by Ken Follett
So Coburn said goodbye to his friends and got on the plane, heading for chaos, violence, and revolution.
That same day, unknown to Simons and the rescue team, Ross Perot took British Airways flight 172 from New York to London. He, too, was on his way to Tehran.
The flight from Zurich to Tehran was all too short.
Coburn spent the time anxiously running over in his mind the things he had to do. He could not make a list: Simons would not allow anything to be written down.
His first job was to get through customs with the false-bottomed case. There were no guns in it: if the case was inspected and the secret compartment discovered, Coburn was to say that it was for carrying delicate photographic equipment.
Next he had to select some abandoned houses and apartments for Simons to consider as hideouts. Then he had to find cars and make sure there was a supply of gasoline for them.
His cover story, for the benefit of Keane Taylor, Rich Gallagher, and EDS's Iranian employees, was that he was arranging shipment of evacuees' personal belongings back to the States. Coburn had told Simons that Taylor ought to be let in on the secret: he would be a valuable asset to the rescue team. Simons had said he would make that decision himself, after meeting Taylor.
Coburn wondered how to hoodwink Taylor.
He was still wondering when the plane landed.
Inside the terminal all the airport staff were in army uniforms. That was how the airport had been kept open despite the strike, Coburn realized: the military was running it.
He picked up the suitcase with the false bottom and walked through customs. No one stopped him.
The arrivals hall was a zoo. The waiting crowds were more unruly than ever. The army was not running the airport on military lines.
He fought his way through the crowd to the cabstand. He skirted two men who appeared to be fighting over a taxi, and took the next in line.
Riding into town, he noticed a good deal of military hardware on the road, especially near the airport. There were many more tanks about than there had been when he left. Was that a sign that the Shah was still in control? In the press the Shah was still talking as if he were in control, but then so was Bakhtiar. So, for that matter, was the Ayatollah, who had just announced the formation of a Council of the Islamic Revolution to take over the government, just as if he were already in power in Tehran instead of sitting in a villa outside Paris at the end of a telephone line. In truth, nobody was in charge; and while that hindered the negotiations for the release of Paul and Bill, it would probably help the rescue team.
The cab took him to the office they called Bucharest, where he found Keane Taylor. Taylor was in charge now, for Lloyd Briggs had gone to New York to brief EDS's lawyers in person. Taylor was sitting at Paul Chiapparone's desk, in an immaculate vested suit, just as if he were a million miles away from the nearest revolution instead of in the middle of it. He was astonished to see Coburn.
"Jay! When the hell did you get here?"
"Just arrived," Coburn said.
"What's with the beard--you trying to get yourself fired?"
"I thought it might make me look less American here."
"Did you ever see an Iranian with a ginger beard?"
"No," Coburn laughed.
"So, what are you here for?"
"Well, we're obviously not going to bring our people back in here in the foreseeable future, so I've come to police up everyone's personal belongings to get them shipped back to the States."
Taylor shot him a funny look but did not comment. "Where are you going to stay? We've all moved into the Hyatt Crown Regency, it's safer."
"How about I use your old house?"
"Whatever you say."
"Now, about these belongings. Do you have those envelopes everyone left, with their house keys and car keys and instructions for disposal of their household goods?"
"I sure do--I've been referring to them. Everything people don't want shipped I've been selling--washers and dryers, refrigerators. I'm running a permanent garage sale here."
"Can I have the envelopes?"
"Sure."
"How's the car situation?"
"We've rounded up most of them. I've got them parked at a school, with some Iranians watching them, if they're not selling them."
"What about gas?"
"Rich got four fifty-five-gallon drums from the air force and we've got them full down in the basement."
"I thought I smelled gas when I came in."
"Don't strike a match down there in the dark--we'll all be blown to hell."
"What do you do about topping up the drums?"
