by Ken Follett
They had a long talk that evening. At the end of it Angela was no happier, but she was at least resigned.
He had called her several times since, from London and from Tehran. She was watching the riots on the TV news and worrying about him. She would have been even more worried if she had known what he was about to do now.
He pushed domestic concerns to the back of his mind and went to find Abolhasan.
Abolhasan was EDS's senior Iranian employee. When Lloyd Briggs had left for New York, Abolhasan had been in charge of EDS in Iran. (Rich Gallagher, the only American still there, was not a manager.) Then Keane Taylor had returned and assumed overall charge, and Abolhasan had been offended. Taylor was no diplomat. (Bill Gayden, the genial president of EDS World, had coined the sarcastic phrase "Keane's Marine Corps sensitivity training.") There had been friction. But Howell got on fine with Abolhasan, who could translate not just the Farsi language but also Persian customs and methods for his American employers.
Dadgar knew Abolhasan's father, a distinguished lawyer, and had met Abolhasan himself at the interrogation of Paul and Bill; so this morning Abolhasan had been appointed liaison man with Dadgar's investigators, and had been instructed to make sure they had everything they asked for.
Howell said to Abolhasan: "I've decided I should meet with Dadgar. What do you think?"
"Sure," Abolhasan said. He had an American wife and spoke English with an American accent. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
"Okay. Let's go."
Abolhasan led Howell to Paul Chiapparone's conference room. Dadgar and his assistants were sitting around the big table, going through EDS's financial records. Abolhasan asked Dadgar to step into the adjoining room, Paul's office; then he introduced Howell.
Dadgar gave a businesslike handshake.
They sat around the table in the corner of the office. Dadgar did not look to Howell like a monster: just a rather weary middle-aged man who was losing his hair.
Howell began by repeating to Dadgar what he had said to Dr. Kian: "EDS is a reputable company that has done nothing wrong, and we are willing to cooperate with your investigation. However, we cannot tolerate having two senior executives in jail."
Dadgar's answer--translated by Abolhasan--surprised him. "If you have done nothing wrong, why have you not paid the bail?"
"There's no connection between the two," Howell said. "Bail is a guarantee that someone will appear for trial, not a sum to be forfeited if he is guilty. Bail is repaid as soon as the accused man appears in court, regardless of the verdict." While Abolhasan translated. Howell wondered whether "bail" was the correct English translation of whatever Farsi word Dadgar was using to describe the $12,750,000 he was demanding. And now Howell recalled something else that might be significant. On the day Paul and Bill were arrested, he had talked on the phone with Abolhasan, who reported that the $12,750,000 was, according to Dadgar, the total amount EDS had been paid to date by the Ministry of Health; and Dadgar's argument had been that if the contract had been corruptly awarded, then EDS was not entitled to that money. (Abolhasan had not translated this remark to Paul and Bill at the time.)
In fact, EDS had been paid a good deal more than thirteen million dollars, so the remark had not made much sense, and Howell had discounted it. Perhaps that had been a mistake: it might just be that Dadgar's arithmetic was wrong.
Abolhasan was translating Dadgar's reply. "If the men are innocent, there is no reason why they should not appear for trial, so you would risk nothing by paying the bail."
"An American corporation can't do that," Howell said. He was not lying, but he was being deliberately deceitful. "EDS is a publicly traded company, and under American securities laws it can only use its money for the benefit of its shareholders. Paul and Bill are free individuals: the company cannot guarantee that they will show up for trial. Consequently we cannot spend the company's money this way."
This was the initial negotiating position Howell had previously formulated; but, as Abolhasan translated, he could see it was making little impression on Dadgar.
"Their families have to put up the bail," he went on. "Right now they are raising money in the States, but thirteen million dollars is out of the question. Now, if the bail were lowered to a more reasonable figure, they might be able to pay it." This was all lies, of course: Ross Perot was going to pay the bail, if he had to, and if Tom Walter could find a way to get the money into Iran.
It was Dadgar's turn to be surprised. "Is it true that you could not force your men to appear for trial?"
