by R G Ainslee
The bartender approached, and Jack ordered lemonade. Out of earshot, he said, looking straight ahead, "So what's the deal?"
Sam raised his glass and answered after a sip, "It's getting crazy at the embassy and I'm being followed." He took a big swig of lemonade. "The big guy at the end of the bar, wearing the leather jacket is one of my followers. So, take it under advisement, we're being watched."
Jack had already made note of everyone sitting at the bar and had tagged the man as a tough guy. "Okay, no problem. What about the tape? Where does this guy work?"
"The Tabari Restaurant on the same street as the embassy, about six blocks east. I'll pick it up tomorrow and you come to the embassy on Sunday to check it out."
"No way, I'm supposed to stay away—"
"That's how it's got to be. You need to authenticate it before we issue my man his visa."
"You gotta be kidding." Jack stifled his irritation as he kept a calm expression. "We don't have any way to analyze the tape. I'm just supposed to pick it up and take it—"
"I have a one-inch recorder, one that was supposed to go to T-1. It's all set up. Don't have a scope, but you can verify the audio. Be there early, say nine or so. I'll alert the Marine guard." Sam pulled out his wallet and laid some cash on the bar. "Must go, nice talking to you Mr. Bolton. Have a good day." He swiveled away from Jack and left the bar.
Jack noticed out of the corner of his eye that the man in the leather jacket did not follow Sam. Jack was his new target. A diversion was needed. A stocky man sat alone two stools away.
"Say, will you join me in a drink. Been in Tehran only a few hours. How 'bout you?" He tried to engage the man in conversation to divert the Iranian follower's attention away from Sam.
The man eyed him warily and replied in halting English, "The no have the trink, no Schnapps, no Jägermeister, no Bier."
"You from Germany?" said Jack, as he slid across the stools to the one next to the German.
"Ya, the DDR, I am from Jena." He smiled without humor. "You know the Zeiss optik?"
"Oh yeah, you guys make great binoculars."
"Yah, yah. You are American?"
* * *
Sam Brooks was by nature a cautious man. As an excuse to check his back, he paused and asked the doorman at the Intercontinental to hail a taxi. The uncrowded lobby showed no signs of the man in the leather jacket. Sam moved to the first available cab and noticed as he opened the door, a man wearing a brown sport coat standing twenty yards away. The way the man showed a little too much interest was unnerving. Something told him he was one of them, most likely a member of the newest iteration of the Iranian secret police. A glance at the rear-view mirror revealed the man entering the next cab.
He gave the driver his home address, in the morning would be soon enough to report in. The Friday night traffic was unusually dense, the taxi paused several times to wait for cross traffic. Each time Sam looked back, the cab was still there. He considered heading straight for the embassy but decided that would only heighten suspicion. The driver halted in front of his building and the following cab passed by without slowing down.
Exiting the taxi, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. Tomorrow would be one of the toughest days of his life. What if they catch me? I have diplomatic immunity. The Iranians aren't crazy enough to mess with me. They might take me to a police station, but there is no way they're going to hold me. Just got to keep my cool. Nothing's going to happen.
Sam lingered behind the front door to his building, only three blocks from the embassy, and peered apprehensively through the glass. He was about to turn away when a cab passed by. His heart skipped a beat. The passenger wore a brown sport coat, but he was uncertain if it was the same man. He waited a few minutes, more cabs passed, and finally he gave it up, writing it off as case of paranoia.
He climbed the stairs to his one room flat, down the hall to his door, turned the key and placed his hand on the lever — it seemed different, a tad greasy. Someone had been there or at least tried his door.
Sam stood frozen. Fifteen seconds passed. Fear welled up inside, almost overwhelming, bordering on panic. Another ten seconds, he fought the urge to turn around and go to the safety of the embassy. He eased the door open and turned on the light. The apartment seemed different. He closed and locked the door. Someone had been there. He sensed it in his bones. Five minutes later he found it, someone had placed a microphone in the bookcase.
