Follett, Ken - On Wings of Eagles.txt

by On Wings of Eagles [lit]

  and figure out their needs. These people, Rashid decided, want excitement

  and adventure. For the first time in their lives they have guns in their

  hands: They need a target, and anything that symbolizes the regime of the

  Shah will do.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 261

  Right now they were standing around wondering where to go next.

  "Listen!" Rashid shouted.

  They all tistened-4hey had nothing better to do.

  "I'm going to the Gasr Prison!"

  Someone cheered.

  "The people in there are prisoners of the regime-4 we are against the

  regime we should let them out!"

  Several people shouted their agreement.

  He started walking.

  They followed him.

  It's the mood they're in, he thought; they'll follow anyone who seems to

  know where to go.

  He started with a band of twelve or fifteen men and boys, but as he walked

  the group grew: everyone with nowhere to go automatically joined in.

  Rashid had become a revolutionary leader.

  Nothing was impossible.

  He stopped just before Gasr Square and addressed his army. "The jails must

  be taken over by the people, just like the police stations and the

  garrisons; this is our responsibility. There are people in Gasr Prison who

  are guilty of nothing. They are just like us--our brothers, our cousins.

  Like us, they only want their freedom. But they were braver than we, for

  they demanded their freedom while the Shah was here, and they were thrown

  in lia-il for it. Now we shall let them out!"

  They all cheered.

  He remembered something Simons had said. "The Gasr Prison is our Bastille!"

  They cheered louder.

  Rashid turned and ran into the square.

  He took cover on the streetcorner opposite the huge steel entrance gates of

  the prison. There was a fair-sized mob in the square already, he realized;

  probably the prison would be stormed today with or without his help. But

  the important thing was to help Paul and Bill.

  He raised his gun and fired into the air.

  The mob in the square scattered, and the shooting began in earnest.

  once again, the resistance was halfhearted. A few guards fired back from

  the gun towers on the walls and from the windows close to the gates. As far

  as Rashid could see, no one on either

  262 Ken Follett

  side was hit. Once again, the battle ended not with a bang but a whimper.

  the guards simply disappeared from the walls and the shooting stopped.

  Rashid waited a couple of minutes, to make sure they had gone, then he ran

  across the square to the prison entrance.

  The gates were locked.

  The mob crowded around. Someone fired a burst at the gates, trying to shoot

  them open. Rashid thought: he's seen too many cowboy movies. Another man

  produced a crowbar from somewhere, but it was impossible to force the gates

  open. We would need dynamite, Rashid thought.

  In the brick wall beside the gates was a little barred window, through

  which a guard could see who was outside. Rashid smashed the glass with his

  gun, then started to attack the brickwork in which the bars were embedded.

  The man with the crowbar helped lum, then three or four others crowded

  around, trying to loosen the bars with their hands, their gun barrels, and

  anything else that came to hand. Soon the bars carne out and fen to the

  ground.

  Rashid wriggled through the window.

  He was inside!

  Anything was possible.

  He found himself in a little guardroom. There were no guards. He put his

  head out of the door. Nobody.

  He wondered where the keys to the cell blocks were kept.

  He went out of the office and past the big gates to another guardroom on

  the far side of the entrance. There he found a big bunch of keys.

  He returned to the gates. Inset into one of them was a small door secured

  by a simple bar.

  Rashid lifted the bar and opened the door.

  The mob poured in.

  Rashid stood back. He handed keys to anyone who would take them, saying,

  "Open every cell--let the people go!"

  They swarmed past him. His career as a revolutionary leader was over. He

  had achieved his objective. He, Rashid, had led the storming of the Gasr

  Prison!

  Once again, Rashid had done the impossible.

  Now he had to find Paul and Bill among the eleven thousand eight hundred

  inmates of the jail.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 263

  Bill woke up at six o'clock. All was quiet.

  He had slept well, he realized with some surprise. He had not expected to

  sleep at all. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bunk listening

  to what sounded like a pitched battle outside. If you're tired enough, he

  thought, I suppose you can sleep anywhere. Soldiers sleep in foxholes. You

  become acclimtized. No matter how frightened you may be, in the end your

  body takes control and you nod off.

  He said a rosary.

  He washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed, then he sat looking out

  the window, waiting for breakfast, wondering what EDS was planning for

  today.

