by Ken Follett
Jay Coburn watched Rashid come out of the hut with the man in the long black overcoat. Rashid looked really shook.
"We're going to their village to be checked out," Rashid said. "We have to go in their cars."
It was looking bad, Coburn thought. All the other times they had been arrested, they had been allowed to stay in the Range Rovers, which made them feel a little less like prisoners. Getting out of the cars was like losing touch with base.
Also, Rashid had never looked so frightened.
They all got into the tribesmen's vehicles, a pickup truck and a battered little station wagon. They were driven along a dirt track through the mountains. The Range Rovers followed, driven by tribesmen. The track twisted away into darkness. Well, shit, this is it, Coburn thought; nobody will ever hear from us again.
After three or four miles they came to the village. There was one brick building with a courtyard: the rest were mud-brick huts with thatched roofs. But in the courtyard were six or seven fine jeeps. Coburn said: "Jesus, these people live by stealing cars." Two Range Rovers would make a nice addition to their collection, he thought.
The two vehicles containing the Americans were parked in the courtyard; then the Range Rovers; then two more jeeps, blocking the exit and precluding a quick getaway.
They all got out.
The man in the overcoat said: "You need not be afraid. We just need to talk with you awhile; then you can go on." He went into the brick building.
"He's lying!" Rashid hissed.
They were herded into the building and told to take off their shoes. The tribesmen were fascinated by Keane Taylor's cowboy boots: one of them picked up the boots and inspected them, then passed them around for everyone to see.
The Americans were led into a big, bare room, with a Persian rug on the floor and bundles of rolled-up bedding pushed against the walls. It was dimly lit by some kind of lantern. They sat in a circle, surrounded by tribesmen with rifles.
On trial again, just like Mahabad, Coburn thought.
He kept an eye on Simons.
In came the biggest, ugliest mullah they had ever seen; and the interrogation began again.
Rashid did the talking, in a mixture of Farsi, Turkish, and English. He produced the letter from the library again, and gave the name of the deputy leader. Someone went off to check with the committee in Rezaiyeh. Coburn wondered how they would do that: the oil lamp indicated there was no electricity here, so how could they have phones? All the passports were examined again. People kept coming in and going out.
What if they have got a phone? wondered Coburn. And what if the committee in Rezaiyeh has heard from Dadgar?
We might be better off if they do check us out, he thought; at least that way somebody knows we're here. At the moment we could be killed, our bodies would disappear without a trace in the snow, and nobody would ever know we had been here.
A tribesman came in, handed the library letter to Rashid, and spoke to the mullah.
"It's okay," Rashid said. "We've been cleared."
Suddenly the whole atmosphere changed.
The ugly mullah turned into the Jolly Green Giant and shook hands with everyone. "He welcomes you to his village," Rashid translated. Tea was brought. Rashid said: "We are invited to be the guests of the village for the night."
Simons said: "Tell him definitely no. Our friends are waiting for us at the border."
A small boy of about ten years appeared. In an effort to cement the new friendship, Keane Taylor took out a photograph of his son Michael, aged eleven, and showed it to the tribesmen. They got very excited, and Rashid said: "They want to have their pictures taken."
Gayden said: "Keane, get out your camera."
"I'm out of film," said Taylor.
"Keane, get out your fucking camera."
Taylor took out his camera. In fact, he had three shots left, but he had no flash, and would have needed a camera far more sophisticated than his Instamatic to take pictures by the light of the lantern. But the tribesmen lined up, waving their rifles in the air, and Taylor had no option but to snap them.
It was incredible. Five minutes earlier these people had seemed ready to murder the Americans: now they were horsing around, hooting and hollering and having a good time.
They could probably change again just as quickly.
Taylor's sense of humor took over and he started hamming it up, making like a press photographer, telling the tribesmen to smile or move closer together so he could get them all in, "taking" dozens of shots.
More tea was brought. Coburn groaned inwardly. He had drunk so much tea in the last few days that he felt awash with it. He surreptitiously poured his out, making an ugly brown stain on the gorgeous rug.
Simons said to Rashid: "Tell them we have to go."
