by R G Ainslee
The teen aged boy took Amadeo down the main corridor, around a corner, and along a long passageway to the section selling clothing. He led him down a line of stalls to a shop owned by his uncle.
A half-hour later, Amadeo left the shop wearing a green paisley shirt with wide collars, a blue padded jacket, and a grey Turkish-made flat cap. He carried his original outfit in a bundle.
Moving through the crowds and dogging carts piled with merchandise, he began to evaluate his situation. One fact stood out: if the authorities had his picture, he would be nabbed at the airport before boarding his flight on Wednesday.
There was no place to seek aid. The Spanish embassy was a no-go. They might detect he wasn't a real Spaniard. Besides, they could be watching the embassy. Returning to the hotel was out of the question. He needed a place to hole-up for the night and regroup.
After wandering through the maze for a half hour, he stopped to buy a pair of fake Ray-Ban sunglasses and a small sport bag for his gear. This allowed him to pause and glance back up the long corridor to see if anyone was following. No dead giveaways, no one seemed to be lurking about, avoiding eye contact or halting when he did, but he couldn't afford to relax. Counter surveillance and situational awareness isn't being paranoid, it's a good way to stay alive.
A female voice stood out from the steady chatter of the bazaar. Someone speaking English, bargaining with a merchant down the way. Amadeo donned his Ray-Bans, shouldered his bag, and ambled in that direction.
"No. No. Fifty Rials is too much." A young woman with long tangled hair hanging clumsily over her face, waved her hands in frustration as she argued with an indifferent jewelry merchant. She was in her early twenty's but looked older.
The man held out his hands, palms up, and told her in Farsi that it was his best price. He took a long draw on a cigarette and blew out a stream of acrid smoke in her direction.
Amadeo stopped at the stall and spoke to the man in Farsi. The merchant held his ground and emphasized his firmness with a gesture.
"He says that's his last price," said Amadeo to the woman.
"That's grand," she said through gritted teeth. "Tell him he can keep the bloody thing." She had woeful hazel eyes, set deep within their sockets.
Amadeo repeated her words. The man shrugged and bantered with him as the woman stood by, seething with indignation.
"He'll let you have it for forty-five. If you still want it."
"Tell him to stuff it." She wheeled about and started down the corridor.
Amadeo nodded and apologized to the merchant, who took another drag on his cigarette and dismissed him with a wave of the hand.
Seconds later Amadeo was at her side. "That really wasn't a bad price for a necklace, why didn't you take it?"
She stared straight ahead and increased her stride. "What's it to you."
By this time Amadeo had detected an Irish accent. "Just trying to help a fellow traveler. You from Ireland?"
She didn't respond.
"You staying near here?'
"What’s that supposed to mean?" She slowed her pace.
"I'm looking for a place to stay. Is there a hotel close-by?" Amadeo figured a cheap hippie hotel frequented by Westerners would give some cover and a potential way out of Iran.
"Yeah, me and my friend are at the Khyber Rest House up the street." She pointed towards the entrance. "There he is now."
A thin man in his mid-twenties draw near and eyed Amadeo with a look of concern.
"Let's go, I'm knackered," she said to the man, with a weary voice.
He ignored her and gave Amadeo the evil eye. The guy was wearing a dirty Mao jacket and ragged jeans. His eyes had that spaced out quality common among travelers on the hippie trail to Kathmandu.
She asked, "You score the hash?"
He grabbed her arm and started to lead her away.
"Hey, I'm just looking for a place to crash. Your hotel got any rooms?"
"They all got rooms," said the guy over his shoulder as they walked away.
Amado fell in behind the bedraggled couple and followed them to the Khyber Rest House. They went in and Amadeo paused outside to check the area. The hotel was located in a decaying three story building next to an auto repair shop. He remembered from his last visit, this type of hotel was called a mosafer khane or hostel. They specialized in cheap rooms, cleanliness not guaranteed.
