by R G Ainslee
Azad soon realized he was the only person not yelling. Panic began to build. His immediate goal was to avoid detection. He began to yell, "American Satan — American Satan," and joined the mob as it stormed into the building.
Jack regained consciousness and shook off the blow. Two burly Iranians bound his hands behind his back and shuffled him towards the embassy.
Amadeo pondered what to do but had no choice but to sweep along with the crowd. From across the street in front of the embassy, he saw a group of men hustle Jack through the gate.
Inside the gate, a man stood in front of Jack and shouted, "You are spy. You will confess or be killed."
To resist meant a beating or death. Jack gave in to the inevitable. His Canadian passport, his only hope — all he had to do was wait until someone with authority showed up. He appealed, "I'm Canadian —Canadian — Ice Hockey — Maple Leaf —I'm Canadian, no American." The men ignored his pleas, and someone kicked him from behind. Jack slumped to his knees.
Azad, caught up in the main surge, was swept past the main gate to the chancery where a line of men and a few women encircled the building. Then he saw a sight he would never forget. His last hope, a Black American — must be the CIA man — blindfolded and in custody of a troop of men wearing green armbands. His heart sank.
Amadeo saw it too. — Was it the brother from the embassy? — He couldn't tell for sure. Little did he know, Sam Brooks was free, for the time being, and headed on foot away from the embassy. The mission beyond hope, the situation had changed, now escape and evasion became the immediate priority. Amadeo edged away from the mob, seeking to leave ASAP.
Azad realized his only hope was to blend with the crowd, join in, and hope to avoid detection as a potential spy for the American Satan. He clasped the thermos jug to his body, not daring to lose it. The tape concealed inside had turned from his hope for salvation into a potential death warrant.
Amadeo inched forward in the crowd, aiming to follow Jack and his captors at a distance. With no practical options available, his best hope was to be ready to exploit an opening — if one occurred. Then he spied Azad.
Jack, held by strong hands, twisted around searching for Amadeo. Their eyes met, for a moment, as his friend passed by within yards.
Amadeo knew the situation was hopeless. Jack's captors numbered too many. Any attempt to rescue him would be disastrous. The crowd would tear both of them apart. He needed to remain free. Free to… Do what?
Three blocks away, Sam was confident the Iranian authorities would respond. It couldn't go on for long. Someone in authority would sort it out, and in a day or two, it’ll be resolved. He decided to head for his apartment and wait it out.
* * *
Azad put on a good show, milling around with the crowd, joining with the protesters, and cheering every time a captive American was presented to the mob. Little by little, Azad retreated to the rear. During a lull in revolutionary ardor brought on by a light rain, he slipped away and made his way down the street.
Amadeo decided his best choice was to tail Azad, wait for the right opportunity, make contact, and salvage something from the disaster. He reasoned that Jack's cover story would hold up. It was only a matter of time before Jack was released.
Two hours later, Azad departed the scene. Amadeo followed at a discrete distance.
* * *
Jack and the other hostages were made to sit in on the floor, not allowed to talk or move. He kept quiet and did not tell anyone that he could speak Farsi. His Special Forces resistance to interrogation training had prepared him for the worst. These guys seemed like amateurs, all he had to do was wait them out.
The so-called students didn't seem to have a plan. He listened carefully, they didn't know what to do next. As far as he could tell, they expected the government to come in and retake control. One of the students, a fervent know-it all type, told an embassy employee, "Do not worry, you will be released tonight."
* * *
Three blocks from the embassy, Azad stopped at a police checkpoint. Amadeo had no choice to continue and halted in line, four people behind Azad. The policeman, accompanied by a bearded revolutionary guard, examined each person's papers, and inquired as to their business in the area. Azad presented identification, answered a few questions, and went on his way.
Amadeo had no choice but to present his Spanish passport. The police officer looked confused, unable to read the document. The bearded man shouted to someone across the street. A thin young man with a fresh beard jogged over and examined the passport.
He asked, "Do you speak English?"
Amadeo answered in a halting voice, "Si, I speak some Inglés. Do you have the problema?"
"What are you doing here?"
"My name is Félix Fernández, de Bilbao, España. Mi empleador… Soy periodista… I am journalist."
The young man explained to the bearded revolutionary guard. The police officer appeared nervous.
Amadeo reached into a pocket and produced a card. "See my credenciales de prensa… the press credential from your government." The press pass was real, issued by the Iranian consulate in Spain.
The young man handed the documents back to Amadeo and asked. "Where do you stay?"