"Sure it's true," Howell said. "What are we going to do, lock them in chains? We're not a police force. You see, you're holding individuals in jail for alleged crimes of a corporation."
Dadgar's reply was: "No, they are in jail for what they have done personally."
"Which is?"
"They obtained money from the Ministry of Health by means of false progress reports."
"This obviously cannot apply to Bill Gaylord, because the Ministry has paid none of the bills presented since he arrived in Tehran--so what is he accused of?"
"He falsified reports, and I will not be cross-examined by you, Mr. Howell."
Howell suddenly remembered that Dadgar could put him in jail.
Dadgar went on: "I am conducting an investigation. When it is complete, I will either release your clients or prosecute them."
Howell said: "We're willing to cooperate with your investigation. In the meantime, what can we do to get Paul and Bill released?"
"Pay the bail."
"And if they are released on bail, will they be permitted to leave Iran?"
"No."
2___
Jay Coburn walked through the double sliding glass doors into the lobby of the Sheraton. On his right was the long registration desk. To his left were the hotel shops. In the center of the lobby was a couch.
In accordance with his instructions, he bought a copy of Newsweek magazine at the newsstand. He sat on the couch, facing the doors so that he could see everyone who came in, and pretended to read the magazine.
He felt like a character in a spy movie.
The rescue plan was in a holding pattern while Majid researched the colonel in charge of the jail. Meanwhile, Coburn was doing a job for Perot.
He had an assignation with a man nicknamed Deep Throat (after the secretive character who gave "deep background" to reporter Bob Woodward in All the President's Men). This Deep Throat was an American management consultant who gave seminars to foreign corporate executives on how to do business with the Iranians. Before Paul and Bill were arrested, Lloyd Briggs had engaged Deep Throat to help EDS get the Ministry to pay its bills. He had advised Briggs that EDS was in bad trouble, but for a payment of two and a half million dollars they could get the slate wiped clean. At the time EDS had scorned this advice: the government owed money to EDS, not vice versa; it was the Iranians who needed to get the slate wiped clean.
The arrest had given credibility to Deep Throat (as it had to Bunny Fleischaker) and Briggs had contacted him again. "Well, they're mad at you now," he had said. "It's going to be harder than ever, but I'll see what I can do."
He had called back yesterday. He could solve the problem, he said. He demanded a face-to-face meeting with Ross Perot.
Taylor, Howell, Young, and Gallagher all agreed there was no way Perot was going to expose himself to such a meeting--they were horrified that Deep Throat even knew Perot was in town. So Perot asked Simons if he could send Coburn instead, and Simons consented.
Coburn had called Deep Throat and said he would be representing Perot.
"No, no," said Deep Throat, "it has to be Perot himself."
"Then all deals are off," Coburn had replied.
"Okay, okay." Deep Throat had backed down and given Coburn instructions.
Coburn had to go to a certain phone booth in the Vanak area, not far from Keane Taylor's house, at eight P.M.
At exactly eight o'clock the phone in the booth rang. Deep Thr
oat told Coburn to go to the Sheraton, which was nearby, and sit in the lobby reading Newsweek. They would meet there and identify one another by a code. Deep Throat would say: "Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?" It was a block away, but Coburn was to reply: "No, I don't. I'm new in town."
That was why he felt like a spy in a movie.
On Simons's advice he was wearing his long, bulky down coat, the one Taylor called his Michelin Man coat. The object was to find out whether Deep Throat would frisk him. If not, he would be able, at any future meetings, to wear a recording device under the coat and tape the conversation.
He flicked through the pages of Newsweek.
"Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?"
Coburn looked up to see a man of about his own height and weight, in his early forties, with dark, slicked-down hair and glasses. "No, I don't. I'm new in town."
Deep Throat looked around nervously. "Let's go," he said. "Over there."
Coburn got up and followed him to the back of the hotel. They stopped in a dark passage. "I'll have to frisk you," said Deep Throat.
Coburn raised his arms. "What are you afraid of?"
Deep Throat gave a scornful laugh. "You can't trust anyone. There are no rules anymore in this town." He finished his search.
