by Ken Follett
4_______
In Istanbul, Ross Perot had a dreadful feeling that the whole operation was slipping out of control.
He heard, via Dallas, that the U.S. Embassy in Tehran had been overrun by revolutionaries. He also knew, because Tom Walter had talked to Joe Poche earlier, that the Clean Team had been planning to move into the Embassy compound as soon as possible. But after the attack on the Embassy, almost all telephone lines to Tehran had been disconnected, and the White House was monopolizing the few lines left. So Perot did not know whether the Clean Team had been in the Embassy at the time of the attack, nor did he know what kind of danger they might be in even if they were still at Goelz's house.
The loss of phone contact also meant that Merv Stauffer could not call Gholam to find out whether the Dirty Team had sent "a message for Jim Nyfeler" saying either that they were okay or that they were in trouble. The whole seventh-floor crew in Dallas was at work pulling strings to get one of the few remaining lines so they could talk to Gholam. Tom Walter had got on to A.T.&T. and spoken to Ray Johnson, who handled the EDS phone account. It was a very big account--EDS's computers in different parts of the U.S.A. talked to one another along telephone lines--and Johnson had been keen to help a major customer. He had asked whether EDS's call to Tehran was a matter of life and death. You bet it is, said Tom Walter. Johnson was trying to get them a line. At the same time, T. J. Marquez was sweet-talking an international operator, trying to persuade her to break the rules.
Perot had also lost touch with Ralph Boulware, who was supposed to meet the Dirty Team on the Turkish side of the border. Boulware had last been heard from in Adana, five hundred miles from where he was supposed to be. Perot presumed he was now on his way to the rendezvous, but there was no way of telling how far he had got or whether he would make it on time.
Perot had spent most of the day trying to get a light plane or a helicopter with which to fly into Iran. The Boeing 707 was no use for that, because Perot would need to fly low and search for the Range Rovers with "X" or "A" on their roofs, then land on tiny, disused airfields or even on a road or in a meadow. But so far his efforts had only confirmed what Boulware had told him at six o'clock that morning: it was not going to happen.
In desperation Perot had called a friend in the Drug Enforcement Agency and asked for the phone number of the agency's man in Turkey, thinking that narcotics people would surely know how to get hold of light planes. The DEA man had come to the Sheraton, accompanied by another man who, Perot gathered, was with the CIA; but if they knew where to get a plane they weren't telling.
In Dallas, Merv Stauffer was calling all over Europe looking for a suitable aircraft that could be bought or rented immediately and flown into Turkey: he, too, had failed so far.
Late in the afternoon Perot had said to Pat Sculley: "I want to talk to the highest-ranking American in Istanbul."
Sculley had gone off and raised a little hell at the American Consulate, and now, at ten-thirty P.M., a Consul was sitting in Perot's suite at the Sheraton.
Perot was leveling with him. "My men aren't criminals of any kind," he said. "They're ordinary businessmen who have wives and children worrying themselves to death back home. The Iranians kept them in jail for six weeks without bringing any charges or finding any evidence against them. Now they're free and they're trying to get out of the country. If they're caught, you can imagine how much chance they'd have of justice: none at all. The way things are in Iran now, my men may not get as far as the border. I want to go in and get them, and that's where I need your help. I have to borrow, rent, or buy a small aircraft. Now, can you help me?"
"No," said the Consul. "In this country it's against the law for private individuals to have aircraft. Because it's against the law, the planes aren't here even for someone who's prepared to break the law."
"But you must have aircraft."
"The State Department has no aircraft."
Perot despaired. Was he to sit and do nothing to help the Dirty Team?
The Consul said: "Mr. Perot, we're here to help American citizens, and I'm going to try to get you an aircraft. I'll pull whatever strings I can. But I'll tell you now that my chance of success is close to zero."
"Well, I appreciate it."
The Consul got up to go.
