by Ken Follett
Coburn had some pep pills that he had bought, on Simons's instructions, at a Tehran drugstore. He and Simons had had no sleep for twenty-four hours straight, and now they each took a pill to keep them awake.
Paul emptied the kitchen of every kind of food that would keep: crackers, cupcakes, canned puddings, and cheese. It was not very nutritious, but it would fill them.
Coburn whispered to Paul: "Make sure we get the cassette tapes, so we can have some music in our car."
Bill loaded the cars with blankets, flashlights, and can openers.
They were ready.
They all went outside.
As they were getting into the cars, Rashid said: "Paul, you drive the second car, please. You are dark enough to pass for Iranian if you don't speak."
Paul glanced at Simons. Simons gave a slight nod. Paul got behind the wheel.
They drove out of the courtyard and into the street.
Eleven
1____
As the Dirty Team drove out of the Dvoranchik place, Ralph Boulware was at Istanbul Airport, waiting for Ross Perot.
Boulware had mixed feelings about Perot. Boulware had been a technician when he joined EDS. Now he was a manager. He had a fine big house in a white Dallas suburb, and an income few black Americans could ever hope for. He owed it all to EDS, and to Perot's policy of promoting talent. They didn't give you all this stuff for nothing, of course: they gave it for brains and hard work and good business judgment. But what they did give you for nothing was the chance to show your stuff.
On the other hand, Boulware suspected Perot wanted to own his men body and soul. That was why ex-military people got on well at EDS: they were comfortable with discipline and used to a twenty-four-hour-a-day job. Boulware was afraid that one day he might have to decide whether he was his own man or Perot's.
He admired Perot for going to Iran. For a man as rich and comfortable and protected as that to put his ass on the line the way he had ... that took some balls. There was probably not one other chairman of the board of an American corporation who would conceive the rescue plan, let alone participate in it.
And then again, Boulware wondered--all his life he would wonder--whether he could ever really trust a white man.
Perot's leased 707 touched down at six A.M. Boulware went on board. He took in the lush decor at a glance and then forgot about it: he was in a hurry.
He sat down with Perot. "I'm catching a plane at six-thirty so I got to make this fast," he said. "You can't buy a helicopter and you can't buy a light plane."
"Why not?"
"It's against the law. You can charter a plane, but it won't take you just anywhere you want to go--you charter for a specified trip."
"Who says?"
"The law. Also, chartering is so unusual that you'll have the government all over you asking questions, and you might not want that. Now--"
"Just a minute, Ralph, not so fast," said Perot. He had that I'm-the-boss look in his eye. "What if we get a helicopter from another country and bring it in?"
"I have been here a month and I have looked into all this thoroughly, and you can't rent a helicopter and you can't rent a plane, and I have to leave now to meet Simons at the border."
Perot backed off. "Okay. How are you going to get there?"
"Mr. Fish got us a bus to go to the border. It's on its way already--I was going with it; then I had to stay behind to brief you. I'm going to fly to Adana--that's about halfway--and catch up with the bus there. I got Ilsman with me, he's the secret service guy, and another guy to translate. What time do the fellows expect to reach the border?"
"Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said Perot.
"It's going to be tight. I'll see you guys later."
He ran back to the terminal building and just made his flight.
Ilsman, the fat secret policeman, and the interpreter--Boulware did not know his name so he called him Charlie Brown--were on board. They took off at six-thirty.
They flew east to Ankara, where they waited several hours for their connection. At midday they reached Adana, near the biblical city of Tarsus in south central Turkey.
The bus was not there.
They waited an hour.
Boulware decided the bus was not going to come.
With Ilsman and Charlie Brown, he went to the information desk and asked about flights from Adana to Van, a town about a hundred miles from the border crossing.
There were no flights to Van from anywhere.
"Ask where we can charter a plane," Boulware told Charlie. Charlie asked.
"There are no planes for charter here."
"Can we buy a car?"
"Cars are very scarce in this part of the country."
