Follett, Ken - On Wings of Eagles.txt

by On Wings of Eagles [lit]

  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