“End of January, latest?” I suggested.
The general strike sealed the country in paralysis. The central bank closed, halting all transactions. Shops shuttered up, and people queued for hours outside in the snow at distribution centers for their rations of heating oil. Despite other shortages, food remained available—the Revolutionaries weren’t stupid.
Gianni Franco was creeping the Beemer along the curb lane, en route to Niavaran Palace, when three punks jumped out in front. I stopped, and a gang of Revolutionaries surrounded me and banged on the car. They didn’t have guns, but there were too many for me to just drive my way out, nowhere to go if I did. Traffic crept around us, drivers eager not to get involved. One of the gang rapped on the window and yelled something in Farsi. What the fuck? Another ran up to him jabbering excitedly while pointing to the rear of the car. They started rocking the car. I must be sporting some sort of Royal license plate. The first one, apparently the leader, motioned another one over. He held up a jerry can and a length of rubber hose. Some disgusting variety of torture?
Well, enough of this. I reached under my jacket and undid the safety on the SIG, then stormed out of the car standing as large as I could. “Eh, whatsamatta?” I exclaimed with Italianate hand-waving. “Whose’a you boys? Whatta you want, eh? Spika da English? Me no-a spika da fucking Farsi! You wanta da damn money? You wanta da damn wrist-a watch? What-a? What-a? Youse-a go to hell, me give-a you bupkis! Kapish?!”
An Italian lounge lizard driving one of the Shah’s cars? A new one on them. The leader excitedly traded words with a couple henchmen. I opened my jacket so he could see my holstered SIG and gave it a little pat. At that he calmed his gang down. “Gas,” he said. “Just want gas. Won’t take a minute.” Well, if that’s all it was, not worth risking a broad-daylight murder rap. I located the catch for the gas port and released it. Now that they knew I was packing, the gang behaved with customary Iranian politeness. They quickly filled the jerry can with uncustomary efficiency. “Nothing personal. The people need it. You can afford it,” their honcho explained. They beat it, leaving me standing there. I’d heard there was a lively black-market for petrol. Now I knew one way they supplied it. My contribution was probably as likely to fuel molotov cocktails as to fuel transportation—they only took five gallons. Once the gang left me, cars resumed honking. I got back in and continued on my way. The Shah was upset for me, but I shrugged it off as just one more truth to report to him. In the days to come, stopping lux cars to drain their tanks became common, their drivers not always receiving courtesy treatment. I avoided the curb lanes whenever I had to drive.
The dangers in moving around on the streets increased. I de-Americanized my appearance for some of my intel-gathering forays, but that had a downside. One evening I recognized the man who had followed me after the mosque meeting with Saeed, loitering along at a discreet distance behind me. Probably he’d spotted me by coincidence and taken up the tail on the fly. I tried to shake him with dodges through shops and markets, blending into crowds and making unlikely turns, but he hung tight. A professional, and he must be good if he was infiltrating mosque gatherings. Or if he worked security for them. As a result of inattention I wound up alone in a blind alley behind closed shops in a native neighborhood. I crouched in what little cover I could find and watched him step in warily, searching for me. He seemed to be holding a weapon but in the darkness I couldn’t be sure. Odds were that he meant me no good, and the consequences would be dire if I assumed wrongly. It was jungle warfare in an urban setting: you don’t call the gunslinger in the black hat out for a quick draw contest. I lifted the SIG out of the holster and from 15 feet away put three rounds in his chest, dropping him there. He dropped a silenced Beretta automatic when he fell. I killed a SAVAK agent? They did have Berettas. Or was it some revolutionary punk they’d set after me? Maybe the guy who shot at me in the Bazaar? Whoever he was, I’d never know and it mattered not now. I saw no evidence that he had partners, so I left him there and hauled ass post haste. If anybody investigated the ballistics, they’d find slugs that came from a SAVAK piece: let them figure it out.
This is what my innocent intel-interpretation assignment had come to? I resolved to try harder to stay more alert to tight spots. And to always have a round in the chamber of the SIG.