There was a short exchange; then Rashid said: "We must drink tea once more."
"No," said Simons decisively, and he stood up. "Let's move." Smiling calmly, nodding and bowing to the tribesmen, Simons started giving very sharp commands in a voice that belied his courteous demeanor: "On your feet, everybody. Get your shoes on. Come on, let's get out of here, let's go."
They all got up. Every man in the tribe wanted to shake hands with every one of the visitors. Simons kept herding them toward the door. They found their shoes and put them on, still bowing and shaking hands. At last they got outside and climbed into the Range Rovers. There was a wait, while the villagers maneuvered the two jeeps blocking the exit. At last they moved off, following the same two jeeps along the mountain track.
They were still alive, still free, still moving.
The tribesmen took them to the bridge, then said goodbye.
Rashid said: "But aren't you going to escort us to the border?"
"No," one of them replied. "Our territory ends at the bridge. The other side belongs to Sero."
The man in the long black overcoat shook hands with everyone in both Range Rovers. "Don't forget to send us the pictures," he said to Taylor.
"You bet," said Taylor with a straight face.
The chain across the bridge was down. The two Range Rovers drove to the far side and accelerated up the road.
"I hope we don't have the same trouble at the next village," said Rashid. "I saw the head man this afternoon and arranged everything with him."
The Range Rover built up speed.
"Slow down," said Simons.
"No, we must hurry."
They were a mile or so from the border.
Simons said: "Slow the goddam jeep down. I don't want to get killed at this point in the game."
They were driving past what looked like a filling station. There was a little hut with a light on inside. Suddenly Taylor yelled: "Stop! Stop!"
Simons said: "Rashid--"
In the following car Paul honked and flashed his headlights.
Out of the corner of his eye Rashid saw two men running out from the filling station, locking and loading their rifles as they ran.
He stood on the brake.
The car screeched to a halt. Paul had already stopped, right by the gas station. Rashid backed up and jumped out.
The two men pointed their rifles at him.
Here we go again, he thought.
He went into his routine, but they weren't interested. One of them got into each car. Rashid climbed back into the driving seat.
"Drive on," he was told.
A minute later they were at the foot of the hill leading to the border. They could see the lights of the frontier station up above. Rashid's captor said: "Turn right."
"No," said Rashid. "We've been cleared to the border and--"
The man raised his rifle and thumbed the safety.
Rashid stopped the car. "Listen, I came to your village this afternoon and got permission to pass--"
"Go down there."
They were less than half a mile from Turkey and freedom. There were seven of the Dirty Team against two guards. It was tempting...
A jeep came tearing do
wn the hill from the border station and skidded to a stop in front of the Range Rover. An excited young man jumped out, carrying a pistol, and ran over to Rashid's window.
Rashid wound down the window and said: "I'm under orders from the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee--"
The excited young man pointed his pistol at Rashid's head. "Go down the track!" he screamed.
Rashid gave in.
They drove along the track. It was even narrower than the last. The village was less than a mile away. When they arrived, Rashid jumped out of the car, saying: "Stay here--I'll deal with this."
Several men came out of the huts to see what was going on. They looked even more like bandits than the inhabitants of the last village. Rashid said loudly: "Where is the head man?"
"Not here," someone replied.
"Then fetch him. I spoke to him this afternoon--I am a friend of his--I have permission from him to cross the border with these Americans."
"Why are you with Americans?" someone asked.
"I am under orders from the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee--"
Suddenly, out of nowhere, appeared the head man of the village, to whom Rashid had spoken in the afternoon. He came up and kissed Rashid on both cheeks.
In the second Range Rover, Gayden said: "Hey, it's looking good!"
"Thank God for that," said Coburn. "I couldn't drink any more tea to save my life."
The man who had kissed Rashid came over. He was wearing a heavy Afghan coat. He leaned through the car window and shook hands with everyone.
Rashid and the two guards got back into the cars.
A few minutes later they were climbing the hill to the frontier station.
