Follett, Ken - On Wings of Eagles.txt

by On Wings of Eagles [lit]

  was the high one-twenty-five or thirty feet. The outer wall, which stood

  between them and freedom, was only ten or twelve feet high.

  An athletic prisoner managed to get up onto the top of the wall. Another

  man stood at its foot and beckoned. A third prisoner went forward. The man

  on the ground pushed him up, the one on top pulled, and the prisoner went

  over the wall.

  It happened very quickly then.

  Paul took a run at the wall.

  Bill was right behind him.

  Bill's mind was a blank. He ran. He felt a push, helping him up; then a

  pull; then he was at the top, and he jumped.

  He landed on the pavement.

  He got to his feet.

  Paul was right beside him.

  We're free! thought Bill. We're free!

  He felt like dancing.

  Coburn put down the phone and said: "That was Majid. The mob has overrun the

  prison."

  "Good," said Simons. He had told Coburn, earlier that morning, to send

  Majid down to Gasr Square.

  Simons was very cool, Coburn thought. This was it-this was the big day! Now

  they could get out of the apartment, get on the move, activate their plans

  for "getting out of Dodge. - Yet Simons showed no signs of excitement.

  "What do we do now?" said Coburn.

  "Nothing. Majid is there, Rashid is there. If those two can't take care of

  Paul and Bill, we sure as hell won't be able to. If Paul and Bill don't

  turn up by nightfall, we'll do what we discussed: you and Majid will go out

  on a motorcycle and search. 11

  "And meanwhile?"

  "We stick to the plan. We sit tight. We wait."

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 269

  'Mere was a crisis it the U - S . Embassy .

  Ambassador William Sullivan had got an emergency call for help from General

  Gast, head of the Military Assistance Advisory Group. MAAG Headquarters was

  surrounded by a mob. Tanks were drawn up outside the budding and shots were

  being exchanged. Gast and his officers, together with most of the kanian

  general staff, were in a bunker underneath the budding.

  Sullivan had every able-bodied man in the Embassy making phone calls,

  trying to find revolutionary leaders who might have the authority to call

  off the mob. The phone on Sullivan's desk was ringing constantly. In the

  middle of the crisis he got a call from Undersecretary Newsom in

  Washington.

  Newsom was calling from the Situation Room in the White House, where

  Zbigniew Brzezinski was chairing a meeting on Iran. He asked for Sullivan's

  assessment of the current position in Tehran. Sullivan gave it to him in a

  few short phrases, and told him that right at that moment he was

  preoccupied with saving the life of the senior American military officer in

  Iran.

  A few minutes later Sullivan got a call from an Embassy official who had

  succeeded in reaching lbralum Yazdi, a Khornemi sidekick. The official was

  telling Sullivan that Yazdi might help when the call was overridden and

  Newsom came on the line again.

  Newsom said: "The National Security Advisor has asked for your view of the

  possibility of a coup d'6tat by the Iranian military to take over from the

  Bakhtiar goverrunent, winch is clearly faltering."

  The question was so ridiculous that Sullivan blew his cool. "Tell

  Brzezinski to fuck off," he said.

  -That,s m a very helpful comment," said Newsom.

  -You want it translated into Polish?" Sullivan said, and he hung up the

  phone.

  On the roof of Bucharest, the negotiating team could see the fires spreading

  uptown. The noise of shooting was also coming closer to where they stood.

  John Howell and Abolhasan returned from their meeting with Dadgar. "Well?"

  Gayden said to Howell. "What did that bastard say?"

  "He won't let them go."

  "Bastard."

  A few minutes later they all heard a noise that sounded

  270 Ken Folleff

  distinctly like a bullet whistling by. A moment later the noise came again.

  They decided to get off the roof.

  They went down to the offices and watched from the windows. They began to

  see, in the street below, boys and young men with rifies. It seemed the mob

  had broken into a nearby armory. This was too close for comfort: it was

  time to abandon Bucharest and go to the Hyatt, which was farther uptown.

  They went out and jumped into two cars, then headed up the Shahanshahi

  Expressway at top speed. The streets were packed, and there was a carnival

  atmosphere. People were leaning out of their windows yelling "Allahar

  Akbar!" God is great! Most of the traffic was headed downtown, toward the

  fighting. Taylor drove straight through three roadblocks, but nobody mmded:

  they were all dancing.

  They reached the Hyatt and assembled in the sitting room of the

  eleventh-floor comer suite that Gayden had taken over from Perot. They were

  joined by Rich Gallagher's wife, Cathy, and her white poodle, Buffy.

  Gayden had stocked the suite with booze from the abandoned homes of EDS

  evacuees, and he now had the best bar in Tehran; but no one felt much

  likedrinking.

  "What do we do next?" Gayden asked.

  Nobody had any ideas.

  Gayden got on the phone to Dallas, where it was now six A.M. He reached Tom

  Walter and told him about the fires, the fighting, and the kids on the

  streets with their automatic rifles.

  "That's all I got to report," he finished.

