The Shah admired Musa Sadr’s commitment to social justice, open mind, and his willingness to challenge the Beirut establishment, and saw in him a fellow reformer and kindred spirit who embraced modernity. Court Minister Alam had a soft spot for Musa Sadr, too—Grand Ayatollah Sadreddin Sadr had been his own father’s marja. The Imam’s November 1971 meeting with both men was clandestine and for good reason: he had traveled to Tehran to congratulate the monarch on his anniversary but also to lobby the palace for help in building a $30 million hospital and university complex to serve his poor constituents in Tyre. The trip placed Musa Sadr in a precarious position vis-à-vis the Khomeini family. The marriage between Khomeini’s son Ahmad and Musa Sadr’s niece had formally allied two powerful Shia dynasties. Musa Sadr needed the Shah’s largesse and goodwill but naturally feared antagonizing Khomeini and the Ayatollah’s sons, Mostafa, his father’s closest counselor, but especially Ahmad, a ruthless operator who trained in guerrilla warfare in Lebanon’s Bekaa Valley. Musa Sadr respected Grand Ayatollah Khomeini but was under no illusions about his driving ambition. “Ah yes, Khomeini,” he once murmured. “One does what one can.”
The meeting logistics were handled by Savak’s Parviz Sabeti. “We had a mutual friend,” Sabeti explained. “A classmate from his town. He brokered the dinner meeting at Saadabad.” The nighttime rendezvous at Saadabad Palace was so secret indeed that it was kept from Colonel Djahinbini, the Shah’s bodyguard, who insisted he never saw Musa Sadr in the Shah’s company. “This undoubtedly happened,” recalled Kambiz Atabai, Court Minister Alam’s deputy. “When the Shah wanted to meet someone in total secrecy, either at his or their instigation, the name of the visitor would not be disclosed to Djahinbini or palace security. Instead, Mr. Alam or myself would personally inform security that Mr. X was entering the palace grounds in Alam’s car or mine. The car lights would flash at the entrance and the guards would let it pass. Security would withdraw from the Shah’s office, and even the office staff and secretaries would be sent away. Even the tea server would be sent away. Mr. Alam and myself might serve the tea ourselves. The anonymity might be at the Shah’s instruction, but it could have been at the visitor’s request and this made sense in the case of Musa Sadr.”
Parviz Sabeti, who met separately with Musa Sadr the following day, found the Imam to be in high spirits. “He was very happy with the way the Shah treated him,” said Sabeti. He listened as the Imam cheerfully recounted that the Shah had offered him a seat—guests usually stood during their audiences with the monarch—and that two servants had served tea instead of the usual one, which he interpreted as a royal gesture of equality. The Shah, he said, had agreed to pay the building costs for the hospital and the university. The Imam again repeated how “very impressed [he was] with the Shah. At that time he was very happy with the Shah.” Sabeti took a less sanguine view of the visitor from Lebanon. The Imam, he decided, was “charismatic, a smart man, but not principled.”
9
THE PAHLAVI PROGRESS
Our lives pass from us like the wind, and why
Should wise men grieve to know that they must die?
—THE PERSIAN BOOK OF KINGS
They told me it was treatable.
—THE SHAH
Niavaran Palace was a curious blend of traditional Persian design and the boxy, brutalist strain of urban architecture in vogue in European and American cities in the late fifties and early sixties. Visitors approaching the building from the main gate were startled to encounter a “four-square, lofty white cube, strangely window-less on the same side approached from the gates.” If first impressions counted, the immediate effect was of the harsh military bearing and stern public countenance of its chief occupant. But around the side, floor-to-ceiling windows and a portico with columns offered a more inviting view, and when entering the softly lit grand hall that doubled as a reception area Queen Farah’s influence was felt for the first time. Despite the height of the grand hall, which extended to the ceiling and engulfed most of the structure’s interior, the residence exuded warmth, intimacy, and taste. Small lounges discreetly occupied each corner of the cube so that guests waiting to be received could pass the time viewing Iranian artwork, paintings, tapestries, carpets, and pottery in display cases. Overlooking the reception area was a wraparound gallery with a landing that led to the family quarters.
Niavaran’s private suites were hardly spacious and so close to the balcony, which afforded a bird’s-eye view of the activity below, that the raised voices of the Pahlavi children were overheard in the public area. During state receptions the two mischievous younger children, Prince Ali Reza and Princess Leila, delighted in creeping out of their rooms in their pajamas to drop peanuts and hurl bread pellets on the heads of guests in the hall below, much to their parents’ amusement. Fitted with all the latest conveniences, the residence’s most impressive feature was the high ceiling that retracted at the flick of a switch to open up the grand hall to sunlight and fresh air. Niavaran had been designed as a government guesthouse and was never intended as a permanent residence. The Shah preferred several minor additions rather than approve the cost of building a new palace southwest of the capital. These included an adjoining wing with a private cinema that was attached to the Queen’s library. Farah put her training as an architect to good use by overseeing the design of a split-level library that served as a personal retreat where she could read, reflect, and entertain away from the bustle of the residence. “In this vast, bright room I had gathered together the works that meant the most to me,” she said. There were sculptures, paintings, and objets d’art collected during her travels. She admired the pop art of Andy Warhol, and his lithograph of her was on display. The library looked out over a broad manicured lawn, and beyond were the tennis courts where husband and wife often dueled blistering backhands.