Paul, driving the second car, suddenly thought about Dadgar again. Four hours ago, in Rezaiyeh, it had seemed sensible to abandon the idea of crossing the border on horseback, avoiding the road and the station. Now he was not so sure. Dadgar might have sent pictures of Paul and Bill to every airport, seaport, and border crossing. Even if there were no government people here, the photographs might be stuck up on a wall somewhere. The Iranians seemed to be glad of any excuse to detain Americans and question them. All along EDS had underestimated Dadgar...
The frontier station was brightly lit by high neon lamps. The two cars drove slowly along, past the buildings, and stopped where a chain across the road marked the limit of Iranian territory.
Rashid got out.
He spoke to the guards at the station, then came back and said: "They don't have a key to unloosen the chain."
They all got out.
Simons said to Rashid: "Go over to the Turkish side and see if Boulware's there."
Rashid disappeared.
Simons lifted the chain. It would not go high enough to let a Range Rover pass underneath.
Somebody found a few planks and leaned them on the chain, to see whether the cars could be driven over the chain on the planks. Simons shook his head: it was not going to work.
He turned to Coburn. "Is there a hacksaw in the tool kit?"
Coburn went back to the car.
Paul and Gayden lit cigarettes. Gayden said: "You need to decide what you want to do with that passport."
"What do you mean?"
"Under American law there's a ten-thousand-dollar fine and a jail term for using a false passport. I'll pay the fine, but you'll have to serve the jail term."
Paul considered. So far he had broken no laws. He had shown his false passport, but only to bandits and revolutionaries, who had no real right to demand passports anyway. It would be kind of nice to stay on the right side of the law.
"That's right," said Simons. "Once we're out of this goddam country we break no laws. I don't want to have to get you out of a Turkish jail."
Paul gave the passport to Gayden. Bill did the same. Gayden gave the passports to Taylor, who put them down the sides of his cowboy boots.
Coburn came back with a hacksaw. Simons took it from him and started sawing the chain.
The Iranian guards rushed over and started yelling at him.
Simons stopped.
Rashid came back from the Turkish side, trailing a couple of guards and an officer. He spoke to the Iranians, then told Simons: "You can't cut the chain. They say we must wait until morning. Also, the Turks don't want us to cross tonight."
Simons muttered to Paul: "You may be about to get sick."
"What do you mean?"
"If I tell you so, just get sick, okay?"
Paul saw what Simons was thinking: the Turkish guards wanted to sleep, not spend the night with a crowd of Americans, but if one of the Americans was in urgent need of hospital treatment they could hardly turn him away.
The Turks went back over to their own side.
"What do we do now?" Coburn said.
"Wait," said Simons.
All but two of the Iranian guards went into their guardhouse : it was bitterly cold.
"Make like we're prepared to wait all night," said Simons.
The other two guards drifted off.
"Gayden, Taylor," Simons said. "Go in there and offer the guards money to take care of our cars."
"Take care of them?" Taylor said incredulously. "They'll just steal them."
"That's right," said Simons. "They'll be able to steal them--if they let us go."
Taylor and Gayden went into the guardhouse.
"This is it," said Simons. "Coburn, get Paul and Bill and just walk across there."
"Let's go, you guys," said Coburn.
Paul and Bill stepped over the chain and started walking. Coburn stayed close behind them. "Just keep walking, regardless of anything else that might happen," Coburn said. "If you hear yelling, or gunfire, you run, but under no circumstances do we stop or go back."
Simons came up behind them. "Walk faster," he said. "I don't want you two getting shot out here in the bloody middle of nowhere."
They could hear some kind of argument beginning back on the Iranian side.
Coburn said: "Y'all don't turn round, just go."
Back on the Iranian side, Taylor was holding out a fistful of money to two guards who were glancing first at the four men walking across the border and then at the two Range Rovers, worth at least twenty thousand dollars each...
Rashid was saying: "We don't know when we'll be able to come back for these cars--it could be a long time--"
One of the guards said: "You were all to stay here until the morning--"
"The cars are really very valuable, and they must be looked after--"
The guards looked from the cars to the people walking across to Turkey, and back to the cars again, and they hesitated too long.
Paul and Bill reached the Turkish side and walked into the guard hut.