  Paul woke up around seven. He looked at Bill and said: "Couldn't sleep?"

  "Sure I slept," Bill said. "I've been up an hour or so."

  "I didn't sleep well. The shooting was heavy most of the night." Paul got

  out of his bunk and went to the bathroom.

  A few minutes later breakfast came: bread and tea. Bill opened a can of

  orange juice that had been brought in by Keane Taylor.

  The shooting started again around eight o'clock.

  The prisoners speculated about what might be going on outside, but no one

  had any hard information. All they could see was the helicopters darting

  across the skyline, apparently shooting down at rebel positions on the

  ground. Every time a helicopter flew over the prison, Bill watched for a

  ladder to come dropping out of the sky into the courtyard of Building

  Number 8. This was his regular daydream. He also fantasized about a small

  group of EDS people, led by Coburn and an older man, swarming over the

  prison wall with rope ladders; or a large force of American military

  arriving at the last minute, like the cavalry in the western movies,

  blasting a huge gap in the wall with dynamite.

  He had done mote than daydream. In his quiet, apparently casual way, he had

  inspected every inch of the building and courtyard, estimating the fastest

  way out under various imagined circumstances. He knew how many guards there

  were and how many rifles they possessed. Whatever might happen, he was

  ready.

  it began to look as if today would be the day.

  The guards were not following their normal routines. In jail everything was

  done by routine: a prisoner, with little else to do, observed the patterns

  and quickly became familiar with them. Today everything was different. The

  guards appeared nervous,

  264 Ken Follett

  whispering in comers, hurrying everywhere. The sounds of batde outside grew

  louder. With all this going on, was it possible that today would end like

  any other day? We might escape, Bill thought, or we might get killed; but

 
surely we won't be turning off the TV and lying down on our bunks as usual

  tonight.

  At about ten-thirty he saw most of the officers crossing the prison

  compound, heading north, as if they were going to a meeting. They hurried

  back half an hour later. The major in charge of Building Number 8 went into

  his office. He emerged a couple of minutes later-in civilian clothes! He

  carried a shapeless parcel-4iis uniform?--out of the building. Looking

  through the window, Bill saw him put the parcel in the trunk of his BMW,

  which was parked outside the courtyard fence, then get in the car and drive

  away.

  What did that mean? Would all the officers leave? Was that how it would

  happen-would Paul and Bill be able just to walk out?

  Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The

  firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting

  from the streets.

  Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian

  clothes.

  This had to be the end.

  Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients

  on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun

  towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under

  attack.

  Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening?

  Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two

  days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?

  The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate

  was open.

  The gate was open!

  Did the guards want the prisoners to leave?

  Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as

  well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the

  trees and ricocheted off buildings.

  A slug landed at Paul's feet.

  They both stared at it.

  The guards in the gun towers were now firing into the compound.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 265

  Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.

  They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was

  ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their fteedorn, yet

  now that they could walk out, they hesitated.

  "What do you think we should do?" said Paul.

  "I don't know. Is it mote dangerous in here or out there?"

  Paul shrugged.

  "Hey, there's the billionaire." They could see the rich prisoner from

  Building Number "e one who had a private room and meals brought in from

  outside-crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off

  his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he

  wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready

  to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that

  mean there was a back way out?

  The guards ftom Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the

  little courtyard and went out through the gate.

  Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.

  "See that motorcycle?" said Paul.

  ..I see it."

  "We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle."

  "How would we get it over the wall?"

  110h, yeah." Paul laughed at his own foolishness.

  Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his

  clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether

  or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets

  were flying around out there, and the mob attacking die jail might well be

  anti-American. On the other hand, if the authorities were somehow to regain

  control of the prison, Paul and Bill would have lost their last chance of

  escape ...

  "I wonder where Gayden is now, the son of a bitch," said Paul. "The only

  reason I'm here is because he sent me to Iran."

  Bill looked at Paul and realized he was only joking.

  The patients from the ground-floor hospital swarmed out into the courtyard:

  someone must have unlocked their doors. Bill

  could hear a tremendous commotion, like cr g,women's

  yrin from the oell block on the other side of the

  street. There were more and more people out in the

  compound, flocking toward the prison

  266 Ken Folleu

  entrance. Looking that way, Bill saw smoke. Paul saw it at the same moment.

