Perot's 46 cover. I I
As the little jet flew east, the British pilot pointed out the junction of
the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. A few minutes later the plane developed
hydraulic trouble and had to turn back.
It had been that kind of journey.
in London he had caught up with lawyer John Howell and EDS manager Bob
Young, both of whom had been trying for days to get a flight into Tehran.
Eventually Young discovered that Arab Wings was flying in, and the three
men had gone to Animan. Arriving there in the middle of the night had been
an experience all on its own: it looked to Perot as if all the bad guys of
Jordan were sleeping at the airport. They found a taxicab to take them to
a hotel. John Howell's room had no bathroom: the facilitm were right there
beside the bed. In Perot's room the toilet was so close to the bath that he
had to put his feet in the tub when he sat on the john. And like that ...
Bob Young had thought of the videotapes "cover. " Arab Wings regularly flew
tapes into and out of Tehran for NBC-TV News. Sometimes NBC would have its
own man carry the tapes; other times the pilot would take diem. Today,
although NBC did not know it, Perot would be their bagman. He was wearing
a sports jacket, a little plaid hat, and no tie. Anyone watching for
166 Ken Follen
Ross Perot might not look twice at the regular NBC messenger with his
regular net bag.
Arab Wings had agreed to this ruse. They had also confirmed that they could
take Perot out again on this NBC tape run.
Back in Amman, Perot, Howell, and Young and the pilot boarded a replacement
jet and took off again. As they climbed high over the desert Perot wondered
whether he was the craziest man in the world or the sanest.
There were powerful reasons why he should not go to Tehran. For one thing,
the mobs might consider him the ultimate symbol of bloodsucking American
capitalism and string him up on the spot. More likely, Dadgar might get to
know that he was in town and try to arrest him. Perot was not sure he
understood Dadgar's motives in jailing Paul and Bill, but the man's
mysterious purposes would surely be even better served by having Perot
behind bars. Why, Dadgar could set bail at a hundred million dollars and
feel confident of getting it, if the money was what he was after.
But negotiations for the release of Paul and Bill were stalled, and Perot
wanted to go to Tehran to kick ass in one last attempt at a legitimate
solution before Simons and the team risked their lives in an assault on the
prison.
There had been times, in business, when EDS had been ready to admit defeat
but had gone on to victory because Perot himself had insisted on going one
more mile: this was what leadership was all about.
That was what he told himself, and it was all true, but there was another
reason for his trip. He simply could not sit in Dallas, comfortable and
safe, while other people risked their lives on his instructions.
He knew only too well that if he were jailed in Iran, he, and his
colleagues, and his company, would be in much worse trouble than they were
now. Should he do the prudent thing, and stay, he had wondered-or should he
follow his deepest instincts, and go? It was a moral dilemma. He had
discussed it with his mother.
She knew she was dying. And she knew that, even if Perot should come back
alive and well after a few days, she might no longer be there. Cancer was
rapidly destroying her body, but there was nothing wrong with her mind, and
her sense of right and wrong was as clear as ever. "You don't have a
choice, Ross," she had said. "They're your men. You sent them over
ON WINGS OF EAGLES 167
there. They didn't do anything wrong. Our government won't help them. You
are responsible for diem. It's up to you to get them out. You have to go."
So here he was, feeling that he was doing the right thing, if not the smart
thing.
The Lew jet left the desert behind and climbed over the mountains of
western Iran. Unlike Simons and Coburn and Poch6, Perot was a stranger to
physical danger. He had been too young for World War R and too old for
Vietnam, and the Korean War had finished while Ensign Perot was on his way
there aboard the destroyer USS Sigourney. He had been shot at just once,
during the prisoners-of-war campaign, landing in a jungle in Laos aboard an
ancient DC3: he had heard pinging noises but had not realized the aircraft
had been hit until after it landed. His most hightening experience, since
the days of the Texarkana paper-route thieves, had been in another plane
over Laos, when a door right next to his seat fell off. He had been asleep.
When he woke up he looked for a light for a second, before realizing he was
leaning out of the aircraft. Fortunately he had been strapped in.
He was not sitting next to a door today.
He looked through the window and saw, in a bowl-shaped depression in the
mountains, the city of Tehran, a mud-colored sprawl dotted with white
skyscrapers. The plane began to lose height.
Okay, he thought, now we're coming down. It's time to start thinking and
using your head, Perot.
As the plane landed he felt tense, wired, alert: he was pumping adrenaline.
The plane taxied to a halt. Several soldiers with machine guns slung over
their shoulders ambled casually across the tarmac.
Perot got out. The pilot opened the baggage hold and handed him the net bag
of tapes.