The emergence of a terrorist threat in Iran meant the safety of the Imperial Family became ever more a focus of concern for Colonel Kiomars Djahinbini and his security detail. The hilltop neighborhood of Shemiran, which included Niavaran, had been a backwater when the Pahlavis moved to the Alborz foothills in the late sixties. But by the early seventies a building boom was under way, with residential complexes and mansions sprouting along the northern hills. Neighbors could stand on their balconies and rooftops and look down over the palace grounds. “We put restrictions on the height of apartment buildings,” said the colonel, “but the real problem with security were the helicopters.” The Shah and Shahbanou were constantly on the move in blue and white choppers, which functioned as highly efficient mobile offices. Djahinbini’s fear was that a terrorist cell would rent a nearby apartment and use one of the high rooftops to launch a rocket at the Shah’s helicopter as it approached to land or take off. Motorcades posed their own challenge in a city famous for its traffic-choked streets. “We were already thinking about suicide vests worn by the Mujahedin. We provided security on the roads but that meant stopping traffic, which took too long. We were also worried that traffic delays antagonized the people.” The streets of the capital were clogged and the palace did not want to be seen adding to the problem. But the Shah’s munificent gesture backfired in spectacular fashion when gridlocked Tehranis, seeing his helicopter flit back and forth overhead while their cars idled below, bitterly complained that he was more removed than ever from the daily travails of life on the streets.
Security inside the palace complex was as elaborate. Before every meal, food tasters made sure the dishes were free from poisons. For Farah, even a stroll around the grounds at Niavaran or Saadabad meant hearing the crunch of gravel behind her, a constant reminder of the men with guns who lurked in the bushes and observed her every move. Her bedroom was guarded, too. “Three or four of my men were stationed inside the family residence through the night,” said Djahinbini, “and there were also officers of the Imperial Guard.” The Shah suspected that foreign intelligence services intercepted his telephone conversations and had placed bugs and listening devices inside his
residence and office. “We had electronic devices that swept the rooms. They were Swiss-made, handheld devices that came in a little suitcase. My people were specially trained in communications.” France’s President de Gaulle had visited Iran in the early sixties and invited Djahinbini to France for additional training. The colonel and one of his colleagues spent a month in the Élysée Palace discussing the strengths and weaknesses of palace security with French intelligence officials. By the time they returned home they were fully trained in electronic countersurveillance. The Iranians also trained with the U.S. Secret Service, who exchanged their walkie-talkies for earpieces. A thorough sweep of all rooms at Niavaran, including the lavatories, was conducted before the family returned to the residence at the end of summer from their time away at Saadabad.
Niavaran was the Pahlavis’ primary residence and one of five palaces dedicated to their exclusive use. The family spent a considerable part of each year on the road. “It was very important when the Shah moved around,” said Kambiz Atabai, deputy to Court Minister Alam. “Mr. Alam argued that the Shah should have a residence in every corner of the kingdom.” Iran had tribal traditions, and Alam understood the importance of the personal touch and being seen in the flesh. The Pahlavi progress was planned months in advance and involved transporting the immediate members of the family but also dozens of courtiers, servants, and security officials many hundreds of miles. Always sensitive to local concerns, the Court Ministry encouraged the cooks and servants to order supplies of fresh produce to give a boost to the local economy. “There was always great excitement and the area he visited was cleaned up in advance.”
The Pahlavis were officially in residence at Niavaran from midautumn in late October until late May, which marked the onset of summer. During that time they broke away only for vacations, state visits, or to make regional inspection tours. In late December they flew to Zurich in Switzerland, and from there choppered to their ski chalet in St. Moritz to spend two or three weeks on the slopes. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter of the chalet grounds. One time, feeling lucky, Queen Farah placed a bet with her skiing companion, a Savak general, that she could escape from the chalet without alerting security. He cheerfully accepted her dare, which was sealed in Swiss francs. Later, while the household rested, the Queen stole out of her room, took the general’s boots from under his nose, clambered out a window, jumped to the snowpack below, then scampered down the hill to the village hotel, where she placed a telephone call to the chalet. The same general’s wife answered the phone and was stunned to hear the familiar throaty voice on the other end of the line: “I’m not there. Come and join me at the hotel.” From where the two ladies sat drinking tea, they enjoyed a clear view up the hill of the chalet, delighting at the sight of “the security, Iranian and Swiss, running around the chalet, up on the roof and around the building, trying to find me.” For one brief moment, Farah enjoyed the thrill of life outside the royal cocoon.
