“The brother of the former Prime Minister? They executed him, you know, Amir Abbas, I mean. He was not a bad man, he did not deserve that. His brother is a well-known writer, but he was never mixed up with the Shah. The Komiteh is not executing family members, at least not yet. I have some directories in the office, and I think we can locate him there.”
I noticed a framed photo of the Ayatollah Khomeini where the Shah’s photo formerly had hung and commented on it. “Yes, we Bazaaris joyfully changed photos when the Shah abdicated—no longer any need to ward off the SAVAK,” Q’ereshi commented resignedly. “However, the new photo helps to ward off the Komiteh,” he added, furtively glancing around to detect any eavesdroppers. “There is always something that needs warding off.”
He led me through the stacks of carpets to the office in back. Inside he turned to me and said, “Mr. Fonko, I feel terrible about something I did. You were so helpful to Saeed, and you were a good customer, I am so very, very sorry. You see, I bribed the desk clerk in Hotel Semiramis to inform me of your comings and goings, and from that and other information I deduced that you were in some way gathering information for the Shah. So I steered you toward information that might help encourage him to leave this country. I hope you will forgive me. I do not think I really made much difference in the course of events, but you are my good friend, and I betrayed your confidence. “
I couldn’t see that he made much difference either, and I’d assumed that everyone was spying on me. But why let him off the hook? “It is difficult for a stranger in a strange land, when he knows not whom to trust,” I observed with a hurt and betrayed look.
“I know, I know,” he said ruefully. “It is the way of the Middle East. Mr. Fonko, if there is anything I can do to make it up to you…”
“Right now, let’s see if we can locate Mr. Hoveyda. And then there is another thing. Would it be possible for me to sleep here in your office a couple nights? You may understand that I have reasons for not trusting the hotels in this city.”
We located Fereydoun Hoveyda, and Q’ereshi sent a bicycle messenger he trusted with a request for an appointment. The messenger returned a little later. Hoveyda would meet with me tomorrow in the afternoon. I’d checked out of my hotel and brought my luggage with me, so I changed into my Iranian worker’s costume and explored around town. The mob still clamored at the US Embassy, though the visa line stretched longer than ever. Banks stood blackened and burnt out. Businesses formerly owned by westerners also. The streets were not as crowded. Fewer women were out, and none of those wore western dress. A number, covered in black chadors or burqas, sternly toted assault rifles, female Revolutionary Guards. No general strike was afoot, but localized ones shut down selected trades, and Iranians weren’t sticklers for showing up for work anyhow: therefore shortages were rife, goods scarce and expensive. Armed bands of young Revolutionary thugs roved around looking for insults to the Prophet they could be offended by. It was, to say the least, an uncomfortable atmosphere, and not just for me. Businessmen walked on eggs. They no longer flaunted bespoke suits but were unsure what was de rigueur, except that neckties—symbolic of the West—were definitely not.
One of Q’ereshi’s other sons, Ahmad, drove me over for the appointment and waited at the curb. Fereydoun Hoveyda looked very much like his older brother, serious, competent and approachable. A servant brought a tea tray to the sitting room, the local custom. We exchanged pleasantries, but in the circumstances it rang hollow. It came time to confront business. “I cannot tell you how sorry I was to hear about Amir Abbas,” I told him. “He was very helpful to me. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was one of the best men in Iran. He did not deserve the treatment he received.” This is the tale he told me. “The mullahs came to his house after his SAVAK guards had turned tail. Amir Abbas refused to run away. He felt he had nothing to be ashamed of. The revolutionary Komiteh was putting everyone from the Shah’s regime on trial, and he was of course a prominent member, having been Prime Minister for many years. They put him in Gasr Prison. They acted outside the authority of the constituted government: the mullahs were just doing these punishments on their enemies for the sake of revenge. They had their own summary courts. They found General Nassiri, former head of the SAVAK, guilty of torture, killing the people, treason to the country, spreading sedition on earth. Punishable by death of course. They took him out and shot him straightaway. My brother’s turn followed soon. The mullahs hated him because of his role in the land reform that confiscated much of their land holdings, and because of a paper he authorized criticizing the Ayatollah. They accused him of corruption, antireligious activity, spying for the West and Zionism, smuggling heroin into France, surrendering Iran’s resources to foreigners, all manner of preposterous things, but at least no accusations of bloodshed. They shot him anyhow.