Rather than enter at once, he chose to roam the area for a while, check out other lodgings and make sure he wasn't being followed. He needed time to think, events were moving too fast and not in his favor. He made his way to the square in front of the entrance and sat on a bench, watching evening shoppers enter and leave the bazaar.
Two men, not officials, were looking for him. Who could they be? There were many different factions in the revolution, Islamic, Marxist, and just plain opportunists. Pick a flavor, it could be any of them. And then there was Carl Walker. What was he doing in Iran?
Dusk began to descend and Amadeo headed back to the Khyber Rest House. At least it would be safe. They would never think to look there.
* * *
"Do you need anything, comrade?" asked Suslov's assistant, Lieutenant Samir Kazimov, an Aziri KGB officer from Baku.
"Yes." Suslov shifted uneasily in the hard chair. The effects of his wounds at the hands of Jack Richards were still bothersome. The doctors had told him he would never walk normally again. His shoulder exploded in pain under the slightest stress. Despite his discomfort, he managed a faint smile, "Pass my medicine … a half glass this time."
Kazimov filled a tumbler half-full of vodka and handed it to the major. Suslov took a long draw, closed his eyes, and relaxed.
"You should follow the doctor's advice and take the morphine," pleaded the young officer.
"Not yet. Not when our traditional medicine is still available." Suslov downed the rest of the glass. "Thank you for your concern, Samir."
"Do you believe they will find the American?"
Suslov huffed in contempt. "These dogs … who can tell."
Naheed burst through the door without knocking. "Comrade, we have found him." He glowed with pride.
Suslov gave the lieutenant a mocking grin and answered, "Is that so?"
"He is registered at the Intercontinental Hotel as Felix Fernandez. The hotel clerk says he is a journalist from Spain."
"Do you have him in hand?"
"Not yet, the comrades are waiting in his room at the hotel for his return."
Suslov stiffened and answered, "Report to me at once when he is in your custody." He motioned for Naheed to leave.
Kazimov waited a few seconds after the Iranian had left before asking, "You have doubts they will succeed?"
"Mice hunting a lion. This American is a seasoned professional, they will sit until the winter snows before this man walks into their lair."
"What shall we do?
"Drive me back to the embassy and then you will see what you can do to help our … comrades. This man will have moved on by now. I suggest you look to places frequented by western travelers. He has done it before in Afghanistan, perhaps he will do it again."
Kazimov appeared perplexed. "Where?"
"Try the area around the bazaar. Since the revolution, the number of places has diminished, shouldn't be too hard for someone like you."
The lieutenant smiled. As an Aziri, he could pass for an Iranian and was fluent in Farsi. "I will start right away."
"No. Wait until morning. Get an early start, give him time to settle in and get comfortable. When you find him, call in our Iranian comrades, let them make the capture, we do not need to be visible. Understand?"
"Yes, comrade. I'll go down and get the car."
Suslov struggled to his feet. Kazimov knew better than to try to help him, Suslov was a proud man to a fault.
* * *
Satisfied he wasn't being tailed and not finding anything better, Amadeo entered the Khyber Rest House. Inside, it was obvious the structure wasn't built as a ho
tel. A medium sized room lay beyond the front door, illuminated by the dim glow of a single bulb. A bald older man reclined in a plush chair, smoking an ornate hookah pipe. A scent of hashish permeated the air. A large poster of the Ayatollah decorated the wall.
Assuming the man was the manager, Amadeo asked, "Can I get a room?"
The man, eyes closed, puffed out a stream of smoke and said, "Two dollars American, in advance, no credit, you pay now, and you share room."
"You don't have a single room?"
He opened his eyes. "No. Two dollars American, in advance, and I hold passport."
"I'll keep the passport." Amadeo spoke with a tone of finality. He wasn't about to give up the document to anyone.
The manager eyed Amadeo warily as he thought it over. "Ten dollars American in advance. You go, no get money back."
Amadeo shelled out a ten-dollar bill. "You have meals too?"
"Yes." He nodded to an adjacent room with a few tables. "Food extra. Shower in basement, one-dollar American with hot water." He glanced towards the door. "You alone."
