Night in Tehran

by Kaplan, Philip

  The two RGs stared at him, contemplating their prize.

  Keep talking, he warned himself. “The Imam will be deeply disturbed if I do not appear.”

  The mention of the Imam stirred them. The second guy said something abrupt, and the man who cuffed him swung him around. Weiseman smelled the rancid breath of the man who removed the cuffs.

  “Thank you, brothers,” Weiseman said, and he stepped away from them and climbed as casually as he could onto a nearby tram on the way to anywhere else.

  * * *

  —

  WEISEMAN RODE THE streetcar for an hour, knowing he could be arrested at any time and tossed into Evin, into Montana’s bloody hands, and no one would ever know.

  He was in the part of South Tehran where Sammy and Alana had taken him before. The narrow streets were ominously quiet. The young hustlers he’d encountered the last time were absent; it seemed everyone thought it better to stay out of sight. He alighted from the tram and walked past brick buildings with shades drawn all the way down. It was as if the lively street scene he recalled was a figment of his imagination, as if this part of Tehran was a ghost town.

  At the school, he pushed on the door and, to his amazement, it opened. He told himself he was a fool to be doing this, but he walked in led by some inner voice. A door opened and he heard a woman’s voice. He headed that way, slowly, cautiously, and stepped into another dimly lit room where he saw the silhouette of a woman in a chador. Her niqab was lying on a nearby desk.

  The woman unbuttoned her shroud, and he saw that it was Alana. A man walked out of the shadows. Weiseman was startled. “They said you were—”

  Shapour smiled at him. “Dead. Yes, I know. Another associate named Shapour has been killed, and I’ve used that as a cover.”

  Weiseman turned back toward Alana. “You were with them in Paris.”

  “Yes, David. I had to find a way to get my father out. I managed to get in with the Ayatollah’s people. It’s a snake pit—”

  “The Revolutionary Guards are patrolling the streets,” Shapour interupted. “Khalaji and Montana have created a Frankenstein. Only the Imam has the power to rein them in.”

  “They’re seizing people’s homes,” Alana said. “Bullying professors, intimidating doctors and lawyers and shopkeepers. People are disappearing every day.”

  This is what Hitler’s goons did, Weiseman thought, what all hoodlums do when they seize power. But now everything was happening faster than he had expected. He’d need to contact Sims, Colonel Yilmaz and Moshe Regev, and Seyyed. Jafar in Baghdad. And Françoise.

  The best option now, Weiseman thought, would be to keep the mullahs off balance, lead them to make mistakes that would cause popular anger and thereby complicate the consolidation of their regime. That’s what they wanted most. He wondered if it was possible to prevent it.

  “The people,” he said. “Do they understand they have to get out, before it’s too late?”

  “David,” Alana said. “People never believe the worst, even when it’s happening. Papa told me that before Hanif took him.”

  Like in Berlin in the thirties, he thought again. “And Khomeini. What does he say?”

  “Mahmoud just called. He said the Imam is in Qom.” Alana looked at him. “One day he’ll speak to the world from his prayer mat, and then people will understand. It will be worse than with the Shah.”

  * * *

  —

  DEMORALIZED, WEISEMAN STAYED in his room at the hotel the next day, making calls, waiting until evening, when the car sent by Amin picked him up. The broad-shouldered bodyguard in the front seat had an oval shaped head with thinning gray hair and a bad case of dandruff. The hulking man gripped a large revolver while the driver, a young man in a blue blazer and open-necked pink shirt, twirled the dial of the car radio until he settled on rock music, gyrating and humming along with the songs.

  They passed block after block of concrete apartment buildings on their way out of town, then skirted empty fields and dusty villages where stick-thin, shirtless children in tattered pants kicked soccer balls in vacant lots. Older people with pinched faces stood warily by the side of the road, eyeing the car suspiciously as it passed through their infinitesimal spot of the earth. After a half hour, the car stopped at another anonymous concrete block.