  Bill said: "If they're going to bum the place .

  "We'd better get out."

  The fire tipped the balance: their decision was made.

  Bill looked around the cell. The two of them had few possessions. Bill

  thought of the diary he had kept faithfully for the last forty-three days.

  Paul had written fists of things he would do when he got back to the

  States, and had figured out, on a sheet of paper, the finance on the new

  house Ruthie was buying. They both had precious letters from home that they

  had read over and over again.

  Paul said: "We're probably better off not carrying anything that shows

  we're Americans."

  Bill had picked up his diary. Now he dropped it again. "You're right," he

  said reluctantly.

  They put on their coats: Paul had a blue London Fog raincoat and Bill an

  overcoat with a fur collar.

  They had about two thousand dollars each, money that Keane Taylor had

  brought in. Paul had some cigarettes. They took nothing else.

  They went out of the building and crossed the little courtyard, then

  hesitated at the gate. The street was now a sea of people, like the crowd

  leaving a sports stadium, walking and running in one mass toward the prison

  gates.

  Paul stuck out his hand. "Hey, good luck, Bill."

  Bill shook his hand. "Good luck to you."

  Probably we'll both die in the next few minutes, Bill thought, most likely

  from a stray bullet. I'll never see the kids grow up, he realized sadly.

  The thought that Emily would have to manage on her own made him angry.

  Amazingly enough, he felt no fear.

  They stepped through the little gate, and then there was no more time for

  reflection.

  They were swept into the throng, like twigs dropped into a fast-flowing

  stream. Bill concentrated on sticking close to Paul and staying upright,

  not to get trampled. There was stiff a lot of shooting. One lone guard had

  stayed at his post and seemed to be firing into the crowd from his gan

  tower. Two or three people fell_one of them was the American woman they had

  seen before--but it was not clear whether they had been shot or had merely

  stumbled. I don't want to die yet, Bill thought; I've got

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 267

  plans, things I want to do with my family, in my career, this is not the

  time, not the place, for me to die; what a rotten hand of cards I've been

  dealt ...

  They passed the Officers' Club where they had met with Perot just three

  weeks ago--it seemed like years. Vengeful prisoners were smashing up the

  club and wrecking the officers' cars outside. Where was the sense in that?

  For a moment the whole scene seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare.

  The chaos around the ma
in prison entrance was worse. Paul and Bill held

  back, and managed to detach themselves from the crowd, for fear of being

  crushed. Bill recalled that some of the prisoners had been here fbr

  twenty-five years: it was no wonder, after that length of time, that when

  they smelled freedom they went berserk.

  It seemed that the prison gates must still be shut, for scores of people

  were trying to climb the immense exterior wall. Some were standing on cars

  and trucks that had been pushed up against the wall. Others were climbing

  trees and crawling precariously along overhanging branches. Still more had

  leaned planks against the brickwork and were trying to scramble up those.

  A few people had reached the top of the wall by one means or another and

  were letting down ropes and sheets to those below, but the ropes were not

  long enough.

  Paul and Bill stood watching, wondering what to do. They were joined by

  some of the other foreign prisoners from Building Number 8. One of them, a

  New Zealander charged with drug smuggling, had a big grin all over his face

  as if he were enjoying the whole thing hugely. There was a kind of

  hysterical elation in the air, and Bill began to catch it. Somehow, he

  thought, we're going to get out of this mess alive.

  He looked around. To the right of the gates the buildings were burning. To

  the left, some distance away, he saw an h-dWan prisoner waving as if to

  say: This way! There had been some construction work on that section of the

  wall-a building seemed to be going up on the far side-and there was a steel

  door in the wan to allow access to the site. Looking more closely, Bill

  could see that the waving Iranian had got the steel door open.

  "Hey-look over there!" said Bill.

  "Let's go," said Paul.

  They ran over. Several other prisoners followed. They went through the

  door-and found themselves trapped in a kind of cell without doors or

  windows. There was a smell of new cement.

  268 Ken Follett

  Builders' tools lay around. Someone grabbed a pickaxe and swung it at the

  wall. The fresh concrete crumbled quickly. Two or three others joined in,

  hacking away with anything that came to hand. Soon the hole was big enough:

  they dropped their tools and crawled through.

  They were now between the two prison walls. The inner wall, behind them,