“The president met with the Shah alone for ninety minutes,” Trevor was confiding to Weiseman. “We gave him what he asked for: a five year military aid list, nuclear power plants.”
What did a major oil producer need with nuclear power plants? Weiseman wondered, but the question answered itself: the Shah was hoping to build his own nuclear deterrent rather than rely exclusively on what might turn out to be an unreliable American protector.
Trevor pursed his lips tightly. He waved at someone below and flashed a bright smile. When he turned back to Weiseman, the smile had vanished. “Carter told him he’d have to rein in SAVAK, let the students blow off some steam, and keep the lid on. The Shah stared into space as if he were on drugs, then he let POTUS have it. He said we didn’t understand Iran, that America would never comprehend Iran. If he followed our advice, reforms would end and there’d be chaos. We’d end up dealing with the mullahs.”
“He might be right, you know,” Weiseman remarked.
“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”
Suddenly, a chamberlain was before them in a white silk uniform, red shoulder sashes and puffy pants, a shiny, long sword snaking down his leg. “Mr. Director, His Majesty and Empress Farah await you and Mrs. Trevor.”
Trevor nodded. Clarissa took his arm. The procession was underway again. They moved under royal blue silk canopies that evoked a harlot’s bed. Amber lanterns sparkled, casting an ambiance from Scheherazade.
At the head of the receiving line, the Shah, in full military dress, greeted the Carters. The tight smiles and formal handshakes said it all. The two despised each other but were tied together out of necessity.
Justin Trevor stepped right up and praised the Shah for transforming the palace into a magnificent bridge to the New Year. He remarked at how beautiful the Empress looked, that the Shah was surely a fortunate man. Weiseman watched the old fox perform, the effortless finesse, and admired the way Clarissa brushed an invisible nothing from the monarch’s lapel, then exchanged air-kisses with the Empress and dangled shameless flattery that brought a sad smile to the Shah’s lips. Clarissa was ten years younger than Justin, a lustrous brunette with green eyes and turned-up nose, stylish in a long, black sheath silk dress.
Waiting his turn, Weiseman gazed around the room. The luxury smacked of fin de siecle France, of kings and queens soon to be led to the guillotine, of the French Revolution and the generations of blood and war it spawned. They must know, he told himself, Justin and Clarissa, that the New Year could bring Iran despair and tragedy.
Françoise tugged on his arm, and they were greeting the Shah. He was struck by the prominent nose and the lean face framed by outsized ears—a near carbon copy of Reza Shah, though without his father’s bushy mustache. The monarch seemed self-assured. Perhaps the gifts that Carter had bestowed that afternoon—along with having put Carter in his place—had restored his confidence.
When Weiseman and Françoise came to the Empress, he noted that beneath the practiced smile and the compliment to Weiseman for his beautiful lady was a tremor in the hand she extended to greet them, as if she knew she was playing a tragic part.
As the Empress turned to her next guest in the receiving line, Weiseman and Françoise found themselves facing a beaming General Hanif, like his boss also in full-dress military uniform. No doubt the Shah had told him over a non-Muslim drink how he had rebuffed the American president’s demand that he muzzle SAVAK. Hanif gripped his arm, a manly gesture between friends that also served to reinforce the message.
Clarissa Trevor called to them, and when Weiseman and Françoise caught up, she leaned in to whisper in Weiseman’s ear so Françoise couldn’t hear. “You two are perfect together,” she said.
She then elbowed him to offer Françoise his arm, which Weisemann did rather awkwardly, and together they all followed the chamberlain into the Grand Ballroom, decorated in festive red and green, the colors of Christmas and of Islam. Brilliant candelabra illuminated the starched, white tablecloth and glistening silver, the gold trimmed, white bone china from Germany, party favors in yellow wrappers.
The Shah and the Empress led the Carters and Trevors to the head table, situated on an elevated dais overlooking the sea of tables at which the elites of the Shah’s kingdom were seated. Trevor had told Weiseman that it was best to keep him and Carter apart. “Deniability,” he said tersely.
Waiters in white jackets with gold sashes served Caspian caviar, sturgeon and lamb shashlik, and partridge, with Baked Alaska and other flaming desserts.