* * *
Two hours later, Jack tapped on the door to Amadeo's room. The door opened, and he slipped in. The television blared away at full blast. A Bollywood movie from India provided the noise to distort any conversation.
"Who's your new buddy?" asked Amadeo. "Thought you were going to stay all evening."
"Yeah, lucky they weren't serving booze, that guy needed some in a serious way. Said he was East German, selling optical products. I had to hang on with him for a while because someone was following the guy from the embassy and stayed to see what I was up to."
"The dude in the leather jacket." Amadeo shook his head and said, "Stood out like a sore thumb. But, that should confuse him, first an American and then an East German."
"Or raise their interest. You never know. Did I look convincing from where you were setting?"
"Think so. You didn't spend too much time with the brother. He played it pretty cool. To me it looked like a casual meeting."
"Hope they bought it. The tail left after about a half hour. Couldn't spot anyone else, he must have been alone. What about the guys at your table?"
"All you have to do to get a conversation going with a Spaniard is talk Fútbol. I got the full treatment about Fútbol Club Sevilla. — So, what's the deal now?"
"He doesn't have the tape yet. Says his contact works at a place called the Tabari Restaurant. Promised the guy a visa for the goods."
"When will he get the tape?"
"Don't know, but he wants me at the embassy Sunday morning, says he has a recorder for me to authenticate the tape."
It was Amadeo's turn to be surprised, "A recorder. Can you do that?"
"Well we listened to that tape fragment back at Kirtland. I guess I can tell if its telemetry, that's about all."
Amadeo shrugged. "Guess that'll have to do. Don't like the idea of you going into the embassy. I'll check it out tomorrow. You need to stay away until the last minute. What you going to do tomorrow?"
"They'll expect me to go to the Ministry of Defense, so I'll go up there and look like I'm doing my job."
11 ~ Carl Walker
Saturday AM, 3 November 1979: Tehran, Iran
The CIA man listened patiently to Sam's recitation of his meeting with the man from Langley and seemed unconcerned about the microphone. He told Sam, "Don't worry about it. They undoubtedly have mikes and even cameras in all our places, so be careful about what you say and do in your living quarters. Hell, the mike could even be left over from the SAVAK days."
"No, it's new. I did a thorough sweep of the place only last week. It wasn't there before."
"Like I said, don't worry. Everybody said we were going to have violent demonstrations yesterday and today. Did you see any?"
"No, everything looked relatively calm, if you can call the normal crowd at the front gate calm. So, nothing happened yesterday?"
"The highlight of the day was when some jackass slipped past the guards and took down the flag right in front of the chancery. The Marines greased the pole in case the SOB tries to do it again."
Sam smiled. "Maybe they really are just students."
"Yeah, and I'm the King of Siam. … Seriously, everyone's relieved and the worst seems to be over. I think it's going to quiet down over the next few days."
"I hope so, but I'm not too sure. I heard that staff members are being encouraged to bring their families back to Tehran. Is that true?"
"Yes. One of the consular officers told me, his family is in Frankfurt waiting to return."
"From all outward appearances, everything seems n
ormal, but I'm not so sure. What do you think?"
"Now that the Shah has been admitted into the States, it's just a matter of time before they react. We all know the Embassy is vulnerable, despite all the security measures taken to protect the place following the Valentine's Day Open House fiasco."
"You think they'll repeat the takeover or try some sort of terrorist attacks against US interests?"
"Not sure. The building sure isn't impervious to assault. They took measures, called it hardening in typical State Department doublespeak, to provide protection from gunfire and make it more difficult to force entry." He slumped in his chair for a moment and then straightened up. "Anyway, we don't have control over any of that. What's your plan to get the tape from this Azad character?"
"I'm going to the restaurant for a late lunch and hopefully will pick it up then. The Langley man will come in early Sunday morning and verify the tape, we give Azad his visa, and we're done."
"Still think it's all a waste of time," he remarked morosely. "Even if it is a valid tape, what use could it be?"