"Yeah, just me."
"You have no baggage?"
"No, it was stolen. Can I have my key, I need to—"
"No key, the room is up the stair."
Rather than argue with the man, Amadeo went upstairs to a large room filled with packs and sleeping bags. A half-dozen people sat cross-legged in the center of the room smoking hash. The couple from the bazar stood in a corner, engaged in a heated conversation.
A bearded man sitting alone against the wall called out, "Welcome to the Tehran Hippie Hilton. Take any empty spot you desire."
Amadeo walked over. "No beds in this place?"
The guy laughed. "The floor is your bed, just lay out your sleeping bag and relax, if you can."
Amadeo grimaced. "I don't have one. … They don't have anything else?"
"No this is it. The other cheap places for travelers were shut down months ago, this place is all that's left. Not many Westerners come through here since the revolution. You American?"
"No, I'm Spanish."
"You sound American."
"Worked there for a while, that's where I learned my English. You sound Australian."
The man laughed again. "No, I am from Austria. I worked in New Zealand for two years, now I am on my way home. Peter Mattias here."
"I'm Felix Fernandez." He looked around. "Guess I need to head back to the bazaar and buy a blanket to sleep on."
"Better make it two. This floor gets cold at night. Old Bashir downstairs is too cheap to provide heat.'
An hour later, Amadeo returned from the bazaar with a couple of cheap cotton-stuffed blankets. Peter Mattias had gone with him and revealed that he had driven to Tehran from India.
"Your headed west?"
"Yes, I plan to leave tomorrow … or maybe the next day." They halted beside an old yellow Opel van. The faded Deutsche Bundespost markings on the side panels raised Amadeo's suspicions.
"Where did you find that truck in India."
"Bought it from a German in New Delhi. He was anxious to get to Thailand and couldn't sell it in India. He grinned. "So, I got a good cheap price." He opened the van door. "See you later, I need to top off the petrol."
Amadeo watched him drive off down the narrow street and began to put together the beginnings of a plan. He had three choices: sit tight and wait for the crisis to end, take a chance at the airport, or head for the border on his own.
Staying put in the expectation that there would be some kind of negotiated resolution of the takeover was too risky. Trying to board a flight entailed even more risk. The airport would end in disaster if they were waiting for him. At least doing nothing offered more flexibility. To do what?
If he couldn't fly out, perhaps he could tag along with the Austrian. But, could he trust him? Too early to tell, but then he didn't have the luxury of time. Going with Peter would be risky, but the other choices were worse. He decided to ask him later in the evening.
* * *
Sam stretched out the best he could. His hands were still tied and his eyes blindfolded. He sensed others in the room, nervous breathing, occasional fits of coughing, restless movements. No one spoke, he had been warned to keep quiet, accentuated with the jab of a gun to his ribs.
The presence of the Marxist faction had stunned Sam. He had assumed their politics were too alien to the Islamic students' dogma. Which was worse, the Marxist or the Islamic students? He sensed he would soon find out.
Monday PM, 7 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany
John Smith, his face red with rage, slammed the door behind him.
Jack looked up from his book. "What's up? Was the chow that bad again?" John had just returned from the cafeteria in the I.G. Farben Building.
"Can you believe it. Carter is going to send a couple of bedwetters to Tehran to — negotiate an end to the so-called hostage crisis. They just announced on television."
"Who they sending?"
"Frickin Ramsey Clark and William Miller."
"Who's Miller?"
"Some former ambassador to Iran."
"At least he knows the territory."
"Yeah, but Ramsey Clark. Give me a break."
"It'll probably be over by the time they get there, don't ya think."
John plopped down in his chair. "I wouldn't put it past the Iranians to hold them too."
"Wonder what Amadeo is doing now." He checked his new Tag-Heuer watch. "Late afternoon there now. Bet he's down in the bar plying some poor stewardess with lemonade."
"Lemonade?"