  The bodyguard jumped out and opened Weiseman’s door, pointing the gun at the building in front of them. “This way, brother,” he snarled and marched off. Weiseman hustled to follow him, and they hurried up a half dozen stone steps to a small grocery shop, its doors shielded by steel bars. “This way,” the bodyguard repeated, leading Weiseman into a stairwell beside the store, and they began climbing chipped stone steps to the second, then the third, and finally the fourth floor, where the man wrapped twice with the butt of his revolver on an unmarked stone door. After a moment, the door creaked open.

  Amin, in a shabby tweed jacket, poked his head out the door; he was unshaven, distracted, looking around to see if anyone had followed them. He blinked, then led Weiseman across the linoleum floors to two chairs covered in gray cloth. Weiseman sat down in one, shifting around, trying to get comfortable. A loose spring dug into his hip.

  Amin said, “They’ve sent thugs to staff the Foreign Ministry. They all curse America, though most of them can’t find it on a map. Iran is the center of their universe.”

  Weiseman studied Amin—the white beard, the black-rimmed eyes struggling to keep open, the nervous tick in his right cheek. “Can you say where it’s headed?” he asked.

  “It’s a mixed picture.” He spoke without conviction. “The Imam inspires us all, but the RGs are out of control. They’re beating up decent citizens who had nothing to do with the Shah. Executions have started…by stoning…by firing squads. Lashing women falsely accused of prostitution. Banning Western music. We now have our own religious police, the Gasht-e Ershad, or Guidance Patrol, patrolling the universities, enforcing the veil…even the niqab and chador. RGs are filling the cells at Evin Prison. A wholesale purge is underway, intimidating the people. Anyone who’s ever been to the palace is likely to disappear.”

  “And the government?”

  “It’s a floating circus of ayatollahs and ministers, lesser mullahs and intellectuals like me, surrounded by lots of charlatans. New characters emerge every day. Two new ones maneuvering for power now—Abolhassan Bani-Sadr and Sadegh Ghotbzadeh, petty intellectuals on the make politically, trying to enrich themselves.” Amin paused and made a shrug of resignation. “We Iranians specialize in pretense, so it’s hard to tell the patriots from the frauds. We all have a little bit of chicanery in our souls.”

  Amen to that, Weiseman thought, and then he remembered: Taarof.

  “And the new prime minister?” he asked. “The one I met? I hear he’s an honorable man.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, but the spies are everywhere. It’s why we’re meeting out here.”

  Amin got up and went into the dismal kitchen. He drifted back after five minutes or so with two gray ceramic cups of hot coffee. There was a circle of foam from not stirring it enough.

  “Are you going to be all right?” Weiseman asked.

  Amin cleared his throat. “I don’t know, but after a half century of the Shah and his father, we have to try. I still see the Imam, occasionally; he’s out in Qom with his palace guard.”

  Weiseman could see in his face that, despite the brave talk, he was resigned to failure.

  Amin stared hard back at him for a moment with bloodshot eyes. “You know, I took a big risk for you, getting your people out on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Yes. I understand that.”

  Amin held his gaze. “I’m going to need your help in return one day.”

  “Of course.” He’s already thinking about his escape, Weiseman thought. But getting people out the way Johann got him out was already a priority for Weiseman. “It’s the least I can do.”

  Amin pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and roughly shook one out. Lighting
it quickly and dragging heavily, he coughed, then began hacking and put it down to wipe tears from his eyes.

  “Didn’t your people understand?” he asked gravely when he’d recovered. “The Imam was sure America would never allow the revolution to win. He told me, ‘Our oil is for America like water is for human life.’ They sent you Sheikh Khalaji to judge that for himself. He told us America was strong but lacked the will to stop the revolution. And, of course, Montana is relishing his job as the new chief executioner.”

  It was the same story Weiseman had learned from his father—that weakness in the face of aggression always invites far worse violence.

  “We’ll meet again,” he said, wondering how long Amin would survive. He remembered the old adage that a revolution will devour its children…

  “Oh, yes, David, the Shah…”

  “I’m going there next,” Weiseman said, standing, ready to go.

  The door opened from the outside, and the big guy pointed the gun. “This way, brother.”