"Got me, that's way above my expertise. From what I saw at T-1, those guys obsess over every little detail. To me it's sort of like a high-tech Easter egg hunt. You look and look until you find something and then you still don't know what you have until you crack it open."
"You may be right. Sometimes I think the Easter Bunny's running that show. Anyway, we don't have to worry about it anymore, fat chance the new gang in charge will allow us back up in the mountains."
Sam responded with an expression of resignation on his face. "Me neither, sixty-seven more days and I'm going home."
"Sounds like you got short-timer fever."
"Right on — Baltimore here I come."
* * *
Amadeo was at home on the streets of Tehran, confident and content with his ability to blend into the local scene. His features allowed him to fit in anywhere. An expert in the type of stealth that allowed him to survive in hostile environments for a considerable amount of time, he spoke passable Farsi, able to pose as an ethnic minority in the Iranian milieu.
Situational awareness was the first order of business, a walking tour of the area around the hotel revealed several not too subtle surveillance teams. No one paid attention to Amadeo dressed in clothes bought on his last trip to Iran. He knew from experience, it was safer to walk and to avoid eye contact on the street. Every vehicle holding Westerners drew the attention of suspicious members of the Revolutionary Guards. They tend to associate anyone driving a car with the old regime.
Returning to the hotel, he entered the gift shop on the first floor. The sound of a New England Yankee twang revealed an older man dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket speaking to the clerk. The man paid, took his purchase, and strode to the door. Amadeo approached him cautiously.
"Sorry to bother you sir, I've just arrived in Tehran. Can you tell me how to get to the American embassy?"
The man eyed Amadeo with an air of haughty disdain, "Ask any taxi driver or just follow the crowds … can't miss it."
"That's what I'm worried about, I heard about a big march."
He spoke slowly, his voice dripping with truculence, "Don't worry, it does not involve us," and walked away with a determined stride.
In the background, the clerk muttered in Farsi, something about the American Satan.
Amadeo approached and asked the clerk for a pack of Marlboro cigarettes. In Iran, a smoke between your lips was almost a necessity if you wanted to blend in. As he paid, the clerk asked, "Is that man a friend?"
"No, I just asked for directions. He wasn't very friendly."
"He is American." The clerk eyed Amadeo hesitantly.
"I am from España."
The clerk smiled without humor, started to say something, but kept silent. Amadeo thanked him and left the shop, conscious of the man's eyes following through the lobby.
He stepped out to the curb and hailed a taxi. A swarthy tough guy in a leather jacket eyed him for a moment and then diverted his attention to a pair of French businessmen.
Traffic moved slowly along streets clogged with private cars, mostly Iranian Paykan sedans, military vehicles, motorcycles, and bicycles. The occasional donkey or camel only added to the misery as progress slowed to a crawl.
As the taxi inched along, Amadeo had time to think. This is the second time I've been here, and I still don't understand how this place works. It’s so different. I have to stop assuming Iranians think like we do. I don’t understand them, and probably never will.
Tehran was not an attractive city. The architecture unremarkable, the price of real estate increasing with the altitude as the terrain sloped upward towards the cool air of the Alborz Mountains, its peaks barely visible to the north through the smog and haze.
Men went about their business wearing everything from business suits to traditional robes. Almost all the women wore black or dark blue chadors. Members of militias strutted along wearing an ill-suited collection of civilian clothing and discarded military uniforms. Other militants identified by the color of their headbands or armbands.
Two blocks from the embassy, Amadeo exited the taxi and strolled along Takht-e-Jamshid, a wide boulevard. Posters and crude graffiti covered the embassy's walls and main gate. A group of students, with beards wearing dark clothes and red headbands, stood on the corner. The crowd was smaller than he expected, but a strange mood permeated the air. Listening to the students, he gathered something big was about to happen.
