by Ken Follett
"I don't think this armory is booby-trapped," he said, and he opened the door.
He went down the staircase.
The basement consisted of two rooms divided by an archway. The place was dimly lit by narrow strip windows high in the walls, just above street level. The floor was of black mosaic tiles. In the first room were open boxes of loaded magazines. In the second were G3 machine guns.
After a minute some of the crowd upstairs followed him down.
He grabbed three machine guns and a sack of magazines and left. As soon as he got outside the building, people jumped all over him, asking for weapons: he gave away two of the guns and some of the ammunition.
Then he walked away, heading for Gasr Square.
Some of the mob went with him.
On the way they had to pass a military prison. A skirmish was going on there. A steel door in the high brick wall around the garrison had been smashed down, as if a tank had rolled through it, and the brickwork on either side of the entrance had crumbled. A burning car stood across the way in.
Rashid went around the car and through the entrance.
He found himself in a large compound. From where he stood, a bunch of people were shooting haphazardly at a building a couple of hundred yards away. Rashid took cover behind a wall. The people who had followed him joined in the shooting, but he held his fire. Nobody was really aiming. They were just trying to scare the soldiers in the building. It was a funny kind of battle. Rashid had never imagined the revolution would be like this: just a disorganized crowd with guns they hardly knew how to use, wandering around on a Sunday morning, firing at walls, encountering halfhearted resistance from invisible troops.
Suddenly a man near him fell dead.
It happened so quickly: Rashid did not even see him fall. At one moment the man was standing four feet away from Rashid, firing his rifle; the next moment he lay on the ground with his forehead blown away.
They carried the corpse out of the compound. Someone found a jeep. They put the body in the jeep and drove off. Rashid returned to the skirmish.
Ten minutes later, for no apparent reason, a piece of wood with a white undershirt tied to its end was waved out of one of the windows in the building they had been shooting at. The soldiers had surrendered.
Just like that.
There was a sense of anticlimax.
This is my chance, Rashid thought.
It was easy to manipulate people if you understood the psychology of the human being. You just had to study the people, comprehend their situation, and figure out their needs. These people, Rashid decided, want excitement and adventure. For the first time in their lives they have guns in their hands: They need a target, and anything that symbolizes the regime of the Shah will do.
Right now they were standing around wondering where to go next.
"Listen!" Rashid shouted.
They all listened--they had nothing better to do.
"I'm going to the Gasr Prison!"
Someone cheered.
"The people in there are prisoners of the regime--if we are against the regime we should let them out!"
Several people shouted their agreement.
He started walking.
They followed him.
It's the mood they're in, he thought; they'll follow anyone who seems to know where to go.
He started with a band of twelve or fifteen men and boys, but as he walked the group grew: everyone with nowhere to go automatically joined in.
Rashid had become a revolutionary leader.
Nothing was impossible.
He stopped just before Gasr Square and addressed his army. "The jails must be taken over by the people, just like the police stations and the garrisons; this is our responsibility. There are people in Gasr Prison who are guilty of nothing. They are just like us--our brothers, our cousins. Like us, they only want their freedom. But they were braver than we, for they demanded their freedom while the Shah was here, and they were thrown in jail for it. Now we shall let them out!"
They all cheered.
He remembered something Simons had said. "The Gasr Prison is our Bastille!"
They cheered louder.
Rashid turned and ran into the square.
He took cover on the street comer opposite the huge steel entrance gates of the prison. There was a fair-sized mob in the square already, he realized; probably the prison would be stormed today with or without his help. But the important thing was to help Paul and Bill.
He raised his gun and fired into the air.
The mob in the square scattered, and the shooting began in earnest.
Once again, the resistance was halfhearted. A few guards fired back from the towers on the walls and from the windows close to the gates. As far as Rashid could see, no one on either side was hit. Once again, the battle ended not with a bang but a whimper: the guards simply disappeared from the walls and the shooting stopped.
Rashid waited a couple of minutes, to make sure they had gone; then he ran across the square to the prison entrance.
The gates were locked.
The mob crowded around. Someone fired a burst at the gates, trying to shoot them open. Rashid thought: he's seen too many cowboy movies. Another man produced a crowbar from somehere, but it was impossible to force the gates open. We would need dynamite, Rashid thought.
In the brick wall beside the gates was a little barred window, through which a guard could see who was outside. Rashid smashed the glass with his gun, then started to attack the brickwork in which the bars were embedded. The man with the crowbar helped him; then three or four others crowded around, trying to loosen the bars with their hands, their gun barrels, and anything else that came to hand. Soon the bars came out and fell to the ground.