"Do we go back in the lobby now?"
"No. I could be under surveillance-I can't risk being seen with you."
"Okay. What are you offering?"
Deep Throat gave the same scornful laugh. "You guys are in trouble," he said. "You've already messed up once, by refusing to listen to people who know this country."
"How did we mess up?"
"You think this is Texas. It's not."
"But how did we mess up?"
"You could have got out of this for two and a half million dollars. Now it'll cost you six."
"What's the deal?"
"Just a minute. You let me down last time. This is going to be your last chance. This time, there's no backing out at the last minute."
Coburn was beginning to dislike Deep Throat. The man was a wise guy. His whole manner said: You're such fools, and I know so much more than you; it's hard for me to descend to your level.
"Whom do we pay the money to?" Coburn asked.
"A numbered account in Switzerland."
"And how do we know we'll get what we're paying for?"
Deep Throat laughed. "Listen, the way things work in this country, you don't let go of your money until the goods are delivered. That's the way to get things done here."
"Okay, so what's the arrangement?"
"Lloyd Briggs meets me in Switzerland and we open an escrow account and sign a letter of agreement that is lodged with the bank. The money is released from the account when Chiapparone and Gaylord get out--which will be immediately, if you'll just let me handle this."
"Who gets the money?"
Deep Throat just shook his head contemptuously.
Coburn said: "Well, how do we know you really have a deal wired?"
"Look, I'm just passing on information from people close to the person who's causing you a problem."
"You mean Dadgar?"
"You'll never learn, will you?"
As well as finding out what Deep Throat's proposal was, Coburn had to make a personal evaluation of the man. Well, he had made it now: Deep Throat was full of shit.
"Okay," Coburn said. "We'll be in touch."
Keane Taylor poured a little rum into a big glass, added ice, and filled the glass with Coke. This was his regular drink.
Taylor was a big man, six foot two, 210 pounds, with a chest like a barrel. He had played football in the marines. He took care with his clothes, favoring suits with deep-plunging vests and shirts with button-down collars. He wore large gold-rimmed glasses. He was thirty-nine, and losing his hair.
The young Taylor had been a hell-raiser--a dropout from college, busted down from sergeant in the marines for disciplinary offenses--and he still disliked close supervision. He preferred working in the World subsidiary of EDS because the head office was so far away.
He was under close supervision now. After four days in Tehran, Ross Perot was savage.
Taylor dreaded the evening debriefing sessions with his boss. After he and Howell had spent the day dashing around the city, fighting the traffic, the demonstrations, and the intransigence of Iranian officialdom, they would then have to explain to Perot why they had achieved precisely nothing.
To make matters worse, Perot was confined to the hotel most of the time. He had gone out only twice: once to the U.S. Embassy and once to U.S. Military Headquarters. Taylor had made sure no one offered him the keys to a car or any local currency, to discourage any impulse Perot might have had to take a walk. But the result was that Perot was like a caged bear, and being debriefed by him was like getting into the cage with the bear.
At least Taylor no longer had to pretend that he did not know about the rescue team. Coburn had taken him to meet Simons, and they had talked for three hours--or rather, Taylor had talked: Simons just asked questions. They had sat in the living room of Taylor's house, with Simons dropping cigar ash on Taylor's carpet, and Taylor had told him that Iran was like an animal with its head cut off: the head--the ministers and officials--were still trying to give orders, but the body--the Iranian people--were off doing their own thing. Consequently, political pressure would not free Paul and Bill: they would have to be bailed out or rescued. For three hours Simons had never changed the tone of his voice, never offered an opinion, never even moved from his chair.
But the Simons ice was easier to deal with than the Perot fire. Each morning Perot would knock on the door while Taylor was shaving. Taylor got up a little earlier each day, in order to be ready when Perot came, but Perot got up earlier each day, too, until Taylor began to fantasize that Perot listened outside the door all night, waiting to catch him shaving. Perot would be full of ideas that had come to him during the night: new arguments for Paul and Bill's innocence, new schemes for persuading the Iranians to release them. Taylor and John Howell--the tall and the short, like Batman and Robin--would head off in the Batmobile to the Ministry of Justice or the Ministry of Health, where officials would demolish Perot's ideas in seconds. Perot was still using a legalistic, rational, American approach, and, in Taylor's opinion, had yet to realize that the Iranians were not playing according to those rules.
