by Ken Follett
"Yes, they're looking pretty hard for two people," said the agent.
"Anybody else?"
"No. And the stop list is several weeks old."
"Thanks."
Poche went back and told the others.
The evacuees were starting to go from the check-in concourse through to the departure lounge.
Poche said: "I suggest we split up. That way we won't look like a group, and if one or two of you get into trouble, the others may still get through. I'll be last, so if anyone has to stay behind, I'll stay, too."
Bob Young looked at his suitcase and saw that it bore a luggage tag saying: "William D. Gaylord."
He suffered a moment of panic. If the Iranians saw that, they would think he was Bill and arrest him.
He knew how it had happened. His own suitcases had been destroyed at the Hyatt by the revolutionaries who had shot up the rooms. However, one or two cases had been left more or less undamaged, and Young had borrowed one. This was it.
He tore the luggage tag off and stuffed it into his pocket, intending to get rid of it at the first opportunity.
They all went through the "Passengers Only" gate.
Next they had to pay the airport tax. This amused Poche: the revolutionaries must have decided that airport tax was the one good thing the Shah introduced, he thought.
The next queue was for passport control.
Howell reached the desk at noon.
The guard checked his exit documentation thoroughly, and stamped it. Next he looked at the picture in the passport, then looked hard at Howell's face. Finally he checked the name in the passport against a list he had on his desk.
Howell held his breath.
The guard handed him his passport and waved him through.
Joe Poche went through passport control last. The guard looked extra hard at him, comparing the face with the photograph, for Poche now had a red beard. But eventually he, too, was allowed through.
The Clean Team was in a jovial mood in the departure lounge: it was all over, Howell thought, now that they had come through passport control.
At two in the afternoon they began to pass through the gates. At this point there was normally a security check. This time, as well as searching for weapons, the guards were confiscating maps, photographs of Tehran, and large sums of money. None of the Clean Team lost their money, however; the guards did not look in Poche's shoes.
Outside the gates, some of the baggage was lined up on the tarmac. Passengers had to check whether any of theirs was there, and if so to open it for searching before it was loaded onto the plane. None of the Clean Team's bags had been picked out for this special treatment.
They boarded buses and were driven across the runway to where two 747s were waiting. Once again, the television cameras were there.
At the foot of the ladder there was yet another passport check. Howell joined the queue of five hundred people waiting to board the Frankfurt plane. He was less worried than he had been: nobody was looking for him, it seemed.
He got on the plane and found a seat. There were several armed revolutionaries on board, both in the passenger cabin and on the flight deck. The scene became confused as people who were supposed to go to Athens realized they were on the Frankfurt plane, and vice versa. All the seats filled up, then the crew seats, and still there were people without seats.
The captain turned on the public-address system and asked for everyone's attention. The plane became quieter. "Would passengers Paul John and William Deming please identify themselves," he said.
Howell went cold.
John was the middle name of Paul Chiapparone.
Deming was the middle name of Bill Gaylord.
They were still searching for Paul and Bill.
Clearly it was not merely a question of names on a list at the airport. Dadgar was firmly in control here, and his people were relentlessly determined to find Paul and Bill.
Ten minutes later the captain came on the loudspeakers again. "Ladies and gentlemen, we still have not located Paul John or William Deming. We have been informed that we cannot take off until these two people have been located. If anyone on board knows their whereabouts, will you please let us know."
Will I hell, thought Howell.
Bob Young suddenly remembered the luggage tag in his pocket marked "William D. Gaylord." He went to the bathroom and threw it into the toilet.
The revolutionaries came down the aisle again, asking for passports. They checked each one carefully, comparing the photograph with the face of the owner.
John Howell took out a paperback book he had brought from the Dvoranchik place and tried to read it, in an effort to look unconcerned. It was Dubai, Robin Moore's thriller about intrigue in the Middle East. He could not concentrate on a paperback thriller: he was living a real one. Soon, he thought, Dadgar must realize that Paul and Bill are not on this plane.
And what will he do then?
He's so determined.
Clever, too. What a perfect way to do a passport check--on the plane, when all the passengers are in their seats and no one can hide!
But what will he do next?
He'll come aboard this damn plane himself, and walk down the aisle, looking at everyone. He won't know Rich, or Cathy, or Joe Poche, but he'll know Bob Young.
And he'll know me best of all.
In Dallas, T. J. Marquez got a call from Mark Ginsberg, the White House aide who had been trying to help with the problem of Paul and Bill. Ginsberg was in Washington, monitoring the situation in Tehran. He said: "Five of your people are on a plane standing on the runway at Tehran Airport."
"Good!" said T.J.
"It's not good. The Iranians are searching for Chiapparone and Gaylord, and they won't let the plane take off until they find the guys."
"Oh, hell."
"There's no air traffic control over Iran, so the plane has to take off before nightfall. We aren't sure what's going to happen, but there's not much time left. Your people may be taken off the plane."
"You can't let them do that!"
"I'll keep you in touch."
T. J. hung up. After all that Paul and Bill and the Dirty Team had been through, would EDS now end up with more of its people in a Tehran jail? It did not bear thinking about.