  27

  THE FLYING DUTCHMAN

  UNDER THE MOROCCAN sun baking Rabat, Weiseman was ushered through a cluster of redbrick buildings in the government center and into the Royal Palace. Two guards in resplendent white uniforms stood at attention, gold shoulder tassels floating above curved swords set against the blue stripes down their legs. He entered an office marked Minister Eli Cohen.

  Inside, a tan, trim man in his midfifties extended his hand. He wore a tropical gray double-breasted silk suit, a crisp white shirt with a spread collar, and a blue tie with powder blue doves. His hair was parted in the middle, perhaps reflecting his challenge in playing both sides of the road—Arab and Jew.

  “We’ve been following your itinerary,” Eli Cohen said. “Bienvenue.”

  The inner office was decorated with Persian carpets and autographed photographs from King Hassan, from Egypt’s Sadat, from Shimon Peres of Israel, and from a younger shah of Iran. The message was clear: Eli Cohen was a man of standing in this part of the world.

  “You know them all,” Weiseman said, his eyes taking the tour of the testimonials.

  “For a Jew, you mean. Actually, it’s less unusual than you might think. The Arabs were humiliated by the 1948 war and the creation of the State of Israel, what the Palestinians call Nakba, the calamity. Arab states raised hell in the UN, but now most of them don’t really give a damn. And they turn to us the way Europeans did for centuries, the French and English with the house of Rothschild, Bismarck with his banker Bleichröder…between pogroms, of course.”

  “Come over here,” Eli Cohen said. He led Weiseman to the picture window, then pointed to an office across the way. Curtains blocked their view of the interior. “That’s His Majesty’s office. My brother Binyamin is his economic advisor. My role is to assure the King’s security. He has never once mentioned my faith to me. He receives Shimon cordially when I bring him here. One day, please God, the king of Morocco will help mediate a peace between Palestinians and Israelis.”

  Cohen smiled and poured two glasses of schnapps.

  “Insha’allah,” Weiseman said.

  “Le Chaim,” Cohen said, and they clinked glasses. He motioned Weiseman to sit, then he got down to business.

  “The former shah has been His Majesty’s honored guest for a month, just an hour from here in a seaside villa near Marrakesh. Every day I receive Arab ambassadors protesting his presence. It’s becoming uncomfortable, David.”

  “I see.”

  “We have a Red Crescent doctor, a specialist in what ails the Shah. She tells us that the Shah needs urgent treatment in a facility that exceeds our modest capabilities. There is a demon inside that is eating away at him.”

  Eli Cohen lit a cigar. He blew smoke rings toward the picture window. They hung in midair against the window a moment, drawing Weiseman’s attention to two boys outside tossing a Frisbee across the Royal Palace grounds.

  In the end, it always comes to this, Weiseman thought: a hard decision, innocent children. “Of course, you’re right,” he said. “The president is deeply grateful to His Majesty.”

  Another smoke ring floated from Cohen’s mouth. The Frisbee arched toward the picture window, and a skinny boy wearing a red fez with a gold tassel leapt into the air and snatched it just before it struck the window.

  “Of course, we’re not asking him to leave at once,” Cohen said. “Arabs are not like that. His Majesty is very hospitable.” Another puff. “But soon.”

  “Actually, Eli, we think your Moroccan sun has done all it can. I’ll take it up tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  THE SHAH RESISTED, partly out of lethargy, but more out of reluctance to cross the Atlantic, as if taking that fateful step would end his last forlorn chance to reclaim his throne.

  The real problem, however, lay in Washington. Trevor told Weiseman that the White House thought the question of treatment in New York was behind them. The president had cracked privately to Trevor that he didn’t want to put our embassy people at risk again while the Shah “played tennis in Forest Hills.” Ali Amin sent Weiseman a message that treating the Shah in America would inflame the radical mullahs he was attempting to placate. Meanwhile, the Shah’s powerful American friends warned the White House that the Shah would die due to American hard-heartedness, consigning him to circle the globe seeking refuge, like Wagner’s Flying Dutchman.

  In the last week of March, Eli Cohen slipped into Washington and called on Justin Trevor. Weiseman, in attendance, listened to Cohen say it was time for the king’s guest to depart by the end of the month, and for the world’s bastion of liberty to let him in.