This was not all Taylor had on his mind. His wife, Mary, and the children, Mike and Dawn, were staying with his parents in Pittsburgh. Taylor's mother and father were both over eighty, both in failing health. His mother had a heart condition. Mary was having to deal with that on her own. She had not complained, but he could tell, when he talked to her on the phone, that she was not happy.
Taylor sighed. He could not cope with all the world's problems at one time. He topped up his drink, then, carrying the glass, left his room and went to Perot's suite for the evening bloodbath.
Perot paced up and down the sitting room of his suite, waiting for the negotiating team to gather. He was doing no good here in Tehran and he knew it.
He had suffered a chilly reception at the U.S. Embassy. He had been shown into the office of Charles Naas, the Ambassador's deputy. Naas had been gracious, but had given Perot the same old story about how EDS should work through the legal system for the release of Paul and Bill. Perot had insisted on seeing the Ambassador. He had come halfway around the world to see Sullivan, and he was not going to leave before speaking to him. Eventually Sullivan came in, shook Perot's hand, and told him he was most unwise to come to Iran. It was clear that Perot was a problem and Sullivan did not want any more problems. He talked for a while, but did not sit down, and he left as soon as he could. Perot was not used to such treatment. He was, after all, an important American, and in normal circumstances a diplomat such as Sullivan would be at least courteous, if not deferential.
Perot also met Lou Goelz, who seemed sincerely concerned about Paul and Bill but offered no concrete help.
Ou
tside Naas's office he ran into a group of military attaches who recognized him. Since the prisoners-of-war campaign Perot had always been able to count on a warm reception from the American military. He sat down with the attaches and told them his problem. They said candidly that they could not help. "Look, forget what you read in the paper, forget what the State Department is saying publicly," one of them told him. "We don't have any power here, we don't have any control--you're wasting your time in the U.S. Embassy."
Perot had also wasted his time at U.S. Military Headquarters. Cathy Gallagher's boss, Colonel Keith Barlow, Chief of the U.S. Support Activity Command in Iran, had sent a bulletproof car to the Hyatt. Perot had got in with Rich Gallagher. The driver had been Iranian: Perot wondered which side he was on.
They met with Air Force General Phillip Gast, chief of the U.S. Military Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) in Iran, and General "Dutch" Huyser. Perot knew Huyser slightly, and remembered him as a strong, dynamic man; but now he looked drained. Perot knew from the newspapers that Huyser was President Carter's emissary, here to persuade the Iranian military to back the doomed Bakhtiar government; and Perot guessed that Huyser had no stomach for the job.
Huyser candidly said he would like to help Paul and Bill but at the moment he had no leverage with the Iranians: he had nothing to trade. Even if they got out of jail, Huyser said, they would be in danger here. Perot told them he had that taken care of: Bull Simons was here to look after Paul and Bill once they got out. Huyser burst out laughing, and a moment later Gast saw the joke. They knew who Simons was, and they knew he would be planning more than a baby-sitting job.
Gast offered to supply fuel to Simons, but that was all. Warm words from the military, cold words from the Embassy; little or no real help from either. And nothing but excuses from Howell and Taylor.
Sitting in a hotel room all day was driving Perot crazy. Today Cathy Gallagher had asked him to take care of her poodle, Buffy. She made it sound like an honor--a measure of her high esteem for Perot--and he had been so surprised that he had agreed. Sitting looking at the animal, he had realized that this was a funny occupation for the leader of a major international business, and he wondered how the hell he had let himself be talked into it. He got no sympathy from Keane Taylor, who thought it was funny as hell. After a few hours Cathy had come back from the hairdresser's or wherever she had been, and had taken the dog back; but Perot's mood remained black.