The time was six-thirty A.M. in Dallas, four P.M. in Tehran. They had two hours of daylight left.
T. J. picked up the phone. "Get me Perot."
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the pilot, "Paul John and William Deming have not been located. The man in charge on the ground will now do another passport check."
The passengers groaned.
Howell wondered who was the man in charge on the ground.
Dadgar?
It might be one of Dadgar's staff. Some of them knew Howell, some did not.
He peered along the aisle.
Someone came aboard. Howell stared. It was a man in a Pan Am uniform.
Howell relaxed.
The man went slowly down the plane, checking each of five hundred passports, doing a face-to-picture identification, then examining the photographs and seals to see whether they had been tampered with.
"Ladies and gentlemen. Captain speaking again. They have decided to check the baggage as it is loaded. If you hear your claim check number called, would you please identify yourself."
Cathy had all the claim checks in her handbag. As the first numbers were called, Howell saw her sorting through the checks. He tried to attract her attention, to signal her not to identify herself: it might be a trick.
More numbers were called, but nobody got up. Howell guessed everyone had decided they would rather lose their baggage than risk getting off this plane.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please identify yourselves when these numbers are called. You will not have to get off the plane, just hand over your keys so the bags can be opened for searching."
Howell was not reassured. He watched Cathy, still trying to catch her eye. More numbers were called, but she did not g
et up.
"Ladies and gentlemen, some good news. We have checked with Pan Am's European headquarters, and have been given permission to take off with an overload of passengers."
There was a ragged cheer.
Howell looked over at Joe Poche. Poche had his passport on his chest and he was sitting back with his eyes closed, apparently asleep. Joe must have ice in his veins, Howell thought.
There was sure to be a lot of pressure on Dadgar as the sun went down. It had to be obvious that Paul and Bill were not on the plane. If a thousand people were deplaned and escorted back to the Embassy, the revolutionary authorities would have to go through the whole rigmarole again tomorrow--and somebody up there was bound to say "No way!" to that.
Howell knew that he and the rest of the Clean Team were certainly guilty of crimes now. They had connived at the escape of Paul and Bill, and whether the Iranians called that conspiracy, or being an accessory after the fact, or some other name, it had to be against the law. He went over in his mind the story they had all agreed to tell if they were arrested. They had left the Hyatt on Monday morning, they would say, and had gone to Keane Taylor's house. (Howell had wanted to tell the truth, and say the Dvoranchik place, but the others had pointed out that this might bring down trouble on the head of Dvoranchik's landlady, whereas Taylor's landlord did not live on the premises.) They had spent Monday and Tuesday at Taylor's, then had gone to Lou Goelz's house on Tuesday afternoon. From then on, they would tell the truth.
The story would not protect the Clean Team: Howell knew all too well that Dadgar did not care whether his hostages were guilty or innocent.
At six o'clock the captain said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have permission to take off."
The doors were slammed and the plane was moving within seconds. The passengers without seats were told by stewardesses to sit on the floor. As they taxied, Howell thought: surely we wouldn't stop now, even if we were ordered to ...
The 747 gathered speed along the runway and took off.
They were still in Iranian airspace. The Iranians could send up fighter jets ...
A little later the captain said: "Ladies and gentlemen, we have now departed Iranian airspace."
The passengers gave a weary cheer.
We made it, Howell thought.
He picked up his paperback thriller.
Joe Poche left his seat and went to find the chief steward.
"Is there any way the pilot could get a message through to the States?" he asked.
"I don't know," the steward said. "Write your message, and I'll ask him."
Poche returned to his seat and got out paper and a pen. He wrote: To Merv Stauffer, 7171 Forest Lane, Dallas, Texas.
He thought for a minute about what his message should be. He recalled EDS's recruiting motto: "Eagles don't flock--you have to find them one at a time." He wrote:
The eagles have flown their nest.
2_____
Ross Perot wanted to meet up with the Clean Team before returning to the States: he was keen to get everyone together, so that he could see and touch them all and be absolutely sure they were safe and well. However, on Friday in Istanbul he could not confirm the destination of the evacuation flight that would bring the Clean Team out of Tehran. John Carlen, the laid-back pilot of the leased Boeing 707, had the answer to that problem. "Those evacuation planes must fly up over Istanbul," he said. "We'll just sit on the runway until they pass overhead, then call them on the radio and ask them." In the end that was not necessary: Stauffer called on Saturday morning and told Perot the Clean Team would be on the Frankfurt plane.
Perot and the others checked out of the Sheraton at midday and went to the airport to join Boulware and Simons on the plane. They took off late in the afternoon.
When they were in the air Perot called Dallas: with the plane's single-sideband radio it was as easy as calling from New York. He reached Merv Stauffer.
"What's happening with the Clean Team?" Perot asked.
"I got a message," said Stauffer. "It came from the European headquarters of Pan Am. It just says: 'The eagles have flown their nest.' "
Perot smiled. All safe.