"Are there no car dealers in town?"
"If there are, they won't have any cars to sell."
"Is there any way to get to Van from here?"
"No."
It was like the joke about the tourist who asks a farmer for directions to London, and the farmer replies: "If I was going to London, I wouldn't start from here."
They wandered out of the terminal and stood beside the dusty road. There was no sidewalk: this was really the sticks. Boulware was frustrated. So far he had had it easier than most of the rescue team--he had not even been to Tehran. Now that it was his turn to achieve something, it looked as though he would fail. Boulware hated to fail.
He saw a car approaching with some kind of markings in Turkish on its side. "Hey," he said, "is that a cab?"
"Yes," said Charlie.
"Hell, let's get a cab!"
Charlie hailed the cab and they got in. Boulware said: "Tell him we want to go to Van."
Charlie translated.
The driver pulled away.
After a few seconds the driver asked a question. Charlie translated. "Van, where?"
"Tell him Van, Turkey."
The driver stopped the car.
Charlie said: "He says: 'Do you know how far it is?' "
Boulware was not sure, but he knew it was halfway across Turkey. "Tell him yes."
After another exchange Charlie said: "He won't take us."
"Does he know anyone who will?"
The driver shrugged elaborately as he replied. Charlie said: "He's going to take us to the cabstand so we can ask around."
"Good."
They drove into the town. The cabstand was just another dusty piece of road with a few cars parked, none of them new. Ilsman started talking to the drivers. Boulware and Charlie found a little shop and bought a bag of hard-boiled eggs.
When they came out, Ilsman had found a driver and negotiated a price. The driver proudly pointed out his car. Boulware looked at it in dismay. It was a Chevrolet, around fifteen years old, and it looked as if it still had the original tires.
"He says we'll need some food," Charlie said.
"I got some eggs."
"Maybe we'll need more."
Boulware went back into the shop and bought three dozen oranges.
They got into the Chevrolet and drove to a filling station. The driver bought a spare tank of fuel and put it in the trunk. "Where we're going, there are no gas stations," Charlie explained.
Boulware was looking at a map. Their journey was about five hundred miles through mountain country. "Listen," he said. "There is no way this car is going to get us to the border by two o'clock tomorrow afternoon."
"You don't understand," Charlie said. "This man is a Turkish driver."
"Oh, boy," said Boulware; and he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes.
They drove out of town and headed up into the mountains of central Turkey.
The road was of dirt and gravel, with enormous potholes, and in places it was not much wider than the car. It snaked over the mountainsides, with a breathtaking sheer drop at one edge. There was no guardrail to stop an incautious driver shooting over the precipice into the abyss. But the scenery was spectacular, with stunning views across the sunlit valleys, and Boulware made up his mind to go bac
k one day, with Mary and Stacy and Kecia, and do the trip again, at leisure.
Up ahead, a truck was approaching them. The cabby braked to a halt. Two men in uniform got out of the truck. "Army patrol," said Charlie Brown.
The driver wound down his window. Ilsman talked to the soldiers. Boulware did not understand what was said, but it seemed to satisfy the patrol. The cabby drove on.
An hour or so later they were stopped by another patrol, and the same thing happened.
At nightfall they spotted a roadside restaurant and pulled in. The place was primitive and filthy dirty. "All they have is beans and rice," said Charlie apologetically as they sat down.
Boulware smiled. "I been eating beans and rice all my life."
He studied the cabdriver. The man was about sixty years old, and looked tired. "I guess I'll drive for a while," said Boulware.
Charlie translated, and the cabby protested vehemently.
"He says you won't be able to drive that car," Charlie said. "It's an American car with a very peculiar gearshift."
"Look, I am American," Boulware said. "Tell him that lots of Americans are black. And I know how to drive a 'sixty-four Chevy with a standard shift, for Pete's sake!"
The three Turks argued about it while they ate. Finally Charlie said: "You can drive, so long as you promise to pay for the damage if you wreck the car."