Perot and the pilot walked across the tarmac. Howell and Young followed,
carrying their suitcases.
Perot felt grateful for his inconspicuous appearance. He thought of a
Norwegian friend, a tall, blond Adonis who complained of looking too
impressive. "You're lucky, Ross," he would say. "When you walk into a room
no one notices you. When people see me, they expect too much-1 can't live
up to their expectations." No one would ever take him for a messenger boy.
But
168 Ken Folleu
Perot, with his short stature and homely face and off-the-rack clothes,
could be convincing in the part.
They entered the terminal. Perot told himself that the military, which was
running the airport, and the Ministry of Justice, for which Dadgar worked,
were two separate government bureaucracies; and if one of them knew what
the other was doing, or whom it was seeking, why, this would have to be the
most efficient operation in the history of government.
He walked up to the desk and showed his passport.
It was stamped and handed back to him.
He walked on.
He was not stopped by customs.
The pilot showed him where to leave the bag of television tapes. Perot put
them down, then said goodbye to the pilot.
He turned around and saw another tall, distinguished-looking friend: Keane
Taylor. Perot liked Taylor.
"Hi, Ross, how did it go?" Taylor said.
"Great," Perot said with a smile. "They weren't looking for the ugly
American."
They walked out of the airport. Perot said: "Are you satisfied that I
didn't send you back here for any administr
ative b.s.?"
1.1 sure am," Taylor said.
They got into Taylor's car. Howell and Young got in the back.
As they pulled away, Taylor said: "I'm going to take an indirect route. to
avoid the worst of the riots."
Perot did not find this reassuring.
The road was lined with tall, half-finished concrete buildings with cranes
on top. Work seemed to have stopped. Looking closely, Perot saw that people
were living in the shells. It seemed an apt symbol of the way the Shah had
tried to modernize Iran too quickly.
Taylor was m1king about cars. He had stashed all EDS's cars in a school
playground and hired some Iranians to guard them, but he had discovered
that the Iranians were busy running a used car lot, selling the damn
things.
There were long lines at every gas station, Perot noticed. He found that
ironic in a country rich in oil. As well as cars, there were people in the
queues, holding cans. "What are they doing?" Perot asked. "If they don't
have cars, why do they need gas?"
"They sell it to the highest bidder," Taylor explained. "Or you can rent an
Iranian to stand in line for you."
They were stopped briefly at a roadblock. Driving on, they
ON WINGS OF EAGLES 169
passed several burning cars. A lot of civilians were standing around with
machine guns. The scene was peaceful for a mile or two, then Perot saw more
burning cars more machine guns, another roadblock. Such sights ought to
liave been frightening, but somehow they were not. It seemed to Perot that
the people were just enjoying letting loose for a change, now that the
Shah's iron grip was at last being relaxed. Certainly the military was doing
nothing to maintain order, as far as he could see.
There was always something weird about seeing violence as a tourist. He
recalled flying over Laos in a light plane and watching people fighting on
the ground: he had felt tranquil, detached. He supposed that battle was
like that: it might be fierce if you were in the middle of it, but five
minutes away nothing was happening.
They drove into a huge circle with a monument in its center that looked
like a spaceship of the far future, towering over the traffic on four
gigantic splayed legs. "What is that?" said Perot.
"The Shahyad Monument," Taylor said. "There's a museum in the top."
A few minutes later they pulled into the forecourt of the Hyatt Crown
Regency. "This is a new hotel," Taylor said. "They just opened it, poor
bastards. It's good for us, though-wonderful food, wine, music in the
restaurant in the evenings ... We're living like kings in a city that's
falling apart."
They went into the lobby and took the elevator. "You don't have to check
in," Taylor told Perot. "Your suite is in my name. No sense in having your
name written down anywhere."
"Right."
They got out, at the eleventh floor. "We've all got rooms along this hall,"
Taylor said. He unlocked a door at the far end of the corridor.
Perot walked in, glanced around, and smiled. "Would you look at this?" The
sitting room was vast. Next to,it was a large bedroom. He looked into the
bathroom: it was big enough for a cocktail party.
"Is it all right?" Taylor said with a grin.
"If you'd seen the room I had last night in Amman, you wouldn't bother to
ask. "
Taylor left him to settle in.
Perot went to the window and looked out. His suite was at the front of the
hotel, so he could look down and see the forecourt. I
170 Ken Follett
might hope to have warning, he thought, if a squad of soldiers or a
revolutionary mob comes for me.
But what would I do?
He decided to map an emergency escape route. He left his suite and walked
up and down the corridor. There were several empty rooms with unlocked
doors. At either end was an exit to a staircase. He went down the stairs to
the floor below. There were more empty rooms, some without furniture or
decoration: the hotel was unfinished, like so many buildings in this town.
