Follett, Ken - On Wings of Eagles.txt
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one of the few remaining lines so they could talk to Gholam. Tom Walter had
got on to A.T.&T. and spoken to Ray Johnson, who handled the EDS phone
account. It was a very big account-EDS,'s computers in different parts of
the U.S.A. talked to one another along telephone lines--and Johnson had
been keen to help a major customer. He had asked whether EDS's call to
Tehran was a matter of life and death. You bet it is, said Tom Walter.
Johnson was trying to get them a line. At the same time, T. 1. Marquez was
sweet-talking an international operator, trying to persuade her to break
the rules.
Perot had also lost touch with Ralph Boulware, who was supposed to meet the
Dirty Team on the Turkish side of the border. Boulware had last been heard
from in Adana, five hundred miles from where he was supposed to be. Perot
presumed he was now on his way to the rendezvous, but there was no way of
telling how far he had got or whether he would make it on time.
Perot had spent most of the day trying to get a light plane or a helicopter
with which to fly into Iran. The Boeing 707 was no use for that, because
Perot would need to fly low and search for
322 Ken Follett
the Range Rovers with -X- or "A" on their roofs, then land on tiny, disused
airfields or even on a road or in a meadow. But so far his efforts had only
confirmed what Boulware had told him at six o'clock that morning: it was not
going to happen.
in desperation Perot had called a friend in the Drug Enforcement Agency and
asked for the phone number of the agency's man in Turkey, thinking that
narcotics people would surely know how to get hold of light planes. The DEA
man had come to the Sheraton, accompanied by another man who, Perot
gathered, was with the CIA; but if they knew where to get a plane they
weren't telling.
In Dallas, Merv Stauffer was calling all over Europe looking for a suitable
aircraft that could be bought or rented immediately and flown into Turkey:
he, too, had failed so far.
Late in the afternoon Perot had said to Pat Sculley: "I want to talk to the
highest-ranking American in Istanbul."
Sculley had gone off and raised a little hell at the American Consulate,
and now, at ten-thirty P.m., a Consul was sitting in Perot's suite at the
Sheraton.
Perot was leveling with him. "My men aren't criminals of any kind," he
said. "They're ordinary businessmen who have wives and children worrying
themselves to death back home. The Iranians kept them in jail for six weeks
without bringing any charges or finding any evidence against them. Now
they're free and they're trying to get out of the country. If they're
caught, you can imagine how much chance they'd have of justice: none at
all. The way things are in Iran now, my men may not get as far as the
border. I want to go in and get them, and that's where I need your help. I
have to borrow, rent, or buy a small aircraft. Now, can you help me?"
"No," said the Consul. "In this country it's against the law for private
individuals to have aircraft. Because it's against the law, the planes
aren't here even for someone who's prepared to break the law."
"But you must have aircraft.
"The State Department has no aircraft."
Perot despaired. Was he to sit and do nothing to help the Dirty Team?
The Consul said: "Mr. Perot, we're here to help American citizens, and I'm
going to try to get you an aircraft. I'll pull whatever strings I can. But
I'll tell you now that my chance of success is close to zero."
ON WINGS OF EAGLES 323
"Well, I appreciate it."
The Consul got up to go.
Perot said: "It's very important that my presence in Turkey be kept secret.
Right now the Iranian authorities have no idea where my men are. If they
should learn that I'm here, they will be able to figure out how my men are
getting out, and that would be a catastrophe. So please be very discreet."
"I understand."
The Consul left.
A few minutes later the phone rang. It was T. J. Marquez calling from
Dallas.
"Perot, you're on the front page of the paper today."
Perot's heart sank: the story was out.
T.J. said: "The -governor just appointed you chairman of the Drug
Commission. -
Perot breathed again. "Marquez, you scared me."
T.J. laughed.
"You shouldn't do that to an old man," Perot said. "Boy, you really caught
my attention there."
"Wait a minute, Margot's on the other line," said T.J. "She just wants to
wish you a happy Valentine's Day."
Perot realized it was February 14. He said: "Tell her I'm completely safe,
and being guarded at all times by two blondes. "
"Wait a minute, I'll tell her." T.J. came back on the line a minute later,
laughing. "She says, isn't it interesting that you need two to replace
her?"
Perot chuckled. He had walked into that one: he should have known better
than to try to score points off Margot. "Now, did you get through to
Tehran?"
"Yes. The international operator got us a line, and we blew it on a wrong
number. Then A.T. and T. got us a line and we reached Gholam.-
"."d?"
"Nothing. He hasn't heard from them."
Perot's temporary cheerfulness vanished. "What did you ask him?"
"We just said: 'Are there any messagesT and he said there weren 9t. -
"Damn." Perot almost wished the Dirty Team had called to say they were in
trouble, for then at least he would have known their location.