"We use a couple of cars as tankers--a Buick and a Chevy, with big U.S. gas tanks. Two of our drivers spend all day waiting in gas lines. When they get filled up, they come back here and we siphon the gas into the drums, then send the cars back to the filling station. Sometimes you can buy gas from the front of the line. Grab someone who's just got filled up and offer him ten times the pump price for the gas in his car. There's a whole economy grown up around the gas lines."
"What about fuel oil for the houses, for heating?"
"I've got a source, but he charges me ten times the old price. I'm spending money like a drunken sailor here."
"I'm going to need twelve cars."
"Twelve cars, huh, Jay?"
"That's what I said."
"You'll have room to stash them, at my house--it's got a big walled courtyard. Would you ... for any reason ... like to be able to get the cars refueled without any of the Iranian employees seeing you?"
"I sure would."
"Just bring an empty car to the Hyatt and I'll swap it for a full one."
"How many Iranians do we still have?"
"Ten of the best, plus four drivers."
"I'd like a list of their names."
"Did you know Ross is on his way in?"
"Shit, no!" Coburn was astonished.
"I just got word. He's bringing Bob Young, from Kuwait, to take over this administrative stuff from me, and John Howell to work on the legal side. They want me to work with John, on the negotiations and bail."
"Is that a fact?" Coburn wondered what was on Perot's mind. "Okay, I'm taking off for your place."
"Jay, why don't you tell me what's up?"
"There's nothing I can tell you."
"Screw you, Coburn. I want to know what's going down."
"You got all I'm going to tell you."
"Screw you again. Wait till you see what cars you get--you'll be lucky if they have steering wheels."
"Sorry."
"Jay ..."
"Yeah?"
"That's the funniest looking suitcase I've ever seen."
"So it is, so it is."
"I know what you're up to, Coburn."
Coburn sighed. "Let's go for a walk."
They went out into the street, and Coburn told Taylor about the rescue team.
The next day Coburn and Taylor went to work on hideouts.
Taylor's house, Number 2 Aftab Street, was ideal. Conveniently close to the Hyatt for switching cars, it was also in the Armenian section of the city, which might be less hostile to Americans if the rioting got worse. It had a working phone and a supply of heating oil. The walled courtyard was big enough to park six cars, and there was a back entrance that could be used as an escape route if a squad of police came to the front door. And the landlord did not live on the premises.
Using the street map of Tehran on the wall of Coburn's office--which had, since the evacuation, been marked with the location of every EDS home in the city--they picked three more empty houses as alternative hideouts.
During the day, as Taylor got the cars gassed up, Coburn drove them one by one from Bucharest to the houses, parking three cars at each of the four locations.
Looking again at his wall map, he tried to recall which of the wives had worked for the American military, for the families with commissary privileges always had the best food. He listed eight likely prospec
ts. Tomorrow he would visit them and pick up canned and dried food and bottled drinks for the hideouts.
He selected a fifth apartment, but did not visit it. It was to be a safe house, a hideout for a serious emergency: no one would go there until it had to be used.
That evening, alone in Taylor's apartment, he called Dallas and asked for Merv Stauffer.
Stauffer was cheerful, as always. "Hi, Jay! How are you?"
"Fine."
"I'm glad you called, because I have a message for you. Got a pencil?"
"Sure do."
"Okay. Honky Keith Goofball Zero Honky Dummy--"
"Merv," Coburn interrupted.
"Yeah?"
"What the hell are you talking about, Merv?"
"It's the code, Jay."
"What is Honky Keith Goofball?"
"H for Honky, K for Keith--"
"Merv, H is Hotel, K is Kilo ..."
"Oh!" said Stauffer. "Oh, I didn't realize you were supposed to use certain particular words ..."
Coburn started to laugh. "Listen," he said. "Get someone to give you the military alphabet before next time."
Stauffer was laughing at himself. "I sure will," he said. "I guess we'll have to make do with my own version this time, though."
"Okay, off you go."
Coburn took down the coded message, then--still using the code--he gave Stauffer his location and phone number. After hanging up, he decoded the message Stauffer had given him.
It was good news. Simons and Joe Poche were arriving in Tehran the next day.