Rashid wriggled through the window.
He was inside!
Anything was possible.
He found himself in a little guardroom. There were no guards. He put his head out of the door. Nobody.
He wondered where the keys to the cell blocks were kept.
He went out of the office and past the big gates to another guardroom on the far side of the entrance. There he found a big bunch of keys.
He returned to the gates. Inset into one of them was a small door secured by a simple bar.
Rashid lifted the bar and opened the door.
The mob poured in.
Rashid stood back. He handed keys to anyone who would take them, saying, "Open every cell--let the people go!"
They swarmed past him. His career as a revolutionary leader was over. He had achieved his objective. He, Rashid, had led the storming of the Gasr Prison!
Once again, Rashid had done the impossible.
Now he had to find Paul and Bill among the eleven thousand eight hundred inmates of the jail.
Bill woke up at six o'clock. All was quiet.
He had slept well, he realized with some surprise. He had not expected to sleep at all. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bunk listening to what sounded like a pitched battle outside. If you're tired enough, he thought, I suppose you can sleep anywhere. Soldiers sleep in fox-holes. You become acclimatized. No matter how frightened you may be, in the end your body takes control and you nod off.
He said a rosary.
He washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed; then he sat looking out the window, waiting for breakfast, wondering what EDS was planning for today.
Paul woke up around seven. He looked at Bill and said: "Couldn't sleep?"
"Sure I slept," Bill said. "I've been up an hour or so."
"I didn't sleep well. The shooting was heavy most of the night." Paul got out of his bunk and went to the bathroom.
A few minutes later breakfast came: bread and tea. Bill opened a can of orange juice that had been brought in by Keane Taylor.
The shooting started again around eight o'clock.
The prisoners speculated about what might be going on outside, but no one had any hard information. All they could se
e was the helicopters darting across the skyline, apparently shooting down at rebel positions on the ground. Every time a helicopter flew over the prison, Bill watched for a ladder to come dropping out of the sky into the courtyard of Building Number 8. This was his regular daydream. He also fantasized about a small group of EDS people, led by Coburn and an older man, swarming over the prison wall with rope ladders; or a large force of American military arriving at the last minute, like the cavalry in the Western movies, blasting a huge gap in the wall with dynamite.
He had done more than daydream. In his quiet, apparently casual way, he had inspected every inch of the building and courtyard, estimating the fastest way out under various imagined circumstances. He knew how many guards there were and how many rifles they possessed. Whatever might happen, he was ready.
It began to look as if today would be the day.
The guards were not following their normal routines. In jail everything was done by routine: a prisoner, with little else to do, observed the patterns and quickly became familiar with them. Today everything was different. The guards appeared nervous, whispering in corners, hurrying everywhere. The sounds of battle outside grew louder. With all this going on, was it possible today would end like any other day? We might escape, Bill thought, or we might get killed; but surely we won't be turning off the TV and lying down on our bunks as usual tonight.
At about ten-thirty he saw most of the officers crossing the prison compound, heading north, as if they were going to a meeting. They hurried back half an hour later. The major in charge of Building Number 8 went into his office. He emerged a couple of minutes later--in civilian clothes! He carried a shapeless parcel--his uniform?--out of the building. Looking through the window, Bill saw him put the parcel in the trunk of his BMW, which was parked outside the courtyard fence, then get in the car and drive away.
What did that mean? Would all the officers leave? Was that how it would happen--would Paul and Bill be able just to walk out?
Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting from the streets.
Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian clothes.
This had to be the end.
Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under attack.
Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening? Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?
The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate was open.
The gate was open!
Did the guards want the prisoners to leave?
Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the trees and ricocheted off buildings.
A slug landed at Paul's feet.
They both stared at it.
The guards in the gun towers were now firing into the compound.
Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.
They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their freedom, yet now that they could walk out, they hesitated.
"What do you think we should do?" said Paul.
"I don't know. Is it more dangerous in here or out there?"
Paul shrugged.
"Hey, there's the billionaire." They could see the rich prisoner from Building Number 8--the one who had a private room and meals brought in from outside--crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that mean there was a back way out?
The guards from Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the little courtyard and went out through the gate.
Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.
"See that motorcycle?" said Paul.
"I see it."
"We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle."
"How would we get it over the wall?"
"Oh, yeah." Paul laughed at his own foolishness.
Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets were flying around out there, and the mob attacking the jail might well be anti-American. On the other hand, if the authorities were somehow to regain control of the prison, Paul and Bill would have lost their last chance of escape ...