He said goodbye to T.J. and got ready for bed. He had lost the
324 Ken Follett
Clean Team, he had lost Boulware, and now he had lost the Dirty Team. He had
failed to get hold of an aircraft in which to go looking for them. The whole
operation was a mess--and there was not a thing he could do about it.
The suspense was killing him. He realized that never in his life had he
experienced this much tension. He had seen men crumble under stress but he
had never really been able to relate to their suffering because it had
never happened to him. Stress did not upset him, normally-in fact, he
thrived on it. But this was different.
He broke his own rule, and allowed himself to think about all the bad
things that could happen. What was at stake here was his freedom, for if
this rescue were to go wrong he would end up in jail. Already he had
assembled a mercenary army, connived at the misuse of American passports,
arranged the forgery of U.S. military identity cards, and conspired to
effect an illegal border crossing. He hoped he would go to jail in the U.S.
rather than in Turkey. The worst would be if the Turks sent him to Iran to
be tried for his "crimes" there.
Jie lay awake on his hotel bed, worrying about the Clean Team, about the
Dirty Tearn, about Boulware, and about himself. There was nothing he could
do but endure it. In the future he would be more sympathetic to the men he
put under stress. If he had a future.
5
Coburn was tense, watching Simons.
They all sat in a circle on the Persian carpet, waiting for the :'judge."
Simons had told Coburn, before they left Tehran: 'Keep your eye on me." So
far Simons had been passive, rolling with the punches, letting Rashid do
the talking, allowing the team to be arrested. But there might come a
moment when he changed his tactics. if he decided to start a fight, he
would let Coburn know a split-second before it happened.
The judge arrived.
Aged about fifty, he wore a dark blue jacket with a light tan sweater
undemeath, and an open-neck shirt. He had the air of a professional man, a
doctor or a lawyer. He had a .45 stuck in his belt.
ON WINGS OF EAGLES 325
Rashid recognized him. His name was Habib Bolourian, and he was a leading
Communist.
Bolourian sat in the space Simons had intended for him.
He said something in Farsi, and the young man in the suitwho now took on
the role of interpreter-asked for their passports.
This is it, Coburn thought; this is where we get into trouble. He will look
at Bill's passport and realize it belongs to someone else.
The passports were piled up on the carpet in front of Bolourian. He looked
at the top one. The interpreter began to write down details. There was some
confusion about sumames and given names: Iranians often got the two mixed
up, for some mason. Rashid was handing the passports to Bolourian, and
Gayden was leaning over and pointing out things; and it dawned on Coburn
that between the two they were making the confusion worse. Rashid was
giving Bolourian the same passport more than once, and Gayden, in leaning
over to point out things in a passport, was covering up the photograph.
Coburn admired their nerve. In the end the passports were handed back, and
it seemed to Coburn that Bill's had never actually been opened.
Bolourian began to interrogate Rashid in Farsi. Rashid seemed to be telling
the official cover story, about their being ordinary American businessmen
trying to go home, with some embellishments about family members on the
point of death back in the States.
Eventually the interpreter said in English: "Would you tell us exactly what
you're doing here?"
Rashid said: "Well, you see--" then a guard behind him slammed in the bolt
on his machine gun and stuck the barrel into the back of Rashid's neck.
Rashid fell silent. Clearly the interpreter wanted to hear what the
Americans had to say, to see whether their story matched Rashid's; the
guard's action was a brutal reminder that they were in the power of violent
revolutionaries.
Gayden, as the senior EDS executive there, replied to the interpreter. "We
all work for a data-processing company called PARS Data Systems, or PDS,-
he said. In fact, PDS was the Ir-anian company jointly owned by EDS and
Abolfath Mahvi. Gayden did not mention EDS because, as Simons had pointed
out before they left Tehran, Dadgar might put out a blanket arrest order on
anyone connected with EDS - "We had a contract with Bank Orman,- Gayden
went on, telling the truth but by no
326 Ken FoHeu
means the whole truth. "We weren't getting paid, people were throwing rocks
at our windows, we had no money, we missed our families, and we just wanted
to go home. The airport was closed, so we decided to drive."
"That's right," said the interpreter. "The same thing happened to me-I
wanted to fly to Europe but the airport was closed. "
We may have an ally here, Coburn thought.
Bolourian asked, and the interpreter translated: "Did you have a contract
with ISIRANT'
Coburn was astonished. For someone who had spent twentyfive years in jail,
Bolourian was remarkably well informed. ISHLAN-Information Systems Iran-was
a data-processing company that had once been owned by Abolfath Mahvi and
had subsequently been bought by the government. The company was widely
believed to have close links with the secret police, SAVAK. Worse, EDS did
have a contract with ISMAN: in partnership, the two companies had created
a document-control system for the Iranian Navy back in 1977.
