Was this just a coincidence, or was he referring to moi?
The next day we attended services in a mosque in the slum district. Saeed was too well known in the Bazaar’s mosques to get away with sneaking me in, and he didn’t think they were very revolutionary anyhow. He, too, was curious to see how things looked in the belly of the beast, so he dressed down for our field trip. We chose a mosque with a large congregation, where he didn’t think we’d have trouble if I followed along with what everyone was doing and kept my mouth shut. Mullahs and Imams are priests of a sort, but not in the sense of the Christians or Jews. There is no formal hierarchy. They act as much political as spiritual leaders.
The crowd of the Faithful milled around, chattering animatedly and gathering up tape cassettes of Ayatollah Khomeini’s speeches and exhortations (Saeed told me the tapes arrived from France labeled as “oriental music” to outwit customs), supplemented by literature for the literate among them. The books and pamphlets on display were in Farsi, but lurid, cartoonish illustrations of devils, Uncle Sams, apes and pigs intermixed with the Stars and Stripes and Stars of David left no doubt of content most unflattering to obvious enemies.
The Muslim routine of prayer opened the meeting, then speechifying commenced. Speeches? More like a down-home tent revival. Eyes gleaming, fists flailing, white teeth flashing out from his black beard, the white-turbaned mullah was a furious, Koran-thumping, sure-enough rabble-rouser. Saeed could barely keep pace translating his harangues. The fired-up throng roared approval with loud shouts of “death to the Shah,” apparently the local equivalent of “amen, brother.” “Is that just something they yell for effect?” I whispered to Saeed from behind my hand. He assured me that they meant it sincerely.
The mullah yielded the floor to another speaker, who declaimed angrily. “They’re up in arms about the Princess Ashraf’s latest lover-boy,” Saeed whispered. “He’s an American mafia gangster, and he was known to be consorting with a French whore. That’s the last straw for them. Khomeini has issued a fatwa on him.”
“And a fatwa is…?”
“Death sentence. Open season. Seventy two virgins, guaranteed. Maybe some reward money too.”
Great. Just what I needed. But there was more to come. Next was a long, multi-participant harangue. “What was that all about?”
“There were some leaks in their security. Plans to recruit villagers around Shiraz for the cause were thwarted by British spies and the SAVAK. They think the leaks emanated from an American spy masquerading as a carpet buyer, who was known to have been in Shiraz. He was also seen in conference with a Mossad agent and with a KGB agent, and he reports to American spy agencies. They are debating who to assign to find him and neutralize him.” Oh boy, I’d have to alert Rachel. Her cover was blown too, if she ever had any cover. Emil could take care of himself.
Better keep both eyes on my backtrail. But that was not all, oh no. Another fellow gained the floor and made an announcement. “Oh oh, this may mean trouble,” Saeed whispered. “He reports that an infidel is infiltrating their ranks. A westerner was buying native clothing in the Bazaar, and why would be do that but to impersonate and spy on the Faithful? He thinks an all-out search should begin immediately. He said ‘Look around you, brothers! Spread the word far and wide. Locate the infidel dog and send him to hell.’ “
You bet I’d locate him. I turned my gimlet eye on the brothers around me, oozing so much threat in my scrutiny that they backed away furtively. In this atmosphere even a credible false accusation could mean instant Paradise.
“Best we leave quietly at the first chance, before someone starts a conversation with you,” Saeed whispered sideways.
Roger that! “Ensha Allah,” I whispered back, and we eased toward the outskirts of the gathering. This latter disclosure was going to require some changes in my peasant wardrobe and makeup, at the very least Shit, the students were already on my case, and now the radicals had made all three of my identities. Who knows how SAVAK figured in? I couldn’t even go out for a cup of tea without courting assassination. If I wanted to move around the city I might to have to be yet somebody else…but who? Maybe I’d better start fitting chadors.
We sidled out of the meeting and away safely, no one looking my way suspiciously as we started walking back toward the train station. Well, talk about making the Big Time in Tehran. I’d bagged the top three slots in the Ayatollah’s “Ten Most Wanted” list. I could imagine Mom bragging about that to her canasta club: “Now, don’t breathe a word, but there are three prices on his head, and the Muslims want him dead or alive…Muslims? It’s some kind of breakfast cereal, isn’t it?”