“He was the most honest and honorable of them all, and look where his loyalty to the Shah got him. Mohammad Reza used him as scapegoat. Your holy book says truly, put not your trust in kings—ancient wisdom. But that is life. Perhaps you will tell me what it is you needed to see me about?”
This was a little awkward, to say the least. “Mr. Hoveyda,” I began tentatively. “My commission when I came here was to find truth and convey it to the Shah, as no one in Iran was informing him honestly. Whether more could have been accomplished had he brought me in sooner, I do not know, but that is what I did. When I arrived he had your brother establish a Swiss bank account in my name, with the promise that when I successfully completed my work I would be given the number of the account. My work for the Shah is now completed, but that account number has gone missing, and I cannot access the account without it. I returned to Tehran to try and find it. So what I wish to know is, do you have any idea where your brother might have kept it?”
He became cooler at my request. “I never concerned myself with the details of his work. I am sure when he was taken they seized any files he had at home, in search of evidence on other enemies. He had an office in his Ministry. That is the only place I can think of. The Revolutionaries have occupied the Ministry, ransacked it and are using it. I can tell you which office was his, but you would have to search the files, and they may be voluminous, if they are still there at all. That is the best I can tell you. If that is the only reason you returned to Tehran, I think you were very foolish. You took a great risk with little hope of success. This place is more dangerous than you can imagine. I can wish you well—if you got the Shah to listen to some truth you certainly earned the money—but that is as all I can do.”
He gave me the description and location of the office. From what I’d already seen of the situation, he was right, I should never have come. But here I was. Might as well give it a shot. I thanked him and again expressed my regrets for Amir Abbas, and left. I had Ahmad drive around the Ministry building. It looked similar to other ministries in the central area, and like them it bore souvenirs of the recent hoo-hah. Broken windows hadn’t been re-glazed, scorch patches from molotov cocktails marked the front entrance, small arms fire pocked the walls. It looked open, didn’t seem too busy. We went back to the Bazaar, and I worked out a plan.
The next morning Ahmad rounded up some clothing suitable for traversing the streets of Tehran in the new regime. He threw in a Hajj cap to bolster my bona fides as one of the Faithful. I spent the day casing the ministry building. The front door was off its hinges and open—the damage repair union must have still been on strike. People came and went, seemingly without ceremony. I went away for lunch then came back and walked in like I was looking for somebody. Inside, the place was a mess. Offices ransacked, filing cabinets overturned, papers and other debris strewn here and there. I followed Fereydoun Hoveyda’s directions and easily enough found what had been his brother’s office. It was in a corner of the building, on the second floor, an executive office. A man in Revolutionary garb was sitting at the desk looking busy. The room held several filing cabinets and it s
eemed more orderly than other rooms in the Building. Wouldn’t be smart to linger there, and I’d seen what I needed to know, so I continued my search for somebody, moving along with determination so that no one would think to interrupt me. And then it dawned on me. I’d be rifling through files looking for a Swiss bank account number, and anything about it probably would be either in Farsi or German, neither of which I could read.
I came back that evening to see how the ministry looked at night. The streets were creepy. Not much traffic, few pedestrians out and about, many streetlights dark. Groups of demonstrators no longer roved and rampaged, but ordinary citizens thought it prudent to stay indoors anyhow. Going about on foot was a risk I wasn’t going to take more often than necessary. A few lights were on and activity showed through Ministry windows, though less than during daytime. Conceivably I could go in tomorrow night and give it a try, but the odds against finding my precious number looked longer all the time. I figured I could stuff a shoulder satchel with any files that looked bank-related, then take them back to the Bazaar and have Q’ereshi sort them out. Was I really that desperate? Well, it was my million dollars, after all, and it might be in there somewhere. And I’d come all this way.