"We have absolutely nothing to do with ISELAN," Gayden lied.
"Can you give us some proof of whom you work for?"
That was a problem. Before leaving Tehran they had all destroyed any papers
connected with EDS, under Simons's instructions. Now they all searched
their pockets for anything they might have overlooked.
Keane Taylor found his health insurance card, with "Electronic Data Systems
Corp. " printed across the bottom. He handed it to the interpreter, saying:
"Electronic Data Systems is the Parent company of PDS."
Bolourian got up and left the room.
The interpreter, the armed Kurds, and the EDS men waited in silence. Coburn
thought: What now?
Could Bolourian possibly know that EDS had once had a contract with ISHLAN?
If so, would he jump to the conclusion that the ED$ men were connected with
SAVAK? Or had his question about ISIRAN been a shot in the dark? In that
case, had he believed their story about being ordinary businessmen trying
to go home?
Opposite Coburn, on the far side of the circle, Bill was feeling strangely
at peace. He had peaked out on fear during the questioning, and he was
simply incapable of worrying any longer.
ON WINGS OF EAGLES 327
We've tried our hardest to get out, he thought, and if they put us up
against the wall right now and shoot us, so be it.
Bolourian walked back in, loading a gun.
Coburn glanced at Simons: his eyes were riveted on the gun.
It was an old MI carbine that looked as if it dated from World war 11.
He can't shoot us all with that, Coburn thought.
Bolourian handed the gun to the interpreter and said something in Farsi.
Coburn gathered his muscles to spring. There would be a hell of a mess if
they opened fire in this room--
The interpreter took the gun and said: "And now you will be our guests, and
drink tea."
Bolourian wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to the interpreter.
Coburn realized that Bolourian had simply issued the gun to the interpreter
and given him a permit to carry it. "Christ, I thought he was going to
shoot us," Coburn muttered.
Simons's face was expressionless.
Tea was served.
It was now dark outside. Rashid asked whether there was somewhere the
Americans could spend the night. "You will be our guests," said the
interpreter. "I will personally look after you. " Coburn thought: For that,
he needs a gun? The interpreter went on: "in the morning our mullah will
write a note to the mullah of Rezaiyeh, asking him to let you pass."
Coburn murmured to Simons: "What do you think? Should we stay the night
here, or go on?"
"I don't think we have a choice," Simons said. "When he said 'guests,' he
was just being polite."
They drank their tea, and the interpreter said: "Now we will go and have
dinner."
They got up and put on their shoes. Walking out to the cars, Coburn noticed
that G4yden was limping. "What's the matter with your feet?" he said.
"Not so loud," Gayden hissed. "I got all the money stuffed up in the toes
of
my shoes and my feet are killing me."
Coburn laughed.
They got into the cars and drove off, still accompanied by Kurdish guards
and the interpreter. Gayden surreptitiously eased off his shoes and
rearranged the money. They pulled into a filling station. Gayden murmured:
"If they weren't going to let us go, they wouldn't take us to gas up ...
would they?"
328 Ken F61k9t
Coburn shrugged.
They drove to the town restaurant. The EDS men sat down, and the guards sat
at tables around diem, forming a rough circle and cutting them off from the
townspeople.
A TV set was on, and the Ayatollah was making a speech. Paul thought:
Jesus, it had to be now, when we're in trouble, that tins guy comes to
power. Then the hiterpreter told bun that Khomeini was saying Americans
should not be molested, but should be allowed to leave Iran unharmed, and
Paul felt better.
They were served chella. kebab-4amb with rice. The guards ate heartily,
thew rifles on the tables beside their plates.
Keane Taylor ate a little rice, then put down his spoon. He had a headache:
he had been sharing the driving with Rashid, and he felt as if the sun had
been in his eyes all day. He was also worried, for it occurred to him that
Bolourian might call Tehran during the night to check out EDS. The guards
kept telling him, with gestures, to eat, but he sat and nursed a Coke.
Coburn was not hungry either. He had recalled that he was supposed to phone
Gholam. It was late: they would be worried sick in Dallas. But what should
he tell Gholam-that they were okay, or that they were in trouble?
Them was some discussion about who should pay the bill when the meal was
over. The guards wanted to pay, Rashid said. The Americans were anxious not
to offend by offering to pay when they were supposed to be guess, but also
keen to ingratiate themselves with these people. In the end Keane Taylor
paid for everyone.
As they were leaving, Coburn said to the interpreter: "I'd sure like to
call Tehran, to let our people know we're all right."
"Okay," said the young man.
They drove to the post office. Coburn and the interpreter went in. Thme was
a crowd of people waiting to use the three or four phone booths. The
interpreter spoke to someone behind the counter, then told Coburn: "All the