"I promise," said Boulware, thinking: Big deal.
He paid the bill, and they walked out to the car. It was beginning to rain.
Boulware found it impossible to make any speed, but the big car was stable, and its powerful engine took the gradients without difficulty. They were stopped a third time by an army patrol. Boulware showed his American passport, and once again Ilsman made them happy somehow. This time, Boulware noted, the soldiers were unshaven and wore somewhat ragged uniforms.
As they pulled away, Ilsman spoke, and Charlie said: "Try not to stop for any more patrols."
"Why not?"
"They might rob us."
That's great, thought Boulware.
Near the town of Maras, a hundred miles from Adana and another four hundred from Van, the rain became heavy, making the mud-and-gravel road treacherous, and Boulware had to slow down even more.
Soon after Maras, the car died.
They all got out and lifted the hood. Boulware could see nothing wrong. The driver spoke, and Charlie translated: "He can't understand it--he has just tuned the engine with his own hands."
"Maybe he didn't tune it right," said Boulware. "Let's check a few things."
The driver got some tools and a flashlight out of the trunk, and the four men stood around the engine in the rain, trying to find out what had gone wrong.
Eventually they discovered that the points were incorrectly set. Boulware guessed that either the rain, or the thinner mountain air, or both, had made the fault critical. It took a while to adjust the points, but finally the engine fired. Cold and wet and tired, the four men got back into the old car and Boulware drove on.
The countryside grew more desolate as they traveled east--no towns, no houses, no livestock, nothing. The road became even worse: it reminded Boulware of a trail in a cowboy movie. Soon the rain turned to snow and the road became icy. Boulware kept glancing over the sheer drop at the side. If you go off this, sucker, he said to himself, you ain't going to get hurt--you're going to die.
Near Bingol, halfway to their destination, they climbed up out of the storm. The sky was clear and there was a bright moon, almost like daylight. Boulware could see the snow clouds and the flashing lightning in the valleys below. The mountainside was frozen white, and the road was like a bobsled run.
Boulware thought: Man, I'm going to die up here, and nobody's even going to know it, because they don't know where I am.
Suddenly the steering wheel bucked in his hands and the car slowed: Boulware had a moment of panic, thinking he was losing control, then realized he had a flat tire. He brought the car gently to a halt.
They all got out and the cabdriver opened the trunk. He hauled out the extra fuel tank to get at the spare wheel. Boulware was freezing: the temperature had to be way below zero. The cabby refused any help and insisted on changing the wheel himself. Boulware took off his gloves and offered them to the cabby: the man shook his head. Pride, I guess, thought Boulware.
By the time the job was done, it was four A.M. Boulware said: "Ask him if he wants to take over the driving--I'm bushed."
The driver agreed.
Boulware got into the back. The car pulled away. Boulware closed his eyes and tried to ignore the bumps and jerks. He wondered whether he would reach the border in time. Shit, he thought, nobody could say we didn't try.
A few seconds later he was asleep.
2_____
The Dirty Team blew out of Tehran like a breeze.
The city looked like a battlefield from which everyone had gone home. Statues had been pulled down, cars burned, and trees felled to make roadblocks; then the roadblocks had been cleared--the cars pushed to the curb, the statues smashed, the trees burned. Some of those trees had been hand-watered every day for fifty years.
But there was no fighting. They saw very few people and little traffic. Perhaps the revolution was over. Or perhaps the revolutionaries were having tea.
They drove past the airport and took the highway north, following the route Coburn and Simons had taken on their reconnaissance trip. Some of Simons's plans had come to nothing, but not this one. Still, Coburn was apprehensive. What was ahead of them? Did armies rage and storm in towns and hamlets still? Or was the revolution done? Perhaps the villagers had returned to their sheep and their plows.
Soon the two Range Rovers were bowling along at seventy miles an hour at the foot of a mountain range. On their left was a flat plain; on their right, steep green hillsides topped by snowy mountain peaks against the blue sky. Coburn looked at the car in front and saw Taylor taking photographs through the tailgate window with his Instamatic. "Look at Taylor," he said.