  In his slow Alabama drawl, Walter said: "Other than that a quiet day, hub?"

  They discussed what they would do if the phone lines went down. Gayden said

  he would try to get messages through via the U.S. military: Cathy Gallagher

  worked for the army and she thought she could swing it.

  Keane Taylor went into the bedroom and lay down. He thought about his wife,

  Mary. She was in Pittsburgh, staying with his parents. Taylor's mother and

  father were both past eighty and in failing health. Mary had called to tell

  him his mother had been rushed to the hospital: it was her heart. Mary

  wanted Taylor to come home. He had spoken to his father, who had said

  ambiguously: "You know what you have to do." It was true: Taylor knew he

  had to stay here. But it was not easy, not for him or for Mary.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 271

  He was dozing on Gayden's bed when the phone rang. He reached out to the

  bedside table and picked it up. "Hello?" he said sleepily.

  A breathless Iranian voice said: "Are Paul and Bill there?"

  "What?" said Taylor. "Rashid-is that you?"

  "Are Paul and Bill there?" Rashid repeated.

  "No. What do you mean?"

  "Okay, I'm coming, I'm coming."

  Rashid hung up.

  Taylor got off the bed and went into the sitting room. "Rashid just

  called," he told the others. "He asked me if Paul and Bill were here. "

  "What did he mean?" said Gayden. "Where was he calling from? I I

  "I couldn't get anything else out of him. He was all excited, and you know

  how bad his English is when he gets wound up.

  "Didn't he say any more?"

  "He said: 'I'm coming,' then he hung up.

  "Shit." Gayden turned to Howell. "Give me the phone." Howell was sitting

  with the pho
ne to his ear, saying nothing: they were keeping the line to

  Dallas open. At the other end an EDS switchboard operator was listening,

  waiting for someone to speak. Gayden said: "Let me talk to Tom Walter

  again, please."

  As Gayden told Walter about Rashid's call, Taylor wondered what it meant.

  Why would Rashid imagine Paul and Bill might be at the Hyatt? They were in

  jail-weren't they? , ty, smell-

  A few minutes later Rashid burst into the room du

  ing of gunsmoke, with clips of G3 ammunition falling out of his pockets,

  talking a mile a minute so that nobody could understand a word. Taylor

  calmed him down. Eventually he said: "We hit the prison. Paul and Bill were

  gone."

  Paul and Bill stood at the foot of the prison wall and looked around.

  The scene in the street reminded Paul of a New York parade. in the

  apartment buildings across from the jail everyone was at the windows,

  cheering and applauding as they watched the prisoners escape. At the

  streetcorner a vendor was selling fruit from a stall. There was gunfire not

  far away, but in the immediate vicinity nobody was shooting. Then, as if

  ti) remind Paul and Bill that they were not yet out of danger, a car full

  of revolutionaries raced by with guns sticking out of every window.

  272 Ken Follett

  "Let's get out of here," said Paul.

  "Where do we go? The U.S. Embassy? The French Embassy?" 'Me Hyatt. -

  Paul started walking, heading north. Bill walked a little behind him, with

  his coat collar turned up and his head bent to hide his pale American face.

  They came to an intersection. It was deserted: no cars, no people. They

  started across. A shot rang out.

  Both of them ducked and ran back the way they had come.

  It was not going to be easy.

  "How are you doing?" said Paul.

  I'Still alive.It

  They walked back past the prison. The scene was the same: at least the

  authorities had not yet got organized enough to start rounding up the

  escapers.

  Paul headed south and east through the streets, hoping to circle around

  until he could go north again. Everywhere there were boys, some only

  thirteen or fourteen, with automatic rifles. On every comer was a

  sandbagged bunker, as if the streets were divided up into tribal

  territories. Farther on they had to push their way through a crowd of

  yelling, chanting, almost hysterical people: Paul carefully avoided meeting

  people's eyes, for he did not want them to notice him, let alone speak to

  hini-if they were to learn there were two Americans in their midst they

  might turn ugly.

  The rioting was patchy. It was like New York, where you had only to walk a

  few steps and turn a comer to find the character of the district completely

  changed. Paul and Bill went through a quiet area for half a mile, then ran

  into a battle. There was a barricade of overturned cars across the road and

  a bunch of youngsters with rifles shooting across the barricade toward what

  looked like a military installation. Paul turned away quickly, fearful of

  being hit by a stray bullet.

  Each time he tried to turn north he ran into some obstruction. They were

  now farther from the Hyatt than they had been when they started. They were

  moving south, and the fighting was always worse in the south.

  They stopped outside an unfinished building. "We could duck in them and

  hide until nightfall," Paul said. "After dark nobody will notice that

  you're American."

  "We might get shot for being out after curfew."

  "You think there's still a curfew?"

  Bill shrugged.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 273

  "We're doing all right so far," Paul said. "Let's go on a little longer. "

  They went on.

