by Ken Follett
There was no sign of the Dirty Team.
Boulware felt angry. He had broken his neck to get here more or less on time: where the hell was Simons?
A guard came out of one of the huts and approached him, saying: "Are you looking for the Americans?"
Boulware was surprised. The whole thing was supposed to be top secret. It looked like security had gone all to hell. "Yes," he said. "I'm looking for the Americans."
"There's a phone call for you."
Boulware was even more surprised. "No kidding!" The timing was phenomenal. Who the hell knew he was here?
He followed the guard into the hut and picked up the phone. "Yes?"
"This is the American Consulate," said the voice. "What's your name?"
"Uh, what is this about?" Boulware said warily.
"Look, would you just tell me what you're doing there?"
"I don't know who you are and I'm not going to tell you what I'm doing."
"Okay, listen, I know who you are and I know what you're doing. If you have any problems, call me. Got a pencil?"
Boulware took down the number, thanked the man, and hung up, mystified. An hour ago I didn't know I was going to be here, he thought, so how could anyone else? Least of all the American Consulate. He thought again about Ilsman. Maybe Ilsman was in touch with his bosses, the Turkish MIT, who were in touch with the CIA, who were in touch with the Consulate. Ilsman could have asked somebody to make a call for him in Van, or even at the police station in Yuksekova.
He wondered whether it was good or bad that the Consulate knew what was happening. He recalled the "help" Paul and Bill had got from the U.S. Embassy in Tehran: with friends in the State Department a man had no need of enemies.
He pushed the Consulate to the back of his mind. The main problem now was, where was the Dirty Team?
He went back outside and looked across no-man's-land He decided to stroll across and talk to the Iranians. He called to Ilsman and Charlie Brown to come with him.
As he approached the Iranian side he could see that the frontier guards were not in uniform. Presumably they were revolutionaries who had taken over when the government fell.
He said to Charlie: "Ask them if they've heard anything about some American businessmen coming out in two jeeps."
Charlie did not need to translate the reply: the Iranians shook their heads vigorously.
An inquisitive tribesman, with a ragged headband and an ancient rifle, came up on the Iranian side. There was an exchange of some length; then Charlie said: "This man says he knows where the Americans are and he will take you to them if you pay."
Boulware wanted to know how much, but Ilsman did not want him to accept the offer at any price. Ilsman spoke forcefully to Charlie, and Charlie translated. "You're wearing a leather coat and leather gloves and a fine wristwatch."
Boulware, who was into watches, was wearing one Mary had given him when they got married. "So?"
"With clothes like that they think you're SAVAK. They hate SAVAK over there."
"I'll change my clothes. I have another coat in the car."
"No," Charlie said. "You have to understand. They just want to get you over there and blow your head off."
"All right," Boulware said.
They walked back to the Turkish side. Since there was a post office so conveniently nearby, he decided to call Istanbul and check in with Ross Perot. He went into the post office. He had to sign his name. The call would take some time to place, the clerk told him.
Boulware went back outside. The Turkish border guards were now getting edgy, Charlie told him. Some of the Iranians had wandered back with them, and the guards did not like people milling around in no-man's-land: it was disorderly.
Boulware thought: Well, I'm doing no good here.
He said: "Would these guys call us, if the team comes across while we're back in Yuksekova?"
Charlie asked them. The guards agreed. There was a hotel in the village, they said; they would call there.
Boulware, Ilsman, Charlie, and the two sons of Mr. Fish's cousin got into the two cars and drove back to Yuksekova.
There they checked into the worst hotel in the whole world. It had dirt floors. The bathroom was a hole in the ground under the stairs. All the beds were in one room. Charlie Brown ordered food, and it came wrapped in newspaper.
Boulware was not sure he had made the right decision in leaving the border station. So many things could go wrong: the guards might not phone as they had promised. He decided to accept the offer of help from the American Consulate, and ask them to seek permission for him to stay at the border station. He called the number he had been given on the hotel's single ancient windup telephone. He got through, but the line was bad, and both parties had trouble making themselves understood. Eventually the man at the other end said something about calling back, and hung up.