Amadeo feigned that he didn't understand.
"Your hotel — what is the name?"
"Ah, hotel. The Intercontinental."
The young man snapped, "It would be best if you return to hotel."
* * *
Jack and a large group of hostages were marched blindfolded to the cafeteria area in the main building. Mattresses had been spread on the floor and they were made to sit. A rough looking guard with a pistol sat in a chair by the door.
Jack, his hands bound behind his back, sensed the presence of others around him. After a couple of hours, someone would enter and hustle a captive out the door. His turn came ninety minutes later.
Two sets of hands hustled Jack, still blindfolded, into a room. An aggressive voice demanded in Farsi, "What do you do in the CIA den." Jack kept quiet. "Who have you talked to? Who do you know?" A different voice repeated the questions in English.
A rough male voice asked in Farsi, "Who are you?" Jack understood but stayed silent. The question was repeated in English. Jack answered, "My name is Mike Bolton. I am not American. I'm a Canadian citizen. My employer is Fabrique National from Brussels, Belgium. I am in Iran to inquire about the status of existing small arms contracts."
They repeated the questions, over and over. Jack struggled to stay on his feet. He knew the voices were not trained interrogators, it would do no good to try to try to fool them, they were out for revenge.
A new voice. More authoritative barked, "Why are you in the den of spies? Do you work for them? Why are you here?"
"I came to see a man—"
A sharp punch to the kidneys sent Jack to his knees.
"You come to see a spy," the man shouted with emphasis.
"No — listen, someone told me I could buy some beer at the embassy. I came to buy—" A blow to the solar plexus interrupted his pleading and he slumped to the floor, gasping for breath.
"You dare to defame the prophet with the evil of unclean drink?"
Jack had no chance to respond. A kick to the head propelled him into darkness.
* * *
Azad closed the door to his tiny room and collapsed on the cot. The thermos dropped to the floor and rolled under the bed. The first checkpoint past the embassy had proved uneventful, as did the second. Thinking he was home free his composure was shattered, three blocks from his abode, by a roving group of street thugs wearing green armbands.
A fowl smelling man with one eye had grabbed the thermos and sniffed the contents, searching for forbidden alcoholic beverages. Azad, cowed by the day's events, did not protest. He had given up all hope, now resigned to an uncertain fate. All they had to do was unscrew the bottle from its housing and it would all be over. However, today was not his time to die, the thermos was returned, and he was
allowed to continue on his way.
* * *
Rough hands hauled Jack to his feet, shuffled him down a hall, and into a room. The door slammed behind. He sensed movement in front of him, papers rustling, and then the blindfold was ripped off his head. The security officer from the hotel, dressed in his dark blue suit with no tie, sat at a table in front of him.
Captain Rezaei examined a sheaf of papers and then looked Jack over with an air of clinical dispassion. Jack stayed silent. Rezaei nodded and Jack's hands were untied.
As Jack massaged his wrists, Rezaei spoke, "It was most inconvenient for you to choose to visit the American embassy this morning, don't you think?"
"Yeah, guess I need to look some other place for booze in this town."
"Do not worry. You may drink to your heart's content — tomorrow."
"What happens tomorrow?"
"You will be out of the country. You are being expelled." He noticed Jack's disbelief. "You will be escorted to the airport and placed on the next flight out."
Playing for time, Jack protested, "Hey, I've got business with the ministry. Can't you give a guy a break?"
"You have — as you say — been given a break." He glanced towards a group of bearded men wearing green armbands, standing to the side. "My ministry desires to minimize the complications that have arisen today. Do not make my job more difficult. If you do not leave, then I cannot guarantee your safety."
"But the contracts — my company wants to sell their pistols to the new government."
Rezaei stood. "We will go now." He spoke in Farsi to the bearded men and escorted Jack to a waiting vehicle. Twenty minutes later, they passed through the lobby of the Intercontinental on the way to Jack's room.
* * *
Amadeo had grown anxious sitting alone in his hotel room and decided to risk going out again. He hoped to pick up some news on what had happened at the embassy. Didn't have a plan but needed more information before deciding what to do next. A man stood at the end of the hall, he wasn't there before. The elevator was unusually slow ascending to the fifth floor. Amadeo kept his eyes on the floor indicator, not daring to glance towards the man. The bell rang, the door opened, and Amadeo slipped inside.