At 11:00 p.m., an American dance band appeared. The president was on his feet. “Empress Farah has informed me that Earl ‘Fatha’ Hines and Dizzy Gillespie are the Shah’s favorite jazz instrumentalists. We have brought them here as a gesture of friendship to our friend, the Shah.”
A moment later the pianist and trumpeter were on stage, riffing away in a spirited jam while the Shah sat stiffly in his place. When it was over, Empress Farah, in her green brocade and emeralds, urged her husband to go onto the stage. Finally, she grasped his arm and virtually propelled him to the stage, where, in evident discomfort, he shook hands all around.
Looking on, Weiseman wondered if this man, so practiced in the orchestrated ritual of formal statecraft, could cope when confronted with the unexpected and the need for improvisation. Was this just a trivial event or did it reveal a character flaw, a fatally missing ingredient in the Shah’s capacity to lead his nation?
At 11:45 p.m., the Shah rose, donned black horn-rimmed reading glasses, and read his toast. “Honored guests and dear friends…President and Mrs. Carter…enduring friendship…common interests…” It was diplomatic boilerplate served up by the Foreign Ministry, a script he must have read to many prior American presidents.
Finally, the Shah removed his glasses, dispensed a half smile, and raised his glass. Carter stood. Weiseman and Françoise rose along with the whole room, as a single wave heading for the shore. The Shah and Carter clinked glasses lightly. At the microphone, the Shah said, “God bless America.”
Across the ballroom, Weiseman picked out Ronald and Millicent Sims. Françoise touched his arm and nodded to a nearby table where Ayatollah Seyyed rearranged his robes.
“Teamwork,” she said softly, reaching to straighten out Weiseman’s bow tie.
It was now Carter’s turn. The buzz in the ballroom suddenly ceased. Weiseman watched the kingdom’s elites and bejeweled ladies slide up in their seats. There was a tangible sigh of anticipation. The Shah, comme il faut, maintained his composure, as monarchs did.
Carter was smiling now, the politician currying favor, though Weiseman knew how much he must hate this particular burden of office. “Rosalyn and I are delighted to welcome in the New Year with the Shah and Empress Farah. It’s a special pleasure to do so in Tehran. We have noted the special respect and the love Iranians feel for their leader. There is no leader for whom I have a deeper sense of personal gratitude and personal friendship.” And then the coda: “Iran is an island of stability in a turbulent corner of the world.”
Wait till that hits the streets!
As Carter continued, Weiseman glanced at Trevor, sitting there with a straight face. Trevor had seen it all before. Tonight was about shoring up the Shah…for now. After the tour of the city, he had said to Weiseman, “We need the Shah until we don’t need him anymore.”
Weiseman heard Carter speak the name of Saadi, then begin a verse.
Human beings are like parts of a body,
created from the same essence,
when one part is hurt and in pain, others
cannot remain in peace and be quiet
If the misery of others leaves you indifferent
and with no feelings of sorrow, then you
can not be called a human being
Carter paused. Weiseman saw heads nodding around the hall, heard a smattering of applause at the quotation from the great Persian national poet.
At the center of the table, the Empress shif
ted in her chair. The Shah stared straight ahead, a frown now on his face. Jimmy Carter had presented his human rights calling card in an excruciatingly public way, in the Shah’s own royal palace.
“So it was written,” Carter said, “in beautiful, elegiac verse. This I also believe.”
Then taking his glass, he raised it toward the royal couple. “To the Shah and Empress Farah, to the enduring friendship between the Iranian and American people.”
Once again the wave of guests rose for the toast. The Shah shook his head, then stood up slowly, as if exhausted. He stepped toward Carter and lifted his own glass, but this time, Weiseman noticed, the two glasses did not quite touch.
The chamberlain began the countdown. Justin Trevor kissed his wife.
Weiseman turned toward Françoise and she came closer; their lips touched.
Over her shoulder across the ballroom, as the crowd shouted, “Happy New Year!” he glimpsed a red bow tie and cummerbund: Jacques Schreiber.