Boulware stood by the fire, fretting. After a while he lost patience, and decided to return to the border without permission.
On the way they had a flat tire.
They all stood in the road while the sons changed the wheel. Ilsman appeared nervous. Charlie explained: "He says this is a very dangerous place--the people are all murderers and bandits."
Boulware was skeptical. Ilsman had agreed to do all this for a flat fee of eight thousand dollars, and Boulware now suspected the fat man was getting ready to up his price. "Ask him how many people were killed on this road last month," Boulware told Charlie.
He watched Ilsman' face as he replied. Charlie translated : "Thirty-nine."
Ilsman looked serious. Boulware thought: Shit, this guy's telling the goddam truth. He looked around. Mountains, snow... He shivered.
3_______
In Rezaiyeh, Rashid took one of the Range Rovers and drove from the hotel back to the school that had been turned into revolutionary headquarters.
He wondered whether the deputy leader had called Tehran. Coburn had been unable to get a line the previous night: would the revolutionary leadership have the same problem? Rashid thought they probably would. Now, if the deputy could not get through, what would he want to do? He had only two options: hold the Americans, or let them go without checking. The man might feel foolish about letting them go without checking: he might not want Rashid to know that things were so loosely organized here. Rashid decided to act as if he assumed the call had been made and verification completed.
He went into the courtyard. The deputy leader was there, leaning against a Mercedes. Rashid started talking to him about the problem of bringing six thousand Americans through the town on the way to the border. How many people could be accommodated overnight in Rezaiyeh? What facilities were there at the Sero border station for processing them? He emphasized that the Ayatollah Khomeini had given instructions for Americans to be well treated as they left Iran, for the new government did not want to quarrel with the U.S.A. He got onto the subject of documentation: perhaps the Rezaiyeh committee should issue passes to the Americans authorizing them to go through Sero. He, Rashid, would certainly need such a pass today, to take these six Americans through. He suggested the deputy and he should go into the school and draft a pass.
The deputy agreed.
They went into the library.
Rashid found paper and pen and gave them to the deputy.
"What should we write?" said Rashid. "Probably we should say, the person who carries this letter can take six Americans through Sero. No, say Barzagan or Sero, in case Sero is closed."
The deputy wrote.
"Maybe we should say, um: It is expected that all guards will give their best cooperation and assistance, they are fully inspected and identified, and if necessary escort them."
The deputy wrote it down.
Then he signed his name.
Rashid said: "Maybe we should put, Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee."
The deputy did so.
Rashid looked at the document. It seemed somehow inadequate, improvised. It needed something to make it look o
fficial. He found a rubber stamp and an inking pad, and stamped the letter. Then he read what the stamp said: "Library of the School of Religion, Rezaiyeh. Founded 1344."
Rashid put the document in his pocket.
"We should probably print six thousand of these, so they can just be signed," he said.
The deputy nodded.
"We can talk some more about these arrangements tomorrow," Rashid went on. "I'd like to go to Sero now, to discuss the problem with the border officials there."
"Okay."
Rashid walked away.
Nothing was impossible.
He got into the Range Rover. It was a good idea to go to the border, he decided: he could find out what the problems might be before making the trip with the Americans.
On the outskirts of Rezaiyeh was a roadblock manned by teenage boys with rifles. They gave Rashid no trouble, but he worried about how they might react to six Americans: the kids were evidently itching to use their guns.
After that the road was clear. It was a dirt road, but smooth enough, and he made good speed. He picked up a hitchhiker and asked him about crossing the border on horseback. No problem, said the hitchhiker. It could be done, and as it happened, his brother had horses ...
Rashid did the forty-mile journey in a little over an hour. He pulled up at the border station in his Range Rover. The guards were suspicious of him. He showed them the pass written by the deputy leader. The guards called Rezaiyeh and--they said--spoke to the deputy, who vouched for Rashid.