"Yeah, forgot to tell you that's the strongest stuff they serve in Iran these days."
At last, John cracked a smile. "Well if that's the case he'll have to get home without our help. Let's go down to the club, I need a drink."
Monday PM, 7 November 1979: Tehran, Iran
The evening meal at the Khyber Rest House consisted of a small stack of greasy French fries with a fried egg on top and a chunk of Nan bread. The conversation was more interesting than the meal.
The couple from the bazaar, Fiona and Desmond, were Irish backpackers on their way to Goa. They arrived in Tehran two weeks ago in an old bus, but it broke down between Tabriz and Tehran. They were trying to find a ride east.
Amadeo asked Fiona, "Has the embassy takeover affected your plans?" He wanted to find out if the situation had affected travel out of Tehran.
She gave him a baffled look. "What are you talking about?
Desmond was equally puzzled. "What embassy?"
No one else seemed to be aware of the drama playing out a mile away. Amadeo glanced at Peter Mattias.
"We don't pay attention to politics here. Does not affect us."
"You expect any problems leaving Iran?"
Peter hesitated a moment before answering. "No, fortunately I am not American. They seem to not bother with Europeans, but I have the impression they will be happy to see us all leave quickly. Are you travelling east?"
"No. I'm a freelance journalist. Wanted to write about the revolution, but now I am running low on funds and need to get back home." Amadeo decided to drop a hint. "I tried the airlines, but they are full, no flights for a few days. I just want to get out of here, this embassy takeover has me scared." He paused, took a breath, and pleaded with an air of desperation, "Any chance I could ride with you to the border?"
Peter spent a moment in pensive silence before he answered, "Sure, you can ride with us." He motioned towards a couple sitting at a table in the corner. "They are coming too. All you have to do is pay half for the fuel."
"Half… Yes, that will be good … Muy bien, muchas gracias." Amadeo grasped Peter's hand as he projected a sense of intense gratitude.
"Fine. We leave…" He glanced over at the cheerless couple. They had not spoken and were absorbed in their meal. Both seemed nervous and reserved. "Late in the morning. Perhaps."
"Who are they?" asked Amadeo, curious to find out about his fellow travelers.
"Danish, from Copenhagen, I think. They ran out of money here in Tehran."
"You giving them a free ride?"
Peter winked. "She is not so bad looking don't you think."
Amadeo didn't respond. The girl's pale blue eyes had the blank empty look of one who had surrendered their soul to the depths of darkness. At one time, she could have been bright cheerful and full of life, now she existed only for the next moment. Another victim of the quest for a transcendental awakening on a path that led to exotic lands where hash and heroin were cheap and available.
After an inspection of the facilities in the basement, Amadeo chose to forego the pleasures of a cold shower and headed back upstairs to turn in. The Danish girl was cuddled up with Peter in a corner. Her friend sat in the opposite corner with his head down.
19 ~ Kazimov
Tuesday AM, 8 November 1979: Tehran, Iran
All night, a bitter wind whistled through cracks in the windows. The two blankets were barely enough to allow for a fitful night's sleep. Amadeo stirred, strained to read his watch in the dim morning light: 5:47 A.M. He sat up, no one else was awake.
He crept down the stairs deciding to check the area once more, maybe even stroll down to the bazaar for a cup of hot chai. The manager slumped in his chair snoring lightly. Outside, the chilly morning air penetrated his padded jacket. The bazaar was only two blocks away, he set off in that direction.
* * *
Kazimov sighed as he left the dingy mosafer khane. It had been the fifth place he had checked in the last hour. Like all the rest it held a scruffy collection of westerners and south Asian laborers. So, far no one had recognized the photograph, his trained eye was sure of that. He didn't expect them to speak the truth, their face would tell him what he wanted to know.
The two Iranian Marxist comrades followed a few meters behind. He had already warned them three times about following too close. He glanced at the file, five more possible hotels, if you can call them that. A young intelligence officer at the embassy had provided him with a list of cheap lodgings frequented by westerners on the so-called hippie trail.