Perot said: "It's very important that my presence in Turkey be kept secret. Right now the Iranian authorities have no idea where my men are. If they should learn that I'm here, they will be able to figure out how my men are getting out, and that would be a catastrophe. So please be very discreet."
"I understand."
The Consul left.
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was T. J. Marquez calling from Dallas.
"Perot, you're on the front page of the paper today."
Perot's heart sank: the story was out.
T. J. said: "The governor just appointed you chairman of the Drug Commission."
Perot breathed again. "Marquez, you scared me."
T. J. laughed.
"You shouldn't do that to an old man," Perot said. "Boy, you really caught my attention there."
"Wait a minute, Margot's on the other line," said T. J. "She just wants to wish you a happy Valentine's Day."
Perot realized it was February 14. He said: "Tell her I'm completely safe, and being guarded at all times by two blondes."
"Wait a minute, I'll tell her." T. J. came back on the line a minute later, laughing. "She says, isn't it interesting that you need two to replace her?"
Perot chuckled. He had walked into that one: he should have known better than to try to score points off Margot. "Now, did you get through to Tehran?"
"Yes. The international operator got us a line, and we blew it on a wrong number. Then A.T. and T. got us a line and we reached Gholam."
"And?"
"Nothing. He hasn't heard from them."
Perot's temporary cheerfulness vanished. "What did you ask him?"
"We just said: 'Are there any messages?' and he said there weren't."
"Damn." Perot almost wished the Dirty Team had called to say they were in trouble, for then at least he would have known their location.
He said goodbye to T. J. and got ready for bed. He had lost the Clean Team, he had lost Boulware, and now he had lost the Dirty Team. He had failed to get hold of an aircraft in which to go looking for them. The whole operation was a mess--and there was not a thing he could do about it.
The suspense was killing him. He realized that never in his life had he experienced this much tension. He had seen men crumble under stress but he had never really been able to relate to their suffering because it had never happened to him. Stress did not upset him, normally--in fact, he thrived on it. But this was different.
He broke his own rule, and allowed himself to think about all the bad things that could happen. What was at stake here was his freedom, for if this rescue were to go wrong he would end up in jail. Already he had assembled a mercenary army, connived at the misuse of American passports, arranged the forgery of U.S. military identity cards, and conspired to effect an illegal border crossing. He hoped he would go to jail in the U.S. rather than in Turkey. The worst would be if the Turks sent him to Iran to be tried for his "crimes" there.
He lay awake on his hotel bed, worrying about the Clean Team, about the Dirty Team, about Boulware, and about himself. There was nothing he could do but endure it. In the future he would be more sympathetic to the men he put under stress. If he had a future.
5____
Coburn was tense, watching Simons.
They all sat in a circle on the Persian carpet, waiting for the "judge." Simons had told Coburn, before they left Tehran:
"Keep your eye on me." So far Simons had been passive, rolling with the punches, letting Rashid do the talking, allowing the team to be arrested. But there might come a moment when he changed his tactics. If he decided to start a fight, he would let Coburn know a split second before it happened.
The judge arrived.
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Aged about fifty, he wore a dark blue jacket with a light tan sweater underneath, and an open-neck shirt. He had the air of a professional man, a doctor or a lawyer. He had a .45 stuck in his belt.
Rashid recognized him. His name was Habib Bolourian, and he was a leading Communist.
Bolourian sat in the space Simons had intended for him.
He said something in Farsi, and the young man in the suit--who now took on the role of interpreter--asked for their passports.
This is it, Coburn thought; this is where we get into trouble. He will look at Bill's passport and realize it belongs to someone else.
The passports were piled up on the carpet in front of Bolourian. He looked at the top one. The interpreter began to write down details. There was some confusion about surnames and given names: Iranians often got the two mixed up, for some reason. Rashid was handing the passports to Bolourian, and Gayden was leaning over and pointing out things; and it dawned on Coburn that between the two they were making the confusion worse. Rashid was giving Bolourian the same passport more than once, and Gayden, in leaning over to point out things in a passport, was covering up the photograph. Coburn admired their nerve. In the end the passports were handed back, and it seemed to Coburn that Bill's had never actually been opened.