He stood looking across to Turkey. It was a pleasant sight. They had all been through a lot of anguish just to walk across there. For Paul and Bill it would mean freedom, home, and family. For all the EDS men it would be the end of a nightmare. For Rashid it meant something else: America.
He understood the psychology of EDS executives. They had a strong sense of obligation. If you helped them, they liked to show their appreciation, to keep the books balanced. He knew he only had to ask, and they would take him with them to the land of his dreams.
The border station was under the control of the village of Sero, just half a mile away down a mountain track. Rashid decided he would go and see the village chief, to establish a friendly relationship and smooth the way for later.
He was about to turn away when two cars drove up on the Turkish side. A tall black man in a leather coat got out of the first car and came to the chain on the edge of no-man's -land.
Rashid's heart leaped, He knew that man! He started waving and yelled: "Ralph! Ralph Boulware! Hey, Ralph!"
4______
Thursday morning found Glenn Jackson--hunter. Baptist, and Rocket Man--in the skies over Tehran in a chartered jet.
Jackson had stayed in Kuwait after reporting on the possibility of Paul and Bill coming out of Iran that way. On Sunday, the day Paul and Bill got out of jail, Simons had sent orders, via Merv Stauffer, that Jackson was to go to Amman, Jordan, and there try to charter a plane to fly into Iran.
Jackson had reached Amman on Monday and had gone to work straightaway. He knew that Perot had flown into Tehran from Amman on a chartered jet of Arab Wings. He also knew that the president of Arab Wings, Akel Biltaji, had been helpful, allowing Perot to go in with NBC's television tapes as a cover. Now Jackson contacted Biltaji and asked for his help again.
He told Biltaji that EDS had two men in Iran who had to be brought out. He invented false names for Paul and Bill. Even though Tehran Airport was closed, Jackson wanted to fly in and try to land. Biltaji was willing to give it a try.
However, on Wednesday Stauffer--on Simons's instructions--changed Jackson's orders. Now his mission was to check on the Clean Team: the Dirty Team was no longer in Tehran, as far as Dallas knew.
On Thursday Jackson took off from Amman and headed east.
As they came down toward the bowl in the mountains where Tehran nestled, two aircraft took off from the city.
The planes came closer, and Jackson saw that they were fighter jets of the Iranian Air Force.
He wondered what would happen next.
His pilot's radio came to life with a burst of static. As the fighters circled, the pilot talked: Jackson could not understand the conversation, but he was glad the Iranians were talking rather than shooting.
The discussion went on. The pilot seemed to be arguing. Eventually he turned to Jackson and said: "We have to go back. They won't let us land."
"What will they do if we land anyway?"
"Shoot us down."
"Okay," said Jackson. "We'll try again this afternoon."
On Thursday morning in Istanbul, an English-language newspaper was delivered to Perot's suite at the Sheraton.
He picked it up and eagerly read the front-page story about yesterday's takeover of the American Embassy in Tehran. None of the Clean Team was mentioned, he was relieved to see. The only injury had been suffered by a marine sergeant, Kenneth Krause. However, Krause was not getting the medical attention he needed, according to the newspaper.
Perot called John Carlen, the captain of the Boeing 707, and asked him to come to the suite. He showed Carlen the newspaper and said: "How would you feel about flying into Tehran tonight and picking up the wounded marine?"
Carlen, a laid-back Californian with graying hair and a tan, was very cool. "We can do that," he said.
Perot was surprised that Carlen did not even hesitate. He would have to fly through the mountains at night with no air-traffic control to help him, and land at a closed airport. "Don't you want to talk to the rest of the crew?" Perot asked.
"No, they'll want to do it. The people who own the airplane will go bananas."
"Don't tell them. I'll be responsible."
"I'll need to know exactly where that marine is going to be," Carlen went on. "The Embassy will have to get him to the airport. I know a lot of people at that airport--I can talk my way in, bending the rules a little bit, and either talk my way out again or just take off."