  It was two hours-4wo hours of crowds and street battles and stray sniper

  fire-before at last they could turn north. Then the scene changed. The

  gunfire receded, and they found themselves in a relatively affluent area of

  pleasant villas. They saw a child on a bicycle, wearing a T-shirt that said

  something about southern California.

  Paul was tired. He had been in jail for forty-five days, and during most of

  that time he had been sick: he was no longer strong enough to walk for

  hours. "What do you say we hitchhike?" he asked Bill.

  "Let's give it a try."

  Paul stood at the roadside and waved at the next car that came along. (He

  remembered not to stick out his thumb the American way---this was an

  obscene gesture i Iran.) The car stopped. There were two Iranian men in it.

  Paul and Bill got in the back.

  Paul decided not to mention the name of the hotel. "We're going to TaJrish,

  " he said. That was a bazaar area to the north of the city.

  "We can take you part of the way," said the driver.

  "Thanks." Paul offered them cigarettes, then sat back gratefully and lit

  one for himself.

  The Iranians dropped them off at Kurosh-e-Kabir, several miles south of

  Tajrish, not far from where Paul had lived. They were in a main street,

  with plenty of traffic and a lot more people around. Paul decided not to

  make himself conspicuous by hitchhiking here.

  "We could take refuge in the Catholic Mission," Bill suggested.

  Paul considered. The authorities presumably knew that Father Williams had

  visited them in Gasr Prison just two days ago. "The Mission might be the

  first place Dadgar looks for us."

  Maybe. "

  "We should go to the Hyatt."

  "The guys may not be there any longer."

  "But there'll be phones, some way to get plane tickets .

  "And hot showers."

  'Right. "

  They walked on.

  Suddenly a voice called: "Mr. Paul! Mr. Bill!"

  Paul's heart stopped. He looked around. He saw a car full of

  274 Ken Folleu

  people moving slowly along the road beside him. He recognized one of the

  passengers: it wa's a guard from the Gasr Prison.

  The guard had changed into civilian clothes, and looked as if he had joined

  the revolution. His big smile seemed to say: don't tell who I am, and I

  won't tell who you are.

  He waved, then the car gathered speed and passed on.

  Paul and Bill laughed with a mixture of amusement and relief.

  They turned into a quiet street, and Paul started to hitchhike again. He

  stood in the road waving while Bill stayed on the sidewalk, so that

  motorists might think there was only one man, an Iranian.

  A young couple stopped. Paul got into the car and Bill jumped in after him.

  "We're headed north," Paul said.

  The woman looked at her man.

  The man said: "We could take you to Niavron Palace."

  -Mank YOU. 11

  The car pulled away.

  The scene in the streets changed again. They could hear much more gunfire,

  and the traffic became heavier and more frantic, with all the cars honking

  continually. They saw press cameramen and television crews standing on car

  roofs taking pictures. The mob was burning the police stations near where

  Bill had lived. The Iranian couple looked nervous as the car inched through

  the crowd: having two Americans in their car could get them into trouble in
r />   this atmosphere.

  ft began to get dark.

  Bill leaned forward. "Boy, it's getting a bit late," he said. "It sure

  would be nice if y'all could take us to the Hyatt Hotel. We'd be happy to,

  you know, thank you and give you something for taking us there."

  "Okay," said the driver.

  He did not ask how much.

  They passed the Niavron Palace, the Shah's winter residence. 17here were

  tanks outside, as always, but now they had white flags attached to their

  antennae: they had surrendered to the revolution.

  The car went on, past wrecked and burning buildings, turned back every now

  and again by street barricades.

  At last they saw the Hyatt.

  "Oh, boy," Paul said feelingly. "An American hotel."

  They drove into the forecourt.

  ON WINGS OF EAGLES 275

  Paul was so grateful that he gave the Iranian couple two hundred dollars.

  The car drove off. Paul and Bill waved, then walked into the hotel.

  Suddenly Paul wished he were wearing his EDS uniform of business suit and

  white shirt, instead of prison dungarees and a dirty raincoat.

  The magnificent lobby was deserted.

  They walked to the reception desk. After a moment someone came out from an

  office.

  Paul asked for Bill Gayden's room number.

  The clerk checked, then told him there was no one of that name registered.

  "How about Bob Young?"

  'No. -

  "Rich Gallagher?"

  "No. 1~

  "Jay Coburn?"

  "No. 91

  I've got the wrong hotel, Paul thought. How could I have made a mistake

  like that?

  "What about John Howell?" he said, remembering the lawyer.

  "Yes," the clerk said at last, and he gave them a room number on the

  eleventh floor.

  They went up in the elevator.

  They found Howell's mom and knocked. There was no answer.

  "What do you think we ought to do?" Bill said.

  "I'm going to check in," said Paul. "I'm fired. Why don't we check in, have

  a meal. We'll call the States, tell them we're out of jail, everything will

  be fine."

  "Okay. "

  They walked back to the elevator.

  Bit by bit, Keane Taylor got the story out of Rashid.

  He had stood just inside the prison gates for about an hour. The scene was

  a shambles; eleven thousand people were trying to get out through a small