The Pahlavis returned to Tehran in mid-January to stay in residence until the Persian New Year, Nowruz, which always fell on the equinox in the third week of March. Nowruz was spent on Kish Island, sixteen miles off Iran’s Persian Gulf coast. The Shah also used Kish as a base from which to jet over to the mainland to inspect regional oil facilities and military installations. The Pahlavis returned to Niavaran at the end of March and stayed until the last week of April, when the Shah made his annual excursion to the city of Shiraz. He was in residence in the Bagh-e Eram Palace for two weeks, during which time he received regional governors, mayors, tribal leaders, industrialists, and other leading men and women of influence in the southwest. These audiences allowed him to press the flesh, listen to gripes, and gain a better understanding of the people’s needs.
The Shah spent the next six weeks in Tehran, where he tended to affairs of state. Then he was off again, this time accompanied by the Queen for their annual ten-day trip to the holy city of Mashad, on Iran’s northeast border with Afghanistan. Mashad was the most sensitive of the annual inspection tours because of the city’s significance as the site of the Holy Shrine of Imam Reza, one of Islam’s most revered mosques. Imam Reza held a special place in the affections of the Pahlavi family—the Shah and his brothers all bore the name Reza—and the King used the trip as an opportunity to reestablish his credentials as Shia Islam’s Custodian of the Faith. He received proclamations of fealty from ulama throughout the northeast. Despite her low opinion of the clergy, Farah enjoyed her time in Mashad. “Mashad is like nowhere else in all Iran,” she said. “It is so lovely, so quiet, tree-lined streets, and then the great mosques with their golden domes rising above the pilgrim crowds. Its atmosphere of devotion is so intense … it is profoundly moving … and then—those trumpets and drums and saluting the sunrise and sunset.… Mashad has an extraordinary ambience.” Her husband much preferred Mashad to Qom, the dour and dusty town seventy-five miles south of the capital; Qom’s seminaries were in a near-constant state of agitation. He wanted to strengthen Mashad at Qom’s expense. The project he envisioned was a new Islamic university that would be administered by progressive scholars such as his wife’s adviser Seyyed Hossein Nasr, who would teach modern sciences and languages alongside the world’s major religions.
The next big move came on the first day of June, when the entire household fled the first heat of summer and decamped to Saadabad, a short ten-minute drive higher up the Alborz slopes, where they stayed at Saadabad’s White Palace until the end of October. Though Saadabad was cooler than Niavaran, and boasted thick woods and forested trails, the White Palace was not Farah’s favorite residence. She thought it “dark and gloomy with a rather overgrown garden,” though Saadabad’s compensations included the splendid view of the Alborz Mountains “and to the east you can see the Damavand volcano with its mantle of snow.”
The hottest weeks of the summer, from the middle of July to the third week of August, were spent at the Caspian Sea resort town of Nowshahr. “That was the time we had the most fun,” said the Queen. The family lived in an old wooden barrack precariously perched on stilts over the water. The Shah loved its simplicity. When Farah’s friend Fereydoun Djavadi was invited to stay at Nowshahr he expected luxurious quarters. “We arrived at 9 a.m. and were introduced,” he said. “I kept thinking to myself someone would come and take us to the palace. I thought this was the place for their staff.” “In the first year our bed was on a tilt,” the Queen said, laughing. “And in the evenings they would remove the chairs [on the deck] and put up a screen and we would watch movies.” One warm summer afternoon the couple were entertaining guests at lunch on the veranda when Farah, known for her high spirits, disdain for protocol, and mischievous sense of humor, started a food fight. “It was very casual,” she confessed. “And I don’t know, but I started throwing bread with someone else.” Others soon joined in and the rolls began flying. But the commotion interrupted the sacrosanct two o’clock national radio broadcast and led to a swift royal dressing-down from the other end of the table. While they relaxed, Soviet ships assumed to have sophisticated electronics surveillance gear were moored nearby. “We would see the Russian ships were just on the other side of the harbor,” said Farah. Sometimes the Iranians poked fun at them by waving. The water was polluted, she added, but they went swimming and water skiing anyway. “We became immune to it.” Her brother-in-law General Mohammad Khatami, Princess Fatemeh’s husband, taught her how to monoski, ski-jump, and eventually fly-ski by “hanging from parachutes that take you up twenty or thirty meters above the water.”
The Shah always made his entrance on the beach at exactly ten o’clock in the morning and plunged into the surf. After lunch the Imperial couple, his brothers and sisters, and the older Pahlavi children piled into a helicopter that flew them away from the coast and far out to sea. While the chopper hovered in place everyone took turns jumping into the water from a great height. But when it came to the Shah’s turn the pilots made a point of lowering the machine almost to water level to prevent injury or ac
cident. Unbeknownst to the Shah, they had received strict orders from General Khatami not to ever place the monarch in physical danger. This happened every time and it always drove him to distraction. He loved heights, he loved speed, and he loved the thrill of the jump. If the children could jump, why couldn’t he?
The Fall of Heaven Page 24