7
MOHARRAM
TEHRAN AT 10:00 A.M. The city was still awakening to 1978. Electronically amplified cries emanated from minarets—the muezzin calling out the adhan, the traditional summons to prayer.
A rickety bus went by, empty. There were few cars on the usually clogged roads. Most of the stores were zipped up tight with padlocks securing lowered steel shutters. Curbside, vendors roasted chestnuts on coal, lamb on iron spits, and chicken on wooden sticks. Weiseman found the vendors more to his liking than the palace with its white-gloved waiters offering caviar on silver trays.
The winter chill was sharp enough to cut through his fleece jacket, wool sweater, and corduroy pants. Françoise in a chic, fur-lined tan coat and Hermès headscarf, held his arm tightly, stirring in him memories of their lovemaking in the early dawn hours of the New Year. He hadn’t mentioned seeing Jacques in the palace ballroom, but he knew Jacques must have seen them together.
Yet Jacques hadn’t intervened. Why not? Too public a place?
They strolled into a coffee bar where their appointment was to take place and took a table covered in red and white plastic. She ordered a pot of the chamomile tea and he a double espresso. Next to them he saw an elderly woman dolloping orange marmalade on buttered toast, her lined face a map of the Shah’s long reign. A young couple in matching designer jeans held hands; they could have been in Berlin or Paris or New York. A television set beamed a soccer match from Madrid, or was it Milan? In the corner, a simple man in a white knit cap bent over on his prayer mat, facing Mecca.
Still observing the room, he asked her, as if offhandedly, “Did you know Jacques saw us, last night, at midnight?” Turning back, he saw in her eyes how she snapped to attention, the seductive side of her personality quickly supplanted by the elite professional.
She looked at him pensively for a moment, then said simply, “Yes.” Then, “I didn’t care.” She lifted her eyebrows, as if to say, Did you? “He is not so important.”
Now it was Weisman’s turn for a pensive stare, followed by a slowly widening smile. He reached across the table for her hand, but before he could quiz her further about Jacques, or indeed their growing attraction and the situation it put them in, the door to the café creaked open and a young woman entered, followed quickly by a man of a similar age. She paused a moment, made eye contact with Weisman, then headed their way.
“Excuse me, Mr. Weiseman,” she said. Her short car coat was open over a cashmere sweater and tartan skirt. Black hair peeked out of the scarf casually draped around her head. “I’m Alana Khoury. Yasmine de Rose and I were friends of Shirin Majid, the girl at the Sorbonne.” Alana nodded toward the man hovering at her side. “This is Mahmoud.”
Weiseman rose and held a chair for her. “This is Madame d’Antou.”
“Yes,” Alana said. “We know about you.”
Weiseman wondered what that meant, but Françoise ignored it and said, “Thank you for joining us.”
Alana and Mahmoud took their seats. “Tell me, please,” Alana said to Weiseman, “what was it like last night? First your president embraces the Shah, then quotes Saadi at him on human rights.”
Weiseman poured her some of the chamomile tea. He said, “Maybe the president doesn’t think it’s a matter of black and white. And you, Alana? Do you think the mullahs would be better than the Shah?”
“It couldn’t be worse,” she said, then paused. “The Shah put my father in Evin Prison. I can’t see him or speak to him. They torture him there. Could the Ayatollah do worse?”
Weiseman felt caught short. For Alana, nothing else mattered. How could it?
It was America’s global predicament: You backed a dictator to ensure stability, paying the price with the people he ruled. So when the dictator crashes, what do you do?
“Your president did a lot of harm here, sir,” Alana said. She put her hand over her mouth, as if surprised by her own boldness, then realized she had lipstick on her hand, blushed, and blotted it off with a napkin. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Weiseman said, admiring her candor. He asked what would happen next.
“It’s already started,” she said. “My phone started ringing at seven this morning; our network is arranging meetings all around the city. Posters will go up today of Carter and the Shah clinking glasses.”