Perot thought: And the Clean Team will be the stretcher bearers.
He called Dallas and reached Sally Walther, his secretary. He asked her to patch him through to General Wilson, commandant of the Marine Corps. He and Wilson were friends.
Wilson came on the line.
"I'm in Turkey on business," Perot told him. "I've just read about Sergeant Krause. I have a plane here. If the Embassy can get Krause to the airport, we will fly in tonight and pick him up and see he gets proper medical care."
"All right," said Wilson. "If he's dying I want you to pick him up. If not, I won't risk your crew. I'll get back to you."
Perot got Sally back on the line. There was more bad news. A press officer in the State Department's Iran Task Force had talked to Robert Dudney, Washington correspondent for the Dallas Times-Herald,and revealed that Paul and Bill were on their way out overland.
Perot cursed the State Department yet again. If Dudney published the story, and the news reached Tehran, Dadgar would surely intensify border security.
The seventh floor in Dallas blamed Perot for all this. He had leveled with the Consul, who had come to see him the night before, and they believed the leak started with the Consul. They were now frantically trying to get the story killed, but the newspaper was making no promises.
General Wilson called back. Sergeant Krause was not dying: Perot's help was not required.
Perot forgot about Krause and concentrated on his own problems.
The Consul called him. He had tried his best, but he could not help Perot buy or rent a small aircraft. It was possible to charter a plane to go from one airport to another within Turkey, but that was all.
Perot said nothing to him about the press leak.
He called in Dick Douglas and Julian "Scratch" Kanauch, the two spare pilots he had brought specifically to fly small aircraft into Iran, and told them he had failed to find any such aircraft.
"Don't worry," said Douglas. "We'll get an airplane."
"How?"
"Don't ask."
"No, I want
to know how."
"I've operated in eastern Turkey. I know where there are planes. If you need 'em, we'll steal 'em."
"Have you thought this through?" said Perot.
"You think it through," Douglas said. "If we get shot down over Iran, what difference does it make that we stole the plane? If we don't get shot down, we can put the planes back where we got them. Even if they have a few holes in them, we'll be out of the area before anybody knows. What else is there to think about?"
"That settles it," said Perot. "We're going."
He sent John Carlen and Ron Davis to the airport to file a flight plan to Van, the nearest airport to the border.
Davis called from the airport to say that the 707 could not land at Van: it was a Turkish-language-only airport, so no foreign planes were allowed to land except U.S. military planes carrying interpreters.
Perot called Mr. Fish and asked him to arrange to fly the team to Van. Mr. Fish called back a few minutes later to say it was all fixed. He would go with the team as guide. Perot was surprised: until now, Mr. Fish had been adamant that he would not go to eastern Turkey. Perhaps he had become infected by the spirit of adventure.
However, Perot himself would have to stay behind. He was the hub of the wheel: he had to stay in telephone contact with the outside world, to receive reports from Boulware, from Dallas, from the Clean Team, and from the Dirty Team. If the 707 had been able to land at Van, Perot could have gone, for the plane's single-sideband radio enabled him to make phone calls all over the world; but without that radio he would be out of touch in eastern Turkey, and there would be no link between the fugitives in Iran and the people who were coming to meet them.
So he sent Pat Sculley, Jim Schwebach, Ron Davis, Mr. Fish, and the pilots Dick Douglas and Julian Kanauch to Van; and he appointed Pat Sculley leader of the Turkish Rescue Team.
When they had gone he was dead in the water again. They were just another bunch of his men off doing dangerous things in dangerous places. He could only sit and wait for news.
He spent a lot of time thinking about John Carlen and the crew of the Boeing 707. He had only known them for a few days: they were ordinary Americans. Yet Carlen had been prepared to risk his life to fly into Tehran and pick up a wounded marine. As Simons would say: This is what Americans are supposed to do for one another. It made Perot feel pretty good, despite everything.