I made it back to the Bazaar and outlined my plan to Q’ereshi. He was skeptical but couldn’t think of anything better. “Perhaps Ahmad could accompany you, to stand lookout and make explanations should you encounter anyone? You do not speak the language, after all, which could prove problematic.”
“I wouldn’t want to put him in danger.”
“I assure you he will avoid from any danger. He knows these people well enough to avoid any provoking of them. He will be along to assist you, but if trouble comes he will not try to save you. You will be on your own.”
“Fair enough.”
After dark the next day Ahmad drove me to the Ministry. I’d dressed as a Revolutionary, and left my passport and papers with Q’ereshi. Ahmad parked down the street, in a spot from which he could monitor the front door. “Wait here. If any kind of trouble occurs, don’t stick around, go back and tell your father.” He was okay with that. The ministry front door was wide open. A man sat at a desk off to the side, leafing through a magazine. He looked up as I came in. I nodded and headed toward the stairs. The desk man went back to his magazine. So far, so good. There seemed to be activity in some of the rooms on the second floor, but Hoveyda’s office was open and unoccupied. I switched on the lights. I counted three filing cabinets, each with four drawers—no time to waste, so I pulled out a drawer and started flipping through folders. They’d apparently been gone through already; the file folders fell limp over large gaps. The top drawer held reports. The next drawer, apparently correspondence. The third drawer, memos and correspondence and, at the back of the drawer a half-full bottle of vodka. No numbers yet.
What had I been thinking? I’d just about concluded that this was the stupidest thing I’d done since I streaked Dana Wehrli’s engagement shower when I heard a small commotion by the door. The desk man stood there, staring at me. He said something in Farsi. I looked up at him, said Allahu akbar, then returned to my task as if I owned the place. He left. Now what? Maybe everything was okay? I opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. Empty.
As I opened the top drawer of the second filing cabinet he returned with three other men, two carrying automatic weapons, which they pointed at me. I stood away from the filing cabinet and raised my hands. The third man scrutinized me carefully, and his eyes went wide. “Mr. Jake Fonko, the American spy, is it? Bashu, remove the Hajj cap from the filthy head of this infidel dog. Insulting the Prophet is another crime I will add to your already extensive list. Mr. Fonko, I think you had better come with us.”
Oh Shi’ite. It was the desk clerk from Hotel Semiramis.
They patted me down for weapons, gathered up my (fortunately empty) satchel, and marched me down the stairs, out the front door and onto the street. I noticed that after we emerged the lights in Ahmad’s car flared and he drove slowly by us with no acknowledgment. My escort stood with me at the curb, waiting, and a small van came and stopped. They shoved me in, piled in after me, and the van pulled away through the dark streets. En route my former desk clerk bragged about how, because of his job, he was able to observe, study and spy on infidels, leading him to a minor position on the Revolutionary Komiteh when the Ayatollah returned. He had hopes of rising to an important position of power in the new regime, for which catching me in the act of espionage would certainly be a strong recommendation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m always pleased to see a young man rise in the world, but…
Presently we arrived at a familiar destination—Gasr Prison. It looked different when I was a bystander to a mob storming it in daylight. Then it seemed a soft target, with a raging mob and soldiers inside waving white flags. Now that I faced the prospect of being an inmate it took on a more sinister aspect—foreboding and impregnable, dark and shadowy. It was contained in a high, thick wall and comprised several cell blocks and other buildings, all part of a large military complex. Armed sentries monitored gates and doorways. Looking back, that Rashid was able to extract Perot’s managers bordered on miraculous. No chance anyone could do the same for me. Worse luck for me, whereas the Shah’s government had not performed summary executions, the Ayatollah’s thugs had made them routine.