Perot left the flight deck and returned to the passenger cabin. His heroes looked washed out. At Istanbul Airport he had sent Taylor into the duty-free shop to buy cigarettes, snacks, and liquor, and Taylor had spent over a thousand dollars. They all had a drink to celebrate the escape of the Clean Team, but nobody was in the mood, and ten minutes later they were all sitting around on the plush upholstery with their glasses still full. Someone started a poker game, but it petered out.
The crew of the 707 included two pretty stewardesses. Perot got them to put their arms around Taylor, then took a photograph. He threatened to show the photo to Taylor's wife, Mary, if Taylor ever gave him a hard time.
Most of them were too tired to sleep, but Gayden went back to the luxurious bedroom and lay down on the king-size bed. Perot was a little miffed: he thought Simons, who was older and looked completely drained, should have had the bed.
But Simons was talking to one of the stewardesses, Anita Melton. She was a vivacious blond Swedish girl in her twenties, with a zany sense of humor, a wild imagination, and a penchant for the outlandish. She was fun. Simons recognized a kindred soul, someone who did not care too much about what other people thought, an individual. He liked her. He realized that it was the first time since the death of Lucille that he had felt attracted to a woman.
He really had come back to life.
Ron Davis began to feel sleepy. The king-size bed was big enough for two, he thought; so he went into the bedroom and lay down beside Gayden.
Gayden opened his eyes. "Davis?" he said incredulously. "What the hell are you doing in bed with me?"
"Don't sweat it," said Davis. "Now you can tell all your friends you slept with a nigger." He closed his eyes.
As the plane approached Frankfurt, Simons recalled that he was still responsible for Paul and Bill, and his mind went back to work, extrapolating possibilities for enemy action. He asked Perot: "Does Germany have an extradition treaty with Iran?"
"I don't know," said Perot.
He got The Simons Look.
"I'll find out," he added.
He called Dallas and asked for Tom Luce, the lawyer. "Tom, does Germany have an extradition treaty with Iran?"
Luce said: "I'm ninety-nine percent sure they do not."
Perot told Simons.
Simons said: "I've seen men killed because they were ninety-nine percent sure they were safe."
Perot said to Luce: "Let's get a hundred percent sure. I'll call again in a few minutes."
They landed at Frankfurt and checked into a hotel within the airport complex. The German desk clerk seemed curious, and fully noted all their passport numbers. This increased Simons's unease.
They gathered in Perot's room, and Perot called Dallas again. This time he spoke to T. J. Marquez.
T. J. said: "I called an international lawyer in Washington, and he thinks there is an extradition treaty between Iran and Germany. Also, he said the Germans are kind of legalistic about stuff like this, and if they got a request to pick up Paul and Bill, they'd probably go right ahead and do it."
Perot repeated all of that to Simons.
"Okay," said Simons. "We're not going to take any chances at this point in the game. There's a movie house with three screens down at the basement level in this airport. Paul and Bill can hide in them ... where's Bill?"
"Gone to buy toothpaste," someone said.
"Jay, go find him."
Coburn went out.
Simons said: "Paul goes into one theater, with Jay. Bill goes into another, with Keane. Pat Sculley stands guard outside. He has a ticket, so he can go in and check on the others."
It was interesting, Perot thought, to see the switches turn and the wheels start rolling as Simons changed from an old man relaxing on a plane to a commando leader again.
Simons said: "The entrance to the train
station is down in the basement, near the movies. If there's any sign of trouble Sculley gets the four men out of the movies and they all take a subway downtown. They rent a car and drive to England. If nothing happens, we get them out of the movies when we're about to board the plane. All right, let's do it."
Bill was down in the shopping precinct. He had changed some money and bought toothpaste, a toothbrush, and a comb. He decided that a fresh new shirt would make him feel human again, so he went to change some more money. He was standing in line at the currency-exchange booth when Coburn tapped him on the shoulder.
"Ross wants to see you in the hotel," Coburn said.
"What for?"
"I can't talk about it now, you need to come on back."
"You've got to be kidding!"
"Let's go."
They went to Perot's room, and Perot explained to Bill what was happening. Bill could hardly believe it. He had thought for sure he was safe in modem, civilized Germany. Would he ever be safe? he wondered. Would Dadgar pursue him to the ends of the earth, never resting until Bill was returned to Iran or killed?
Coburn did not know whether there was any real chance of Paul and Bill getting into trouble here in Frankfurt, but he did know the value of Simons's elaborate precautions. Much of what Simons had planned, over the past seven weeks, had come to nothing: the attack on the first jail, the idea of snatching Paul and Bill from house arrest, the route out via Kuwait. But then, some of the contingencies for which Simons planned had come to pass, often the most far-fetched ones: the Gasr Prison had been stormed and Rashid was there; the road to Sero, which Simons and Coburn had carefully reconnoitered, had in the end been their route out; even making Paul and Bill learn all the information on their false passports had turned out to be crucial when the man in the long black overcoat started asking questions. Coburn needed no convincing: whatever Simons said was okay with him.
They went down to the movie house. There were three films: two were porno movies and the third was Jaws II. Bill and Taylor got Jaws II. Paul and Coburn went in to see something about naked South Sea maidens.