Bolourian began to interrogate Rashid in Farsi. Rashid seemed to be telling the official cover story, about their being ordinary American businessmen trying to go home, with some embellishments about family members on the point of death back in the States.
Eventually the interpreter said in English: "Would you tell us exactly what you're doing here?"
Rashid said: "Well, you see--" then a guard behind him slammed in the bolt on his machine gun and stuck the barrel into the back of Rashid's neck. Rashid fell silent. Clearly the interpreter wanted to hear what the Americans had to say, to see whether their story matched Rashid's; the guard's action was a brutal reminder that they were in the power of violent revolutionaries.
Gayden, as the senior EDS executive there, replied to the interpreter. "We all work for a data-processing company called PARS Data Systems, or PDS," he said. In fact, PDS was the Iranian company jointly owned by EDS and Abolfath Mahvi. Gayden did not mention EDS because, as Simons had pointed out before they left Tehran, Dadgar might put out a blanket arrest order on anyone connected with EDS. "We had a contract with Bank Omran," Gayden went on, telling the truth but by no means the whole truth. "We weren't getting paid, people were throwing rocks at our windows, we had no money, we missed our families, and we just wanted to go home. The airport was closed, so we decided to drive."
"That's right," said the interpreter. "The same thing happened to me--I wanted to fly to Europe but the airport was closed."
We may have an ally here, Coburn thought.
Bolourian asked, and the interpreter translated: "Did you have a contract with ISIRAN?"
Coburn was astonished. For someone who had spent twenty-five years in jail, Bolourian was remarkably well informed. ISIRAN--Information Systems Iran--was a data-processing company that had once been owned by Abolfath Mahvi and had subsequently been bought by the government. The company was widely believed to have close links with the secret police, SAVAK. Worse, EDS did have a contract with ISIRAN: in partnership, the two companies had created a document-control system for the Iranian Navy back in 1977.
"We have absolutely nothing to do with ISIRAN," Gayden lied.
"Can you give us some proof of whom you work for?"
That was a problem. Before leaving Tehran they had all destroyed any papers connected with EDS, under Simons's instructions. Now they all searched their pockets for anything they might have overlooked.
Keane Taylor found his health insurance card, with "Electronic Data Systems Corp." printed across the bottom. He handed it to the interpreter, saying: "Electronic Data Systems is the parent company of PDS."
Bolourian got up and left the room.
The interpreter, the armed Kurds, and the EDS men waited in silence. Coburn thought: What now?
Could Bolourian possibly know that EDS had once had a contract with ISIRAN? If so, would he jump to the conclusion that the EDS men were connected with SAVAK? Or had his question about ISIRAN been a shot in the dark? In that case, had he believed their story about being ordinary businessmen trying to go home?
Opposite Coburn, on the far side of the circle, Bill was feeling strangely at peace. He had peaked out on fear during the questioning, and he was simply incapable of worrying any longer. We've tried our hardest to get out, he thought, and if they put us up against the wall right now and shoot us, so be it.
Bolourian walked back in, loading a gun.
Coburn glanced at Simons: his eyes were riveted on the gun.
It was an old M1 carbine that looked as if it dated from World War II.
He can't shoot us all with that, Coburn thought.
Bolourian handed the gun to the interpreter and said something in Farsi.
Coburn gathered his muscles to spring. There would be a hell of a mess if they opened fire in this room--
The interpreter took the gun and said: "And now you will be our guests, and drink tea."
Bolourian wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to the interpreter. Coburn realized that Bolourian had simply issued the gun to the interpreter and given him a permit to carry it. "Christ, I thought he was going to shoot us," Coburn muttered.
Simons's face was expressionless.
Tea was served.