A man wearing a green armband thrust a printed flyer into his hand and extolled him to stand firm against the American Satan. His voice carried the confidence of total conviction, enhanced by an unnerving rage. Amadeo mumbled thanks and an Allah Akbar in response, and moved on, not wanting to be drawn into a conversation.
After a walking tour of the area around the American embassy, Amadeo decided to check out the Tabari Restaurant, where the man with the tape worked. The first thing he noticed was a tough guy, wearing a blue sport coat, standing across the street with no clear purpose. He had to be watching the place.
Faced with the prospect of a single walk-by, Amadeo chose to enter the restaurant. Standing outside and observing would be too obvious. The tough guy in the blue coat proved that.
The waiter brought a menu and Amadeo ordered a simple meal, kebab with plain rice and Nan bread. His halting Farsi failed to draw any unwanted attention. The waiter's periodic glances at the man outside gave the impression that he was nervous. He must be the guy, thought Amadeo.
Amadeo paid and strolled back in the direction of the embassy. At the next corner, he spied a Black man in a corduroy coat waiting to cross. It's the same guy, the one from the embassy — he's headed for the cafe. — Why did I have to leave so soon? No mind, it's too late to turn back now, not with the place being watched.
* * *
Sam's focus was on the meeting: got to collect the tape — time is of the essence. Alert for anyone following or watching, he eyed a small group of pedestrians waiting to cross the intersection. One man seemed faintly familiar. He had seen him but couldn't place where. As he crossed the intersection, he purposely avoided looking at the man. A half block away it hit him: the hotel bar, he was in the hotel bar at the Intercontinental.
As he entered the restaurant, Sam glanced back down the street. The man from the bar was nowhere in sight. He had already made note of his faithful follower's locations, they had an almost invariable routine. True to form, one of them followed him into the restaurant and took his usual table.
Azad approached, visibly nervous, and handed Sam the menu without comment. As Azad turned to leave, Sam said, "I know what I want today." Azad halted and returned to the table. "Today, I want fish, fresh fish from the Caspian."
Azad blanched, screwed his eyes shut, his lips tightened, grim faced, he stared straight ahead. "I… I, not fish today."
Sam nonplussed responded, "I told you before to have fresh fish ready for the next time."
"No �
�� no fish today, we have no fresh fish."
"You don't understand, my friend has arrived and wishes to have fresh fish."
"I bring you the Abgousht."
Five minutes later, Azad returned with the lamb stew. He seemed calmer, more in control. Sam decided not to press the matter, the man two tables away might get suspicious, if he wasn't already. Sam smiled, thanked him, and ate his meal in a casual manner. Now what, he wondered, that guy from Langley is coming to the embassy tomorrow and I don't have nothing. Maybe I can convince him to wait a few more days.
His meal finished, Sam summoned Azad. As he presented the bill, Sam noticed there were two pieces of paper, the actual bill, and a note. Sam paid, Azad made change, and Sam palmed the note without reading it in with his change. Their silently exchanged glances conveyed all that needed to be said.
Azad was relieved, tomorrow he will be rid of the tape and have a valid visa to enter America. Sam also promised to produce a valid Iranian exit permit. Azad wondered if he could trust him. After all the Americans did abandon the Shah, will they do the same to him?
Down the street, Sam entered his favorite bookstore and made a pretense of examining a book as he read the note. It read: I come tomorrow, you have visa.
* * *
The CIA officer handed the note it back to Sam. "What do you think? Will he show up?"
"He really seems to be nervous. Can't say that I blame him, he knows he's being watched."
"They watch everyone in contact with foreigners like hawks because they think we’re all a bunch of spies. Yesterday, a local employee of the German embassy was arrested on suspicion of espionage."
"What'll happen to him?"
"They usually smack them around some and toss them in a cell. Sometimes they release them, but then again he may never be heard from again."
Sam shook his head, "I processed his visa application, and when he brings his passport, we can do it with the stamps. He's still going to need an exit permit." Exit permits, issued by the government, were required for all Iranians seeking to travel overseas.