I now had a better idea of the two swarms. The student radicals were bees who wanted jobs and some of the honey. The Islamists were swarming, but they weren’t after honey, they were out for blood. They weren’t bees, they were hornets.
Most of the others at the service dispersed into the slums, few heading northward in our direction. By the time we crossed the tracks at the railroad station there was only one man still behind us. And he stayed behind us as we veered toward the Bazaar. Saeed and I took several unlikely turns, then speeded up, rounded a corner and waited. He appeared, came around the corner and walked stolidly by us. In front of a shop half way down the block he stopped and paused to light a cigarette and examine the shop’s wares on display. “Probably SAVAK,” Saeed whispered. “They infiltrate everywhere. Though they usually work in pairs. No problem if it’s just this one, we’ll lose him in the Bazaar.”
Then I spotted another man, similarly dressed, coming along the street toward us from the opposite direction. A possible partner? “Looks like he may be the rest of the pair. I can’t change back to my street clothes at your father’s shop, I’d be putting you guys in danger. Let’s split up, and I’ll take my chances at my hotel.” Saeed and I walked a ways together. As we neared the Bazaar we bade one another farewell. I skirted around it and strolled the back streets toward Hotel Semiramis, taking my time, pausing to check out merchandise and looking for a bolt hole where I could lose the guy still following in my wake. Eventually in a bustling street market I found my opportunity, a narrow alley way leading to the next street over. My tail left enough distance between us that I could duck down behind some vegetable stalls and scurry into the gap. I sprinted down the alley, turned onto the street, pulled off my mustache, combed my hair down, turned my shirt inside out and joined a crowd heading my way.
I reached Hotel Semiramis, no longer tailed. The desk clerk became flustered when I asked him for my room key. “Mr. Fonko? I didn’t recognize you at first. You are back sooner than usual. Your key…it is around here somewhere. Give me a moment.” He went into the office. I saw him pick up the phone. Presently a man in a suit came down the stairs. He went into the office, handed something to the clerk and left the lobby. The clerk came out with my room key. “How careless of me,” he said. “I had mislaid it in the office.”
As I’d interrupted his search, the man in the suit hadn’t time to put everything back exactly right. How often has this been happening, I wondered?
8 | Still in Tehran
I called Rachel’s hotel to warn her about blown cover and was told she’d checked out, with no forwarding address. I figured the Mossad could look after their own, so returned to business.
Jake Fonko straightaway went to Mashhad to buy carpets, and Gianni Franco blew back into town. The Shah was disturbed to hear my report on infiltrating the revolutionaries. “I did not realize that the Ayatollah’s followers were so vehement,” he sighed, “nor so numerous. My intelligence people are telling me nothing about this. It may be that an unstoppable wave is building. I want you to turn your attention to that. “
I described the threats I’d heard at the meetings and hit him up for some weaponry. Never imagining that I’d be in firefights during this gig, I’d left my Desert Eagle and combat knife back in Malibu. “Something small
and lethal, with a silencer if possible,” I specified.
“I’ll consult with people in the SAVAK. I’m sure they have just the thing. They quietly shoot people from time to time.”
“Make sure it’s got stopping power. If these fanatics think dying for the cause will transport them to Paradise, I want to give them all the help I can.”
The next morning Princess Ashraf showed up at the Hilton in a grey BMW 5-series. She was waiting by the car’s open driver’s seat. “Buon giorno, Gianni,” she gushed, all smiles as I sauntered up.
“Eh, buon giorno, cara mia. This-a beautiful-a day is-a made lovelier by your presence.” I suavely hoisted her hand and placed a devoted kiss upon it. She motioned me into the driver’s seat, went around to the other side and slid in.
“Mohammad thought we should be inconspicuous, so I drove one of the BMWs this morning. The SAVAK gave me a selection of pistols. We’re going over to the shooting range so you can see which suits you best. Out the driveway turn to the right.”