"What does he think this is?" said Gayden. "A package tour?"
Coburn began to feel optimistic. There had been no trouble so far: maybe the whole country was calming down. Anyway, why should the Iranians give them a hard time? What was wrong with foreigners leaving the country?
Paul and Bill had false passports and were being hunted by the authorities, that was what was wrong.
Thirty miles from Tehran, just outside the town of Karaj, they came to their first roadblock. It was manned, as they usually were, by machine-gun-toting men and boys in ragged clothes.
The lead car stopped, and Rashid jumped out even before Paul had brought the second car to a halt, making sure that he, rather than the Americans, would do the talking. He immediately began speaking loud and rapid Farsi, with many gestures. Paul wound down the window. From what they could understand, it seemed Rashid was not giving the agreed story: he was saying something about journalists.
After a while Rashid told them all to get out of the cars. "They want to search us for weapons."
Coburn, remembering how many times he had been frisked on the reconnaissance trip, had concealed his little Gerber knife in the Range Rover.
The Iranians patted them down, then perfunctorily searched the cars: they did not find Coburn's knife, nor did they come across the money.
A few minutes later Rashid said: "We can go."
A hundred yards down the road was a filling station. They pulled in: Simons wanted to keep the fuel tanks as full as possible.
While the cars were being fueled Taylor produced a bottle of Cognac, and they all took a swig except Simons, who disapproved, and Rashid, whose beliefs forbade him to take alcohol. Simons was mad at Rashid. Instead of saying the group were businessmen trying to go home, Rashid had said they were journalists going to cover the fighting in Tabriz. "Stick to the goddam story," Simons said.
"Sure," said Rashid.
Coburn thought Rashid would probably continue to say the first thing tha
t came into his head at the time. That was how he operated.
A small crowd gathered at the filling station, watching the foreigners. Coburn looked at the bystanders nervously. They were not exactly hostile, but there was something vaguely menacing about their quiet surveillance.
Rashid bought a can of oil.
What now?
He took the fuel can, which contained most of the money in weighted plastic bags, out of the back of the car, and poured oil into it to conceal the money. It's not a bad idea, Coburn thought, but I would have mentioned it to Simons before doing it.
He tried to read the expressions on the faces in the crowd. Were they idly curious? Resentful? Suspicious? Malevolent? He could not tell, but he wanted to get away.
Rashid paid the bill and the two cars pulled slowly out of the filling station.
They had a clear run for the next seventy miles. The road, the new Iranian State Highway, was in good condition. It ran through a valley, alongside a single-track railroad, with snowcapped mountains above. The sun was shining.
The second roadblock was outside Qazvin.
It was an unofficial one--the guards were not in uniform--but it was bigger and more organized than the last. There were two checkpoints, one after another, and a line of cars waiting.
The two Range Rovers joined the queue.
The car in front of them was searched methodically. A guard opened the trunk and took out what looked like a rolled-up sheet. He unrolled it and found a rifle. He shouted something and waved the rifle in the air.
Other guards came running. A crowd gathered. The driver of the car was questioned. One of the guards knocked him to the ground.
Rashid pulled his car out of the line.
Cobum told Paul to follow.
"What's he doing?" Gayden said.
Rashid inched through the crowd. The people made way as the Range Rover nudged them--they were interested in the man with the rifle. Paul kept the second Range Rover right on the tail of the first. They passed the first checkpoint.
"What the fuck is he doing?" said Gayden.
"This is asking for trouble," said Coburn.
They approached the second checkpoint. Without stopping, Rashid yelled at the guard through the window. The guard said something in reply. Rashid accelerated. Paul followed.
Coburn breathed a sigh of relief. That was just like Rashid: he did the unexpected, on impulse, without thinking through the consequences; and somehow he always got away with it. It just made life a little tense for the people with him.