2____
By January 11--the day Coburn arrived in Tehran and Perot flew to London--Paul and Bill had been in jail exactly two weeks.
In that time they had showered once. When the guards learned that there was hot water, they gave each cell five minutes in the showers. Modesty was forgotten as the men crowded into the cubicles for the luxury of being warm and clean for a while. They washed not only themselves but all their clothes as well.
After a week the jail had run out of bottled gas for cooking, so the food, as well as being starchy and short on vegetables, was now cold. Fortunately they were allowed to supplement the diet with oranges, apples, and nuts brought in by visitors.
Most evenings the electricity was off for an hour or two, and then the prisoners would light candles or flashlights. The jail was full of deputy ministers, government contractors, and Tehran businessmen. Two members of the Empress's court were in Cell Number 5 with Paul and Bill. The latest arrival in their cell was Dr. Siazi, who had worked at the Ministry of Health under Dr. Sheik as manager of a department called Rehabilitation. Siazi was a psychiatrist, and he used his knowledge of the human mind to boost morale among his fellow prisoners. He was forever dreaming up games and diversions to enliven the dreary routine: he instituted a suppertime ritual whereby everyone in the cell had to tell a joke before they could eat. When he learned the amount of Paul's and Bill's bail he assured them they would have a visit from Farrah Fawcett Majors, whose husband was a mere Six Million Dollar Man.
Paul developed a curiously strong relationship with the "father" of the cell, the longest resident, who by tradition was cell boss. A small man in late middle age, he did what little he could to help the Americans, encouraging them to eat and bribing the guards for little extras for them. He knew only a dozen or so words of English, and Paul spoke little Farsi, but they managed halting conversations. Paul learned that he had been a prominent businessman, owning a construction company and a London hotel. Paul showed him the photographs that Taylor had brought in of Karen and Ann Marie, and the old man learned their names. For all Paul knew, he might have been as guilty as hell of whatever he was accused of; but the concern and warmth he displayed toward the foreigners was enormously heartening.
Paul was also touched by the bravery of his EDS colleagues in Tehran. Lloyd Briggs, who had now gone to New York; Rich Gallagher, who had never left; and Keane Taylor, who had come back; all risked their lives every time they drove through the riots to visit the jail. Each of them also faced the danger that Dadgar might take it into his head to seize them as additional hostages. Paul was particularly grateful when he heard that Bob Young was on his way in, for Bob's wife had a new baby, and this was an especially bad time for him to put himself in danger.
Paul had at first imagined he was going to be released any minute. Now he was telling himself he would get out any day.
One of their cellmates had been let out. He was Lucio Randone, an Italian builder employed by the construction company Condotti d'Acqua. Randone came back to visit, bringing two very large bars of Italian chocolate, and told Paul and Bill that he had talked to the Italian Ambassador in Tehran about them. The Ambassador had promised to see his American counterpart and reveal the secret of getting people out of jail.
But the biggest source of Paul's optimism was Dr. Ahmad Houman, the attorney Briggs had retained to replace the Iranian lawyers who had given bad advice on the bail. Houman had visited them during their first week in jail. They had sat in the jail's reception area--not, for some reason, in the visiting room in the low building across the courtyard--and Paul had feared that this would inhibit a frank lawyer-client discussion; but Houman was not intimidated by the presence of prison guards. "Dadgar is trying to make a name for himself," he had announced.
Could that be it? An overenthusiastic prosecutor trying to impress his superiors--or perhaps the revolutionaries--with his anti-American diligence?
"Dadgar's office is very powerful," Houman went on. "But in this case he is out on a limb. He did not have cause to arrest you, and the bail is exorbitant."
Paul began to feel good about Houman. He seemed knowledgeable and confident. "So what are you going to do?"
"My strategy will be to get the bail reduced."
"How?"
"First I will talk to Dadgar. I hope I will be able to make him see how outrageous the bail is. But if he remains intransigent, I will go to his superiors in the Ministry of Justice and persuade them to order him to reduce the bail."
"And how long do you expect that to take?"