They provided a Beretta, a Ruger, a Glock, and the local version of the SIGSauer P226. “Silencer” is a misnomer—the device only suppresses the report, but enough so that it isn’t identifiable as a gunshot. I emptied a couple clips with each, slow-fire and rapid fire, and went for the SIG. It was the SAVAK’s handgun of choice, and I could see why. Minimal recoil, 9 mm, and it put the rounds where I’d point my index finger. That latter was key, as you couldn’t use the sights with the silencer on the barrel, not that in a street fight you’d necessarily have time to take careful aim anyhow. Ammo was readily available, another plus. The Princess secured a shoulder holster with it, and I was all set. I took along a satchel of loaded clips, which I hid as best I could in my unsecure room.
The Shah cautioned me: “You watch yourself out there, Jake. It may be that even some SAVAK are looking for you, as I have not been able to quell rumors that an American gangster is on the loose in Tehran. You are probably safe enough as Jake Fonko, but do not expose yourself in public as Gianni Franco any more than necessary. Only a few of the SAVAK have seen you as Gianni Franco in my context; it has not been disclosed beyond a small circle. Exchanging gunfire with the SAVAK would be a big mistake, as they have been well-trained by the Israeli secret service, the Shin Bet. If you are stopped and frisked with that gun on you, terrible things could happen before I could intervene. If in doubt, get rid of it. You would be a suspicious American carrying an illegal weapon, which at the very least could wind you up incommunicado in a SAVAK prison. Above all do not reveal our arrangement, to anyone.”
What with juggling three different identities and six spy agencies while monitoring unfolding developments in Tehran, my life was as fraught as a bigamist’s with three nympho wives. Following the revelations of events in Shiraz, Hamadan and Kermanshah I was more sensitive to surveillance. Certainly the Semiramis desk was a leak. Many eyes had observed me and must be at it still, though I was not picking up tails as Jake Fonko.
I was concerned that my carpet buyer cover was wearing threadbare. Carpet buyers come in, make their buys and get out. They don’t camp for long term stays in hotels. Especially not when buying as few carpets as I’d been doing. Another actual buying trip might help extend my cover. Ben Millstein justified it with the next cable he sent. “Isfahans gorgeous, went like hotcakes. Diane Keaton bought two to celebrate her Annie Hall Oscar. Keep up the good work. Could use some top Tabrizes, same specs and conditions.”
Bristow Helicopters had a Tabriz run, and that took me out of town for a couple days. The street mood in Tabriz was ugly—strikes, demonstrations, lots of troops. I picked up a bunch of rugs Ben couldn’t object to, for prices likewise, and had them air-freighted. I talked to some Americans stationed there: Things were getting hotter. There had been more incidents, expats were making preparations to butt out.
In Tehran things accelerated in bad directions. I still liaised with Hoveyda on day-to-day matters, though he had resigned as Minister of Court just after Black Friday. He’d held more important offices in the Shah’s government, including Prime Minister, for longer, than just about anybody, yet no miasma of corruption hung over him. Those were two parts of his problem. Not being corrupt, he had no mutual coverage relationships going, in fact the opposite. A lot of corrupt people wanted him gone. And, having been around for so long, he’d been party to some of the Shah’s unpopular policies, for example land reform. He’d approved a news article attacking Khomeini last January that had enraged the Faithful and caused bloody riots. He’d decided enough was enough, and it was time to get out of the hot seat. He advised me, “Jake, a lot of money is accumulating in your bank account. Nothing good can happen to it there. I advise you to wire some of it to your US bank. And you might pay a visit to the gold shops in the Bazaar.”
On September 26 the Shah issued a directive to members of his family to cease and desist all business activities immediately, a sop to complaints about corruption. He confided in me that he had no hope any of them would pay heed. It was the thought that counted.
On October 14 there was a nationwide strike of oil workers. Production soon dropped from 5.3 million barrels to 1.5 million barrels. Which I suppose had the effect of curtailing the Royal family’s corruption for a time. Power outages occurred more frequently.