Bill looked at his wristwatch. It was eleven forty-five P.M. on Thursday, February 15, the day after Valentine's Day. On February 15, 1960, he had slipped an engagement ring on Emily's finger. The same day six years later Jackie had been born--today was her thirteenth birthday. Bill thought: Here's your present, Jackie--you still have a father.
Coburn followed them into the hut.
Paul put his arm around Coburn and said: "Jay, you just hit a home run."
Back on the Iranian side, the guards saw that half the Americans were already in Turkey, and they decided to quit while they were ahead and take the money and the cars.
Rashid, Gayden, and Taylor walked up to the chain.
At the chain Gayden stopped. "Go ahead," he said. "I want to be the last guy out of here."
And he was.
2_____
At the hotel in Yuksekova, they sat around a smoky pot-bellied stove: Ralph Boulware; Ilsman, the fat secret agent; Charlie Brown, the interpreter; and the two sons of Mr. Fish's cousin. They were waiting for a call from the border station. Dinner was served: some kind of meat, maybe lamb, wrapped in newspapers.
Ilsman said he had seen someone taking photographs of Rashid and Boulware at the border. With Charlie Brown translating, Ilsman said
: "If you ever have a problem about those photographs, I can solve it."
Boulware wondered what he meant.
Charlie said: "He believes you are an honest man, and what you are doing is noble."
It was kind of a sinister offer, Boulware felt; like a Mafioso telling you that you are his friend.
By midnight there was still no word either from the Dirty Team or from Pat Sculley and Mr. Fish, who were supposed to be on their way here with a bus. Boulware decided to go to bed. He always drank water at bedtime. There was a pitcher of water on a table. Hell, he thought, I haven't died yet. He took a drink, and found himself swallowing something solid. Oh, God, he thought; what was that? He made himself forget about it.
He was just getting into bed when a boy called him to the phone.
It was Rashid.
"Hey, Ralph?"
"Yes."
"We're at the border!"
"I'll be right there."
He rounded up the others and paid the hotel bill. With the sons of Mr. Fish's cousin driving, they headed down the road where--as Ilsman kept saying--thirty-nine people had been killed by bandits the previous month. On the way they had yet another flat tire. The sons had to change the wheel in the dark, because the batteries in their flashlight had gone dead. Boulware did not know whether to be frightened, standing there in the road, waiting. Ilsman could still be a liar, a confidence trickster. On the other hand, his credentials had protected them all. If the Turkish secret service was like Turkish hotels, hell, Ilsman could be their answer to James Bond.
The wheel was changed and the cars moved off again.
They drove through the night. It's going to be all right, Boulware thought. Paul and Bill are at the border, Sculley and Mr. Fish are on their way here with a bus, Perot is in Istanbul alone. We're going to make it.
He reached the border. Lights were on in the guard huts. He jumped out of the car and ran inside.
A great cheer went up.
There they all were: Paul and Bill, Coburn, Simons, Taylor, Gayden, and Rashid.
Boulware shook hands warmly with Paul and Bill.
They all started picking up their coats and bags. "Hey, hey, wait a minute," Boulware said. "Mr. Fish is on the way with a bus." He took from his pocket a bottle of Chivas Regal he had been saving for this moment. "But we can all have a drink!"
They all had a celebratory drink except Rashid, who did not take alcohol. Simons got Boulware in a corner. "All right, what's happening?"
"I talked to Ross this afternoon," Boulware told him. "Mr. Fish is on his way here, with Sculley, Schwebach, and Davis. They're in a bus. Now, we could all leave right now--the twelve of us could get into the two cars, just about--but I think we should wait for the bus. For one thing, we'll all be together, so nobody can get lost anymore. For another, the road out of here is supposed to be Blood Alley, you know--bandits and like that. I don't know whether that's been exaggerated, but they keep saying it, and I'm beginning to believe it. If it's a dangerous road, we'll be safer all together. And, number three, if we go to Yuksekova and wait for Mr. Fish there, we can't do anything but check into the worst hotel in the world, and attract questions and hassles from a new set of officials."