On December 31 the American Ambassador, William Sullivan, denied that any mass evacuation of American expats was in the offing. Then a little later he advised American expatriates to return, temporarily, to the United States.
With that, the rush was on, frantic Americans gathering their gear, closing down their affairs, and flocking to any and all ports of exit, especially the Tehran airport. Chaos, confusion and congestion reigned. The situation was not helped by the general strike that paralyzed the country. The Embassy was deluged not only by Americans desperate to return home, but also by hordes of Iranians hoping to make a break for it. I could watch the chaos from the restaurant atop Hotel Semiramis.
Gianni Franco was now assisting the Shah in plotting out his trip abroad. President Carter had first extended an invitation, then changed his mind. Not too many countries showed up eager to host him. Egypt seemed like the most likely possibility, Anwar Sadat being an old friend and ally of his. Assembling the goods and chattels, as well as family members he wanted to take along was an agonizing process. His pair of 707s seemed to shrink daily. The final baggage count would total around 400 items. Of course, it was not a permanent relo. He would return to enjoy his several palaces and all the luxury he left behind. Someday.
Beyond helping get him safely away, my future role was unclear. He was anxious to see what I could do about medical treatment in the US, as the Carter government was running from lukewarm to cold on that. Every day his deterioration became more evident, yet still no one fathomed the cause. My Gianni Franco act was reaching the point of ludicrousness, but with everyone in his own universe of desperation, I was still getting away with it. Even though the truth I’d been hired to find was by that time apparent to all and every, I was still earning my paycheck. In my identity as a courier the Shah was assigning me to take care of some confidential matters outside Tehran. I used Bristow Helicopters for transport, traveling under the name “JAveed Faruki.” I made no pretense of masquerade, it was just a cover name to put on the manifests. I got to know some of the Bristow people. A couple pilots had served in Nam and knew of old DRAGONFLY, Clyde Driffter. I asked a flight officer what would happen to Bristow if the Shah took off.
“It’s already happening,” he said. “Revolutionaries are starting to muscle into Western businesses. If the Shah abandons the country to those people, nationalization is a definite possibility.”
“Bristow too?”
“I hear that contingency plans are being laid,” he said.
Bull Simons blew into town on January 12, Perot on the 13th. They asked me to come over for a talk. It was a brief meeting. Simons had assembled a crack team of eight men, including an explosives expert and a rocketry expert, and was formulating plans. EDS intel was solid. It quickly became clear that they had the situation well in hand. About all I could advise was that attempting a military-style extraction with weapons would a disaster in those conditions. Guile, subterfuge and lavish money to spread around were the best tactics to employ. They’d figured that out too. I told them that if I were still around I’d be willing to help if I could. We exchanged contact numbers, and I wished them well.
On January 16 the Shah, the Empress and his entourage departed Tehran for Egypt, the beginning leg of a series of “state visits.” The Shah himself piloted one of the 707s away from his airport pavilion. He thought that leaving Bakhtiar in charge of the army left a secure power base to which he could return after things cooled down. He was still unclear on the course of future events, so he wanted me to stay in Tehran for a while to continue my intel. I had cable addresses and access to outside communications, so could keep him informed outside his offi
cial channels.
I’d helped get the Shah safely off to Egypt, sending him to good hands. Anwar Sadat was a longtime friend and ally. He left without hullaballoo around the airport, which was pretty much shut down by striking workers. Rows of Iran Air jets sat idle. I think no one wanted to interfere, just in case he might decide to stick around after all. After his departure Tehran erupted with crowds chanting “Shah Raft! Shah Raft!” (The Shah is Gone!). Demonstrations, strikes, looting, people pulling down statues of the Shah and stomping on his pictures, the works. Worse, the two swarms were now in open warfare, the Marxists against the Islamic Fundamentalists, and guns came into play. The soldiers had been ordered to stand down and not shoot. When the students discovered they could taunt and harass them with impunity all semblance of public order dissolved. I heard that Hoveyda’s SAVAK guards absconded, leaving him alone and at the mercy, but at least not under house arrest any longer. On January 22 hundreds of young Air Force officers declared their allegiance to Ayatollah Khomeini. The outflow of Americans became a stampede, overwhelming the Tehran airport and every other means of transport over the border.