The reception area was busy—I wasn’t the only enemy of the Faithful rounded up that evening. Once my turn came, intake procedures went briskly. My desk clerk buddy explained in Farsi to the intake examiner who I was and where they’d caught me, then repeated it to me in English. “American spy caught searching through files in a Ministry office.” That sounded most unpromising, considering that the Revolutionaries hated both Americans and spies.
My guards escorted me into a conference room for a preliminary interrogation. After a long wait the examiner, some sort of functionary, came in. He wore no uniform nor had any definite role or office; but he did have some file folders in hand. I spun out my innocent carpet buyer shtick (after all, I really had bought carpets, as Rasi Q’ereshi could attest), neglecting to mention my employment as one of the Shah’s lackeys, of course. He was curt and to the point. It turned out that the Hotel Semiramis desk clerk had been keeping a dossier of my travels, real and bogus, and he had provided it to the new regime. The phone calls from EDS proved my role in a conspiracy to free American prisoners jailed for corruption. Room attendants had been spying, noting among other things my SAVAK-issued SIG, the costume I wore as an Iranian-on-the-street, and those bullshit briefing books the Shah’s ministers had given me. Others had analyzed my travels and added notes concerning the suspicious coincidence of my visits with government attacks on the Revolution that shortly followed. The dossier included contacts I’d had with American intelligence agencies, Rachel Millstein and Amir Abbas Hoveyda, as well as, of course, Grotesqcu. “And about this, Mr. Fonko? Certain papers with your name on them were found in the effects left in the Hilton Hotel by the notorious American gangster, Gianni Franco, who is known to have conspired with the Princess Ashraf. There is a fatwa on Mr. Franco, and he vanished without a trace. Can you give us an explanation for that?”
“I never met the man,” I said. “If he was a gangster he probably stole those papers, or maybe he forged them. It is a mystery to me.” The real mystery is how I could have been so careless as to leave anything like that in the room. Must have been a receipt or something in the pockets of street clothes I left there from changing between Gianni and Jake. With that, every last little fib I told since I arrived in Tehran had landed on top of me.
“In addition,” he continued, “we found the business card of a Mr. Richard Hedd, whom we know to be a CIA agent. A mysterious web of intrigue, I must say—you, the mafia, the CIA and Princess Ashraf. Well, that is enough for now, Mr. Fonko. The tribunal will get to the bottom of this, I’m sure. We’ve ample evidence to justify a trial on grounds of espionage, sedition, conspiri
ng with enemies of the people and anti-revolutionary activities. But more than that, I think you may have knowledge that will be useful to the Revolution, considering your extensive espionage and criminal activities here in Iran—names of your informants and your co-conspirators, for example. I doubt that a hardened operative like you will voluntarily tell us much. Already facing a death sentence as you are, we have little bargaining leverage. Therefore the tribunal will turn you over to a team of interrogators whose skills rarely fail to elicit the desired information. It may be that your capture will be useful in another way as well. A video of your beheading could be broadcast on television as a warning of what will happen if the Great Satan continues to meddle in our affairs.
“Your particular case came to the attention of Sadeq Kahlkali, who will no doubt personally conduct the tribunal, but he is very busy right now. It will be a few days before he can get around to you. And then the interrogators will take all the time the task requires. The Ayatollah decreed that those who act against him will suffer the punishment of Allah. We here are honored to be humble instruments of his will. Ensha Allah.” He said something to my guards and they led me away to one of the cellblocks. A jailer led us down a corridor past a number of cells and unlocked a barred door, and they unceremoniously shoved me inside, shutting it behind me.
It was reasonably clean and spacious for a jail cell, containing several bunk beds. I sensed others in the room. Prisoners in Iranian jails were predominately political, not hardened or violent criminals. I was safe enough until they took me out to crush my balls and singe my eyelashes with a blowtorch. “Anybody here speak English?” I ventured.
“Well, Jake, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into,” came a reply from one of the lower bunks.
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 43