in his collection, and he thought I might enjoy driving one of his Lamborghini Miuras. But not alone, as he provided a SAVAK escort. The traffic worsened as we dropped out of the northern sector, though it never got more congested than Los Angeles on a summer Friday rush hour. The drivers, however, were worse even than Boston’s. It was bumper cars, but woe if you bumped anybody. Courtesy not only was not contagious in Tehran, it was despised as a sign of weakness. The SAVAK delivered me safe and sound. A valet took the car away, and would bring it back when the escort called for me the next morning. After the experience of the drive over, I was not even tempted to take it out for a joy ride.
Next morning I Lamborghini-ed to the Palace to find an Army chopper sitting nearby. The Shah came out, dressed in a military uniform and ready for recon. “Let’s go,” he said, and we climbed aboard. The pilot started the rotor turning, and presently we took off. “I could fly this,” said the Shah, “but it would just distract me from surveying the city. Go slowly toward the center of the city,” he ordered the pilot. “Did you enjoy the Miura?” he asked. I nodded enthusiastically. “Ashraf has one too. We used to race each other in them back when we first built the highways and there was less traffic. Tehran was more fun in the early days,” he sighed. “Or maybe we’re just getting old.” We passed over the Hilton and he indicated a pinkish-hued compound in the vicinity. “That’s SAVAK.”
As we whap-whapped along he pointed out government buildings, Tehran University, residential districts. Crowds of people gathered here and there. He had the pilot hover above one. “I wonder what this is about,” he remarked, taking a big binocular out of its leather case. “Some kind of demonstration, it seems.”
“I’ve run across several, couldn’t figure out what some of the signs said, they being in Farsi. The US Embassy mob had anti-American signs in English. There were a lot of placards with the Ayatollah’s picture on them, same as in the demonstration I saw in Los Angeles.”
“That son of a whore…” the Shah muttered, peering through the glasses, “Hmm, ‘Death to the Shah’—several of those signs…that is not good. Where is the SAVAK? They should be seeing to those people. The demonstration activity in the city is reported to have abated in recent months, yet this is quite a number…”
We reached the district where Hotel Semiramis was located, but it was hard to pick it out. One problem with navigating Tehran is that it is flat and the buildings tend to be the same height—apartment and office buildings ranging from three stories, to as tall as six—and there are few vertical landmarks other than minarets at mosques here and there. The Shah traced out locations by the streets, but even he had trouble occasionally. I had the pilot circle around the areas I’d explored so I could get a fix on locations, distances and relationships. Away from the foothills at the northern end Tehran was a sea of mud-colored buildings with flat rooftops divided by jammed boulevards, punctuated with new high-rises and parks here and there. As we passed over the US Embassy compound the Shah asked about the mob outside. “It’s been that way every time I went by,” I told him. “Looks a little bigger today.” He nodded grimly as he checked it out with his binocs: “Death to the Shah,” he muttered. .”.. do they really mean that…The Great Satan? They call America that, I apologize.” We drifted down toward the Bazaar, and he po
inted out some compounds and larger dwellings. “Those belong to Bazaaris. They control much of the wealth in the city and are very powerful. They have called strikes in the past that paralyzed everything. I have been trying to attenuate their power, but it is difficult—they are not breaking any laws, after all. At least, no worse than anyone else.”
We veered to the east, then back to the west—more rooftops…many more. I was appreciating just how big Tehran was. Also more mobs here and there. “This is odd,” remarked the Shah. “This is not a holiday or anything. Why are these people not at work? What is drawing them out?” He studied them with the glasses. “More of those signs. Grievances. The very ones I have been trying to mitigate. Don’t they understand what we’ve been doing?” He looked at me. “Reports I get have not been accurate.”
Then we swung south of the Bazaar, crossed above the railroad tracks, and the cityscape changed. I had not walked down this far, had not seen the squalid shacks and shanties and the crowded alleyways. The Shah studied the area intently. “What is this, slums?” he muttered. “This is distressing. And look at the women in veils and chadors. That is illegal in Iran, my father outlawed those in 1936, don’t they know that? Jake, I am ashamed to admit it, but this is something new to me. I never drive through this district, nor have I paid attention to it from the air. I don’t think it even is delineated on the City maps. Look at how far it spreads! The ministers have told me the population figures—yes, Tehran is growing rapidly, people moving in from the rural areas. I was told the housing construction program was accommodating them, but look at this…and they are illiterate farmers with no modern skills. What do they do? How do they live? There don’t seem to be as many mobs here, yet that is a vast number of poor people.” It was indeed—the southern slums stretched far and wide.
We returned to the Palace and sat down in the office to review what we’d seen. The Shah was upset, tired and subdued. “Our survey does not square with what my ministers are reporting to me, and this time I saw with my own eyes. There is more unrest than I’d supposed, and I hadn’t realized the extent of the poor. Those veiled women in the slums bother me. We are trying to modernize, and they are a step backward. Khomeini is featured in the demonstrations, and that could be trouble, as he continues to have a big following. Yet I do not think there is cause for alarm. I am the 466th Persian Shah, a dynasty going back twenty five centuries, a line that cannot be broken. I have been striving to improve conditions, they will see, they must be made to see. How could I be overthrown? I have 700,000 troops, and the support of all the workers and most of the people. The opposition is split between the Marxists and the Islamists, and those two groups will never get together.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 32