And something dawned on me that I’d overlooked in all the hassle of getting the Shah off. He’d been my only backup. He just departed. For this part of my assignment I was on my own.
Banks had resumed limited operations. I withdrew enough cash out of my account to see me through another month, paid another visit to the gold merchants in the Bazaar, and transferred the balance to my American bank. And started re-scoping the specifics of my revised mission.
9 | Switzerland
Rioting escalated after the Shah blew town. During the last days of January hundreds were killed in Tehran and Tabriz alone. On February 1 the Ayatollah, his entourage and a hundred journalists arrived from Paris in an Air France 747, its extravagant charter fee donated by Shi’a businessmen, that is, the Bazaaris. I witnessed an entry for the Guinness Book of Records: when his plane set down at 9:15 in the morning, two million of the Faithful thronged the streets of Tehran to greet him, more people than had ever before participated in a mass celebration. A sea of ecstatic faces, thrusting fists, and giant posters of black-turbaned, white-bearded, glowering Khomeini filled the streets wall to wall and all the way back to engulf the base of the looming Aszid Monument. They so packed Tehran that he had to be helicoptered across town. My, but they loved their Ayatollah.
Jubilation soon faded and it was the back to the Revolution. Students and Marxists versus the Islamists versus the government—two warring swarms assaulting a beekeeper who’d lost his protective netting. The old regime went pffft, a new one took shape. Tehran remained at the halt it had ground to. Rioters burned businesses, tanks and banks, including my former one. Army units declared for the Revolution.
Bull Simons called me on the 10th. He sensed the turmoil gave an opportunity to spring his men, and in any event, with the Ayatollah in place the situation was bound to worsen for representatives of the Great Satan. They had a local on the ground, Rashid, an EDS-trained systems engineer who comprised traits scarce among Iranians, technical competence and loyalty. He was their office fixer and doer. Rashid thought he could use the chaos of the uprising to get the EDS men out. “Prison breaks weren’t in the EDS manager training sequence,” Bull told me. “I think he can pull it off, but he avoided the usual military service. No combat skills. I was wondering if you could go along for backup.”
I’d previously agreed to help if I could, and this I could handle. We arranged a time and place to meet Rashid. Mid-morning of February 11 I donned my disguise as one of the Faithful. I hadn’t had time to let my beard grow out, but it was winter. I pulled a woolen cap down over my head, Saeed stuck on my fake mustache and we set off for the rendezvous
Tehran was an urban war zone, as bad as any I’d seen. Mobs armed with assault rifles and RPGs roved across the city, fought pitched battles, stormed and occupied government buildings. Automatic weapons fire rattled here and there from all directions. Tanks rumbled around, doing nothing, sitting ducks for Molotov cocktails. Flames and smoke issued from buildings. Helicopter gunships circled overhead, not firing, yet. Government armed forces, facing two million irate citizens now armed, were out-numbered, out-gunned and on the run.
We found Rashid by the Armory. He was short and curly-haired, 23 years old, Bull had described him. He hardly stood out in the crowd, but we’d established recognition signals. He came over to meet us. “This is your show,” I told him. “We’ve got your back, but Bull said you knew what to do.”
“Bull is a good name for him. This is all new to me.”
“You’re honest,” I said. “You’re already ahead of the game. Let’s see what’s happening here.”
The mob had opened up the Armory building and were milling around. We went in with Rashid. “Is that the way to the guns?” he asked some guys in the crowd, pointing to a door with a sign in Farsi above it. They thought so, but they were afraid it was booby-trapped. Rashid opened it. It wasn’t. He disappeared down the stairs. A moment later he came out with three submachine guns. “Look what I got!” he exclaimed. “What should I do with them?” he asked me quietly.
“Give two of them to guys who look competent, then tell them to follow you—loudly. You’re the man in charge now,” I advised him. “Go out the door to where people are, and tell them you’re all going to Gasr Prison. Do it loud and clear. Then go there. We’ll be right behind you.”