Saeed slipped me into student meetings but was chary of mixing with the Islamists. They weren’t his crowd any more than mine, putting him in double danger: he’s the one who sneaked the Infidel in. “The Bazaaris have been some of Khomeini’s most ardent supporters,” he told me. “They’ve shoveled a ton of money his way, they’re so eager to depose the Shah. I don’t think this is going where they intended. I’m trying to get through to Father about that, but he won’t see it. He’s one of the Faithful, did the Hajj and all, but what we saw in that mosque in the slums is way beyond that. Those people have always resented the rich, and they aren’t going to start liking them now. The Koran prohibits charging interest on loans—usury. Father has never done that, exactly, but if Khomeini takes over, some of father’s friends in the Bazaar banks are going to be in a bad way.”
Which reminded me to have him guide me to the gold shops. Iranian families often have their capital tied up in gold jewelry, which in that region comes as 22 carat, nearly pure, “as good as gold.” Jewelry was too complicated for me—how do you cash it out?—but South African one-ounce Kruggerands, acceptable everywhere, could be bought at the international price. I started accumulating them. Whether the Kruggerands and my armament would be safe in Hotel Semiramis, was a troublesome question. I could stash the gold in Gianni’s rooms, but in a pinch I might have trouble getting to the Hilton. I asked Q’ereshi what he thought, and he assured me he could keep it safely in his shop. The SIG was a different problem: I might need it anywhere, any time. So far, only the SAVAK and the soldiers were slinging lead; the rebel groups answered with stones and Molotov cocktails, but that could change quickly. Cooler weather was coming on, so concealing it would be easier under bulkier clothing. I bought some loose-fitting jackets. Not that I anticipated doing quick-draws, but I wanted to be able to get at the SIG without impediment.
On October 25, the Shah’s birthday, he released 1,126 political prisoners as a good will gesture. The prisoners marched away from the prison chanting, “Death to the Shah!” And promptly filed lawsuits demanding compensation for their time and sufferings. Something they’d learned from the Great Satan, I guess
One week later Jimmy Carter was photographed on the White House lawn with Crown Prince Reza, the Shah’s son, announcing that America’s friendship and alliance with Iran was one of the most important bases on which his whole foreign policy depended.
The Shah was trying his best, but it was too little too late. At the beginning of November he cancelled a passel of expensive, showy projects that no one had wanted except the contractors and the politicos who were getting commissions, bribes and kickbacks. It was just as well,
as strikes were spreading throughout Iran, so no work would be done anyhow. Of course, cancelling the projects added to the swelling legions of jobless, creating yet more outrage to fuel the riots by the people who’d been denouncing the projects. The Radicals were, as usual, disdainful of mere logic—that was a weakness of the little people.
The Shah concluded that having his troops shoot his own citizens was not the best way to win their hearts and minds, so issued orders that guns were to be fired in the air so as to avoid further bloodshed. Once the demonstrators figured that out, their taunts and spitting only served to further demoralize the army, more of whom were going over to the demonstrators.
On November 5 the mob attacked the British Embassy—at least it wasn’t the US Embassy, for a change—and set fire to it. No doubt Raleigh and Neville had apposite quips aplenty about roasting the Lion and the Unicorn on the gates to the compound. Demonstrators set cars and buildings afire all over Tehran. The army generals were in a quandary, as the Shah’s stand-down order left them with no recourse. The Shah’s advisors wanted him to appoint a prime minister willing to use force to deal with the riots, for example General Oveissi, “The Butcher of Tehran,” who’d earned his nickname at Jaleh Square. Instead, on the advice of the American and British ambassadors, he appointed the milder-mannered General Azhari.
And three days later the Shah had Hoveyda and General Nassiri, former head of the SAVAK, placed under house arrest. “It’s for their own safety,” he explained to me. “The demonstrations are getting nastier, and they are both marked men. This keeps them in the north of Tehran, away from the population, and they have SAVAK guards on duty at all times.” He gave me another name with whom I would be liaising from then on. I was sorry this happened, as Hoveyda was a good man and I doubted his replacement would be half as competent or helpful.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 38