"Perhaps a week."
It was taking more than a week, but Houman had made progress. He had come back to the jail to report that Dadgar's superiors at the Ministry of Justice had agreed to force Dadgar to back down and reduce the bail to a sum EDS could pay easily and swiftly out of funds currently in Iran. Exuding contempt for Dadgar and confidence in himself, he announced triumphantly that everything would be finalized at a second meeting between Paul and Bill and Dadgar on January 11.
Sure enough, that day Dadgar came to the jail in the afternoon. He wanted to see Paul alone first, as he had before. Paul was in fine spirits as the guard walked him across the courtyard. Dadgar was just an overenthusiastic prosecutor, he thought, and now he had been slapped down by his superiors and would have to eat humble pie.
Dadgar was waiting, with the same woman translator beside him. He nodded curtly, and Paul sat down, thinking: he doesn't look very humble.
Dadgar spoke in Farsi, and Mrs. Nourbash translated: "We are here to discuss the amount of your bail."
"Good," said Paul.
"Mr. Dadgar has received a letter on this subject from officials at the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare."
She began to translate the letter.
The Ministry officials were demanding that bail for the two Americans should be increased to twenty-three million dollars--almost double--to compensate for the Ministry's losses since EDS had switched off the computers.
It dawned on Paul that he was not going to be released today.
The letter was a put-up job. Dadgar had neatly outmaneuvered Dr. Houman. This meeting was nothing but a charade.
It made him mad.
To hell with being polite to this bastard, he thought.
When the letter had been read he said: "Now I have something to say, and I want you to translate every word. Is that clear?"
"Of course," said Mrs. Nourbash.
Paul spoke slowly and clearly. "You have now held me in jail for fourteen days. I have not been taken before a court. No charges have been brought against me. You have yet to produce a single piece of evidence implicating me in any crime whatsoever. You have not even specified what crime I might be accused of. Are you proud of Iranian justice?"
To Paul's surprise, the appeal seemed to melt Dadgar's icy gaze a little. "I am sorry," Dadgar said, "that you have to be the one to pay for the things your company has done wrong."
"No, no, no," Paul said. "I am the company. I am the person responsible. If the company had done wrong, I should be the one to suffer. But we have done nothing wrong. In fact, we have done far in excess of what we were committed to do. EDS got this contract because we are the only company in the world capable of doing this job--creating a fully automated welfare system in an underdeveloped country of thirty million subsistence farmers. And we have succeeded. Our data-processing system issues social-security cards. It keeps a register of deposits at the bank in the Ministry's account. Every morning it produces a summary of the welfare claims made the previous day. It prints the payroll for the entire Ministry of Health and Social Welfare. It produces weekly and monthly financial status reports for the Ministry. Why don't you go to the Ministry and look at the printouts? No, wait a minute," he said as Dadgar began to speak, "I haven't finished."
Dadgar shrugged.
Paul went on: "There is readily available proof that EDS has fulfilled its contract. It is equally easy to establish that the Ministry has not kept its side of the deal, that is to say, it has not paid us for six months and currently owes us something in excess of ten million dollars. Now, think about the Ministry for a moment. Why hasn't it paid EDS? Because it hasn't got the money. Why not? You and I know it spent its entire budget during the first seven months of the current year and the government hasn't got the funds to top it up. There might well be a degree of incompetence in some departments. What about those people who overspent their budgets? Maybe they're looking for an excuse--someone to blame for what's gone wrong--a scapegoat. And isn't it convenient that they have EDS--a capitalist company, an American company--right in there working with them? In the current political atmosphere people are eager to hear about the wickedness of the Americans, quick to believe that we are cheating Iran. But you, Mr. Dadgar, are supposed to be an officer of the law. You are not supposed to believe that the Americans are to blame unless there is evidence. You are supposed to discover the truth, if I have a correct understanding of the role of an examining magistrate. Isn't it time you asked yourself why anyone should make false accusations against me and my company? Isn't it time you started to investigate the goddam Ministry?"