I could take this staircase down, he thought, and if I heard them coming up
I could duck back into one of the corridors and hide in an empty room. That
way I could get to ground level.
He walked all the way down the stairs and explored the ground floor.
He wandered through several banqueting rooms that he supposed were unused
most, if not all, of the time. There was a labyrinth of kitchens with a
thousand hiding places: he particularly noted some empty food containers
big enough for a small man to climb into. From the banqueting area he could
reach the health club at the back of the hotel. It was pretty fancy, with
a sauna and a pool. He opened a door at the rear and found himself outside,
in the hotel parking lot. Here he could take an EDS car and disappear into
the city, or walk to the next hotel, the Evin, or just run into the forest
of unfinished skyscrapers that began on the far side of the parking lot.
He reentered the hotel and took the elevator. As he rode up, he resolved
always to dress casually in Tehran. He had brought with him khaki pants and
some checkered flannel shirts, and he also had a jogging outfit. He could
not help looking American, with his pale, clean-shaven face and blue eyes
and ultra-short crewcut; but, if he should find himself on the run, he
could at least make sure he did not look like an important American, much
less the multimillionaire owner of Electronic Data Systems Corporation.
He went to find Taylor's room and get a briefing. He wanted to go to the
American Embassy and talk to Ambassador Sullivan; he wanted to go to the
headquarters of MAAG, the U.S. Military Assistance and Advisory Group, and
see General Huyser and General Gast; he wanted to get Taylor and John
Howell hyped up to put a bomb under Dadgar's tail; he wanted to move, to
go, to get this problem solved, to get Paul and Bill out, andfast.
He banged on Taylor's door and walked in. "Okay, Keane," he said. "Bring me
up to speed."
S LX
John Howell was born in the ninth minute of the ninth hour of the ninth day
of the ninth month of 1946, his mother often said.
He was a short, small man with a bouncy walk. His fine light brown hair was
receding early, he had a slight squint, and his voice was faintly hoarse,
as if he had a permanent cold. He spoke very slowly and blinked a lot.
Thirty-two years old, he was an associate in Tom Luce's Dallas law firm.
Like so many of the people around Ross Perot, Howell had achieved a
responsible position at a young age. His greatest asset as a lawyer was
stamina-"John wins by outworking the opposition," Luce would say. Most
weekends Howell would spend either Saturday or Sunday at the office,
tidying up loose ends, finishing tasks that had been interrupted by the
phone, and preparing for the week ahead. He would get frustrated when
family activities deprived him of that sixth working day. In addition, he
often worked late into the evening and missed dinner at home, which
sometimes made his wife, Angela, unhappy.
Like Perot, Howell was born
in Texarkana. Like Perot, he was short in
stature and long on guts. Nevertheless, at midday on January 14 he was
scared. He was about to meet Dadgar.
The previous afternoon, immediately after arriving in Tehran, Howell had
met with Ahmad Houman, EDS's new local attorney. Dr. Houman had advised him
not to meet Dadgar, at least not yet: it was perfectly possible that Dadgar
intended to arrest all the EDS Americans he could find, and that might
include lawyers.
Howell had found Hournan impressive. A big, rotund man in his sixties, well
dressed by Iranian standards, he was a former president of the Iran Bar
Association. Although his English was
171
172 Ken Follett
not good-French was his second language-he seemed confident and
knowledgeable.
Hournan's advice jelled with Howell's instinct. He always liked to prepare
very thoroughly for any kind of confrontation. He believed in the old maxim
of trial lawyers: never ask a question unless you already know the answer.
Houman's advice was reinforced by Bunny Fleischaker. An American girl with
Iranian friends in the Ministry of Justice, Bunny had warned Jay Coburn,
back in December, that Paul and Bill were going to be arrested, but at the
time no one had believed her. Events had given her retrospective
credibility, and she was taken seriously when, early in January, she called
Rich Gallagher's home at eleven o'clock one evening.
The conversation had reminded Gallagher of the phone calls in the movie All
the President's Men, in which nervous informants talked to the newspaper
reporters in improvised code. Bunny began by saying: "D'you know who this
is?"
"I think so," Gallagher said.
"You've been told about me."
"Yes. I I
EDS's phones were bugged and the conversations were being taped, she
explained. The reason she had called was to say that there was a strong
chance Dadgar would arrest more EDS executives. She recommended they either
leave the country or move into a hotel where there were lots of newspaper
reporters. Lloyd Briggs, who as Paul's deputy seemed the likeliest target
for Dadgar, had left the country-he needed to return to the States to brief
EDS's lawyers anyway. The others, Gallagher and Keane Taylor, had moved
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