Alana continued talking, noting Carter’s “island of stability” remark, but Weiseman fixed on the word network. He was a realist. He didn’t believe Iranian students could overthrow a king or counter the power of the mosque, but he wanted to give them a chance, and to back them. He needed every lever he could find to bring about change. He asked Alana whether her friends could do more than make phone calls. What, he wondered, could her network actually do?
Françoise said, “David can help you, Alana. And your friends.”
Alana replied cautiously, perhaps knowing she had few options and that this American official might actually support them. She slowly told him about the network, without mentioning names. She and her friends were more than a small cell, they were connected to students throughout the city who were organizing a people-power movement. And there were others, not only students. When he asked whether she believed they had a chance against the power of the state, she said, “Kings only rule until they’re challenged.”
Right…but he’s our man in Tehran, at least for now.
Weiseman shifted his attention to Mahmoud. He had a neatly trimmed beard, a prominent nose and dark eyes, an open white shirt and Nike white sneakers, and the air of a student.
“Introduce us to Mahmoud, Alana.”
“Mahmoud is with us.” she said. “He was in Paris. He was engaged to Shirin.”
Weiseman recalled what Johann once told him: nothing radicalizes a man as much as the death of an intimate friend.
“The Shah and SAVAK are on one side,” Mahmoud said, “the Islamists are on the other. The people are squeezed in between. There’s nothing for us either way.”
“Exactly,” Weiseman said. “Neither the Shah nor the Ayatollah.”
But it was the Shah that Mahmoud went on about. SAVAK was everywhere, suborning students, coercing them to act as informants. Life was oppressive. The Shah had to go.
Weiseman asked about the Islamists, and Alana said it reminded her of an American novel she had read: The Scarlet Letter. “The night before I flew to Paris, I was at a disco in Tehran, lots of nice young men and women. One of my girlfriends was dancing, her body swaying, her kerchief had come undone and her hair was flowing back and forth…The next day, her date reported her. She was arrested, and they cut off her beautiful hair, shaved her head, said she was a wanton woman. They could easily have killed her, and she had done nothing.”
She looked around nervously to see if she was overheard, and Weiseman thought again of the soccer field, and how SAVAK could act with impunity. He wondered if Alana and Mahmoud were also on Hanif’s watch list. Of course they were; maybe their entire network as well.
“And if the
Ayatollah were to take over?” Weiseman asked. When they didn’t respond he said, “General Hanif told me the Shah was the most enlightened ruler in the Middle East. I told him he was seen in America as an autocrat.”
“You said that to Hosein Hanif?” Alana said, her eyes wide in wonderment. “Well, in a way, what he said is true. The Shah did set up free clinics. And if the Islamists take over, we’ll all be wrapped in chadors, like portable black coffins.”
“But still, you would prefer to see the Shah overthrown?”
“I could never support Pahlavi. Never!”
Her rage almost set her aglow. Whatever might happen under the rule of a fundamentalist Islam, life under the Shah’s boot aroused Alana’s visceral hatred. She didn’t want freedom if it were a gift from a king.
Alana picked up her glass and drank down the white wine she’d ordered. She smiled tightly.
Weiseman was impressed. In his book, to persist in the face of danger marked a person as trustworthy, a person of character.
“Yes, the reforms,” she said thoughtfully. “That’s the irony.”
Of course, thought Weiseman. Each time the Shah does what we tell him to do, the Islamists are more determined to take him down. We order him to liberate women, they end up in chadors.
“Alana wants America to make it all work,” Mahmoud interjected, “to keep the Islamists in their mosques, to convince the Shah to rein in Hosein Hanif—but not to intrude. Right?”
Exactly, Weiseman thought. We’re in a box, paying the price for supporting the Shah and for pressing him to reform.
The young man began to tap his finger on the side of his chair. His eyes darted back and forth toward Alana, hesitantly, as if asking her if this American could be trusted.
Alana said, “Tell Mr. Weiseman.”
“I work in the central mosque here, for Sheikh Khalaji. He provides harbor for Khomeini’s people. One of them killed Shirin.”
“David.” Now it was Françoise’s turn to reveal the New Year’s second secret. “Mahmoud has infiltrated the mosque for Alain de Rose. To pass on their plans to Sûreté.”
Night in Tehran Page 7