“How does this thing work?” he asked. I checked it out, showed him how to release the safety lock and cock it, and gave him a pat on the back.
Rashid got the mob tentatively moving toward the Prison, and Saeed shouted (in Farsi), “Free the prisoners!”
Rashid echoed him loudly, “They are prisoners of the regime! They are our brothers! We must free them! Now! Follow me! To Gasr Prison!”
This was going pretty well. We gathered more grunts as we neared Gasr Prison. A crowd had been peppering the buildings with gunfire, and guards inside had just waved a white flag out the window.
“Free the prisoners! This is our Bastille!” Rashid shouted, firing his gun in the air. The mob roared. They stormed the gates. The gates were locked. They set at a low window with crowbars, gun barrels, any tool at hand, and soon had it opened. Rashid crawled in. A smaller door, inset into the gates, opened and he emerged. He stood aside, and the mob bustled in. I elbowed my way over to him.
“Well done,” I said. “You’ve got it under control. Lead a bunch of them toward the block where your employees are. Make the guards hand over the keys, they won’t resist. No need to shoot anybody. How many prisoners are in here?”
“Maybe ten thousand? Who knows? A lot.”
“And they all have to come out this one little doorway? This will take a while. Take your time, do it right. We’ll hang around, just in case, but I think you’ve pulled it off. Keep your guys in the background, don’t call attention to them.”
As it happened, the two EDS guys came out, got their bearings and made their way over to the Hyatt Hotel, where Simons and his team were waiting, on their own. So much for explosives and rockets. Next came the hard part, exfiltrating the EDS contingent and Simons’s team from Iran. From start to finish, the whole caper is an amazing tale, but it’s not my tale. All I did was drop a name and do a little coaching. Ken Follett told it well in On Wings of Eagles. All concerned agreed it was best to keep my name out of it. Should you ask him, Ross Perot will deny that he ever heard of me.
Dick Hedd’s office was in the US Embassy compound, standard for foreign-posted CIA personnel. We’d decided it was okay for us to meet there, just two Americans talking business (his cover identity was “trade liaison”). During one of our chats the Revolutionaries opened up with machine guns from the roofs of surrounding buildings. They briefly sprayed the Embassy, shattering windows and sending Ambassador Sullivan diving for the floor. Hedd’s office didn’t overlook the str
eet but was exposed to some rooftops. Shots hit his wall without penetrating and a couple rounds spread window glass shards across his desk. I took a position beside the window and was reaching for my SIG: From behind his desk Hedd hissed, “Don’t even think about it! The Marines on guard have orders not to resist, and especially not to shoot anyone. You plug some raghead and we’d have a million outraged fanatics storming the compound within an hour.” The word came around that we’d taken no casualties—not a serious assault, just a little harassing fire. Rather than shoot back, Sullivan set his staff to burning and shredding classified documents in the Embassy vault.
Hotel Semiramis became doubtful digs after the Shah left. New management took over. The lipsticked receptionists one day showed up cleaned up in chadors. Booze disappeared from the restaurant. Rioters threw rocks through windows on the first two floors and scrawled anti-American graffiti on the walls. More rooms went vacant as the flow of foreigners turned outward. The Shah was my main protection in Tehran, and events made that link a liability. To too many dangerous people, I was a shady American carpet buyer acting suspiciously. I knew I’d been under surveillance in Hotel Semiramis. It was a known venue for Americans, and the number of Revolutionary thugs poking around the place was a clear message to clear out the only local I thought might be safe was Razi Q’ereshi, so I went to his shop.
Razi was feeling rueful. “I thought too much about the past, and not enough about the future,” he lamented. “The Americans are all leaving. They were my best customers. I like the Americans. I do not think they are the Great Satan at all. We Bazaaris supported Khomeini because we believed he would scale back the Shah’s modernization. But it seems he is bent on returning Iran to olden ways. He will veil the women. He will impose strict Sharia Law. His followers have revealed themselves as stupid and bloodthirsty. This is not what I thought I was supporting. It will not be pleasant.”
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 40