  Trevor stalled until Cohen gave him the report of the Red Crescent doctor, who said the cancer had progressed beyond treatment Morocco could provide. America’s national security and diplomatic teams went into action, searching for a place to relocate the Shah. Appeals were made to foreign leaders to consider their humanitarian obligations. A budget was set aside and USAID grants, long in abeyance, suddenly were approved. Money changed hands.

  On March 30, 1979, a Royal Air Maroc executive jet carrying the Pahlavis set down in Kingston, on the Caribbean island of Jamaica.

  But nothing lasts forever. The day before Memorial Day, a hot precursor to the steamy Washington summer, the Jamaican ambassador came to call on Weiseman at his State Department office. The ambassador was a slender man with a neatly trimmed mustache who barely filled out a nicely cut two-button suit. His manners were impeccable, but his message was predictable.

  “My PM was happy to be of service when Mrs. Thatcher called him from London.” A coy smile signaled that his government knew the United States had put the Brits up to it. “But, you see, Mr. Ambassador, our Arab friends…” And then Weiseman barely paid attention; he could have composed the talking points himself from the script Eli Cohen had proclaimed to him only two months earlier.

  Fortunately, the US embassy in Kingston had alerted Washington to what was coming. The Shah’s villa on the Caribbean was exposed to tourists, to gun runners and drug pushers. Narco-trafficantés from Columbia and Venezuela, the embassy warned, liked to stop in Jamaica for R & R between jobs. Kidnapping the Shah of Iran would be an irresistible temptation. Best to move him at once, the embassy advised.

  The State Department’s European bureau had a notion about the Azores, just off Portugal, but Trevor quashed that idea. “Keep him on this side of the Atlantic,” he insisted. “Try Mexico.”

  So another deal was done. Intractable trade problems between Mexico and the United States were suddenly resolved, and the United States boosted its purchase of Mexican oil. The president decided the time was ripe for a state visit south of the border, where he delivered the memorable phrase that his sick stomach was due to Montezuma’s revenge. Mexican nationalists vented outrage, but no matter. The Palace pocketed the cash, and Mexico’s president welcomed Mohammad Reza with open arms.

  On June 10, the Shah and his wife moved into yet another vill
a, this time in Cuernavaca, their fourth since leaving Tehran in mid-January. Weiseman had a team of Navy Seals and CIA agents visit the site to guarantee security. The day after they arrived, the Shah’s personal physician called Weiseman to let him know that the Shah’s health was deteriorating. He took that report to Trevor, who confided that the White House didn’t want to hear it. Members of Congress wouldn’t tolerate the Shah coming to New York just now. A point Ali Amin drove home in their weekly phone call.

  “Keep him moving, David, away from the US. Your presidential election is seventeen months away. Don’t you have enough problems?”

  * * *

  —

  THE WASHINGTON SUMMER brought more calls from the Shah’s doctors saying the time was at hand for the Shah to go to Sloan Kettering. But no US officials were available to answer those pleas—the president was on holiday in the Florida Keys, not to be disturbed, while Trevor had taken Clarissa for a thirty-fifth anniversary holiday in a Palermo palazzo. Justin, Weiseman thought, would relish Mafia hospitality.

  He heard from Françoise that she was coming to Washington on business and he arranged to visit her. It would be their first time together since their tense encounter at Villa Schreiber. She had been true to her word, providing valuable intelligence on the ayatollahs, working with Alain de Rose to checkmate Gramont, and coordinating with Yasmine and Alana’s teams to arrange small acts of sabotage in Tehran.

  He met her at Dulles and told her that an urgent request had arrived from the Shah’s doctors that he visit Mexico. The trip would provide a chance to assess the Shah’s health and to convince the Mexicans to extend his stay. As well, it had occurred to him that they could be alone for a few days at the Mexican resort. Would she like to come?

  They flew first to Mexico City, where he was received formally by diplomats at the Foreign Ministry and with ineffable politeness by presidential aides in the palace on the Zócalo. He thanked them for their hospitality to the Shah and listened carefully to gauge how much longer the Mexicans would allow the Shah to stay.