It was not dark outside. Rashid asked whether there was somewhere the Americans could spend the night. " You will be our guests," said the interpreter. "I will personally look after you." Coburn thought: For that, he needs a gun? The interpreter went on: "In the morning our mullah will write a note to the mullah of Rezaiyeh, asking him to let you pass."
Coburn murmured to Simons: "What do you think? Should we stay the night here, or go on?"
"I don't think we have a choice," Simons said. "When he said 'guests,' he was just being polite."
They drank their tea, and the interpreter said: "Now we will go and have dinner."
They got up and put on their shoes. Walking out to the cars, Coburn noticed that Gayden was limping. "What's the matter with your feet?" he said.
"Not so loud," Gayden hissed. "I got all the money stuffed up in the toes of my shoes and my feet are killing me."
Coburn laughed.
They got into the cars and drove off, still accompanied by Kurdish guards and the interpreter. Gayden surreptitiously eased off his shoes and rearranged the money. They pulled into a filling station. Gayden murmured: "If they weren't going to let us go, they wouldn't take us to gas up ... would they?"
Coburn shrugged.
They drove to the town restaurant. The EDS men sat down, and the guards sat at tables around them, forming a rough circle and cutting them off from the townspeople.
A TV set was on, and the Ayatollah was making a speech. Paul thought: Jesus, it had to be now, when we're in trouble, that this guy comes to power. Then the interpreter told him that Khomeini was saying Americans should not be molested, but should be allowed to leave Iran unharmed, and Paul felt better.
They were served chella kebab--lamb with rice. The guards ate heartily, their rifles on the tables beside their plates.
Keane Taylor ate a little rice, then put down his spoon. He had a headache: he had been sharing the driving with Rashid, and he felt as if the sun had been in his eyes all day. He was also worried, for it occurred to him that Bolourian might call Tehran during the night to check out EDS. The guards kept telling him, with gestures, to eat, but he sat and nursed a Coke.
Coburn was not hungry either. He had recalled that he was supposed to phone Gholam. It was late: they would be worried sick in Dallas. But what should he tell Gholam--that they were okay, or that they were in trouble?
There was some discussion about who should pay the bill when the meal was over. The guards wanted to pay, Rashid said. The Americans were anx
ious not to offend by offering to pay when they were supposed to be guests, but also keen to ingratiate themselves with these people. In the end Keane Taylor paid for everyone.
As they were leaving, Coburn said to the interpreter: "I'd sure like to call Tehran, to let our people know we're all right."
"Okay," said the young man.
They drove to the post office. Coburn and the interpreter went in. There was a crowd of people waiting to use the three or four phone booths. The interpreter spoke to someone behind the counter, then told Coburn: "All the lines to Tehran are busy--it's very difficult to get through."
"Could we come back later?"
"Okay."
They drove out of the town in the dark. After a few minutes they stopped at a gate in a fence. The moonlight showed the distant outline of what might have been a dam.
There was a long delay while keys to the gate were found; then they drove in. They found themselves in a small park surrounding an ornate, modern two-story building made of white granite. "This is one of the Shah's palaces," the interpreter explained. "He has used it only once, when he opened the power station. Tonight we will use it."
They went inside. The place was cozily warm. The interpreter said indignantly: "The heating has been on for three years just in case the Shah should decide to drop by."
They all went upstairs and looked at their quarters. There was a luxurious royal suite with an enormous fancy bathroom; then along the corridor were smaller rooms, each containing two single beds and a bathroom, presumably for the Shah's bodyguard. Under each bed was a pair of slippers.
The Americans moved into the guards' rooms and the revolutionary Kurds took over the Shah's suite. One of them decided to take a bath: the Americans could hear him splashing about, hooting, and hollering. After a while he came out. He was the biggest and burliest of them, and he had put on one of the Shah's fancy bathrobes. He came mincing down the corridor while his colleagues fell about laughing. He went up to Gayden and said in heavily accented English: "Complete gentleman." Gayden broke up.
Coburn said to Simons: "What's the routine for tomorrow?"