"I wonder where Gayden is now, the son of a bitch," said Paul. "The only reason I'm here is because he sent me to Iran."
Bill looked at Paul and realized he was only joking.
The patients from the ground-floor hospital swarmed out into the courtyard: someone must have unlocked their doors. Bill could hear a tremendous commotion, like crying, from the women's cell block on the other side of the street. There were more and more people out in the compound, flocking toward the prison entrance. Looking that way, Bill saw smoke. Paul saw it at the same moment.
Bill said: "If they're going to burn the place..."
"We'd better get out."
The fire tipped the balance: their decision was made.
Bill looked around the cell. The two of them had few possessions. Bill thought of the diary he had kept faithfully for the last forty-three days. Paul had written lists of things he would do when he got back to the States, and had figured out, on a sheet of paper, the finance on the new house Ruthie was buying. They both had precious letters from home that they had read over and over again.
Paul said: "We're probably better off not carrying anything that shows we're Americans."
Bill had picked up his diary. Now he dropped it again. "You're right," he said reluctantly.
They put on their coats: Paul had a blue London Fog raincoat and Bill an overcoat with a fur collar.
They had about two thousand dollars each, money that Keane Taylor had brought in. Paul had some cigarettes. They took nothing else.
They went out of the building and crossed the little courtyard, then hesitated at the gate. The street was now a sea of people, like the crowd leaving a sports stadium, walking and running in one mass toward the prison gates.
Paul stuck out his hand. "Hey, good luck, Bill."
Bill shook his hand. "Good luck to you."
Probably we'll both die in the next few minutes, Bill thought, most likely from a stray bullet. I'll never see the kids grow up, he realized sadly. The thought that Emily would have to manage on her own made him angry.
Amazingly enough, he felt no fear.
They stepped through the little gate, and then there was no more time for reflection.
They were swept into the throng, like twigs dropped into a fast-flowing stream. Bill concentrated on sticking close to Paul and staying upright, not to get trampled. There was still a lot of shooting. One lone guard had stayed at his post and seemed to be firing into the crowd from his gun tower. Two or three people fell--one of them was the American woman they had seen before--but it was not clear whether they had been shot or had merely stumbled. I don't want to die yet, Bill thought; I've got plans, things I want to do with my family, in my career; this is not the time, not the place, for me to die; what a rotten hand of cards I've been dealt...
They passed the Officers' Club where they had met with Perot just three weeks ago--it seemed like years. Vengeful prisoners were smashing up the club and wrecking the officers' cars outside. Where was the sense in that? For a moment the whole scene seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare.
The chaos around the main prison entrance was worse. Paul and Bill held back, and managed to detach themselves from the crowd, for fear of being crushed. Bill recalled that some of the prisoners had been here for twenty-five years: it was no wonder, after that length of time, that when they smelled freedom they went berserk.
It seemed that the prison gates must still be shut, for scores of people were trying to climb the immense exterior wall. Some were standing on cars and trucks that had been pushed up against the wall. Others were climbing trees and crawling precariously along overhanging branches. Still more had leaned planks against the brickwork and were trying to scramble up those. A few people had reached the top of the wall by one means or another and were letting down ropes and sheets to those below, but the ropes were not long enough.
Paul and Bill stood watching, wondering what to do. They were joined by some of the other foreign prisoners from Building Number 8. One of them, a New Zealander charged with drug smuggling, had a big grin all over his face as if he were enjoying the whole thing hugely. There was a kind of hysterical elation in the air, and Bill began to catch it. Somehow, he thought, we're going to get out of this mess alive.
He looked around. To the right of the gates the buildings were burning. To the left, some distance away, he saw an Iranian prisoner waving as if to say: This way! There had been some construction work on that section of the wall--a building seemed to be going up on the far side--and there was a steel door in the wall to allow access to the site. Looking more closely, Bill could see that the waving Iranian had got the steel door open.
"Hey--look over there!" said Bill.
"Let's go," said Paul.
They ran over. Several other prisoners followed. They went through the door--and found themselves trapped in a kind of cell without doors or windows. There was a smell of new cement. Builders' tools lay around. Someone grabbed a pickaxe and swung it at the wall. The fresh concrete crumbled quickly. Two or three others joined in, hacking away with anything that came to hand. Soon the hole was big enough: they dropped their tools and crawled through.
They were now between the two prison walls. The inner wall, behind them, was the high one-twenty-five or thirty feet. The outer wall, which stood between them and freedom, was only ten or twelve feet high.