On the way down, he pondered the new situation. Obviously, the man was watching his floor, but he couldn't be sure if he was the target of the man's observations. Most likely, everyone was a target. Normal tradecraft would have entailed placing some sort of a telltale on the door to warn if an intruder had entered during his absence. He skipped it. Doing so would have been a dead giveaway.
The elevator opened to the lobby just as Jack and his escorts entered the hotel. Amadeo almost froze in the door but managed to keep his composure and stepped out into the lobby. An almost imperceptible movement of Jack's head warned him not to say anything. They passed without making further eye contact.
Rather than risk following the group upstairs, Amadeo decided to wait in the lobby. Deciding not to further arouse the suspicions of the clerk in the gift shop, he took a seat and leafed through a worn copy of L'Express, a French newsmagazine.
Ten long minutes later, the main elevator door opened. Jack, with his luggage and accompanied by his escorts on either side, stepped out of the elevator and strode over to the reception counter, leaving the two men in his wake.
Jack spoke to the clerk with an exaggerated volume, "Checking out early, got a flight I've gotta catch. Send the bill to—" He didn't finish his sentence. The two escorts seized his arms and hustled him out the front door to a waiting vehicle.
Amadeo let a minute pass, set the magazine aside, and ambled casually to the taxi stand. Three cabs sat in line. He took the first vehicle and instructed the driver to take him to the airport.
They arrived at Mehrabad just in time to watch Jack pass through main doors to the terminal. Thirty minutes later, he watched Jack board a Swissair flight to Geneva.
Now alone and without a plan, Amadeo returned to the Intercontinental.
13 ~ No Options
Friday PM, 4 November 1979: Tehran, Iran
The tall blonde stewardess with the chiseled features of a Valkyrie announced over the PA system, “We are cleared for takeoff. Fasten your seat belts and no smoking, please.” She gave Jack a subtle glance before reciting the preflight safety regulations.
The airliner rolled down the taxiway and turned onto the main runway. Jack held his breath as the engines spooled up. The pilot released the brakes and the aircraft began its sprint to freedom. The jet lifted off and the wheels retracted. Jack closed his eyes and relaxed, he was almost home free.
The snowy peaks of the Alborz mountains loomed to the right. Jacks eyes followed the range west toward the Turkish border until the aircraft disappeared into a bank of clouds.
Later, a deep voice came over the PA system, first in German and French, then in English, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. We have exited Iranian airspace." The passengers cheered.
Jack suffered a twinge of guilt. In a few hours, he would be in Geneva. Amadeo was still in Tehran. He wasn't worried though, Amadeo was a proven professional, he had survived alone in Iran on his own in worse conditions. He could do it again.
When he arrived in Frankfurt, John would come up with a plan, the mission would continue. First, he would rest. The beatings had taken their toll.
* * *
Amadeo spent a restless afternoon in his room, not daring to go out except to eat an evening meal in the hotel restaurant. Time was running out. He figured one more day or two, couldn't risk any more. Time to come up with a plan.
The restaurant crowd was strangely subdued. The embassy take-over produced a sullen air of inevitability. Under normal circumstances, the tables would be abuzz with discussion and wild speculation about the day's events. Snippets of overheard conversations tended to be about the quickest ways to get out of the country.
One of the Spaniards, he had spoken to on the first day, passed by without acknowledgment. It seemed that everyone had assumed the worst. They could be next. It was best to trust no one.
Amadeo finished his meal and made his way to the elevator. He avoided making a security survey of the lobby; a trained eye might notice his observations. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the gift shop clerk give him the once-over.
The elevator halted on the fifth floor. The man was still at the end of the hall. As Amadeo opened the door to his room, the odor of cheap smokes revealed that someone had been inside. A quick survey turned up nothing missing — or added.
* * *
Azad racked his brain for a solution. He had no workable options. Escape was out of the question, even if he had a place to go. The only thing to do was continue with his normal routine and hope for the best. Tomorrow, he would go to work. If he did not show up, the men watching the restaurant would grow suspicious.
The tape, what am I to do with the tape?
His first inclination was to destroy the incriminating evidence. The seven meters of reddish brown tape was his greatest danger. His hands trembled when he tried to unscrew the bottle.
No, not yet, perhaps there is still hope. This is the only thing of value I possess.
He put the thermos aside and lay back on the cot, the first moments of a sleepless night.
* * *
Operating alone and without backup was par for the course for Amadeo Ruiz. Earlier in the year, he had survived for days in the mountains of Eastern Iran after the Russian attack on Site T-2. The military had taught him one important lesson, sleep when you can. A good sleep was in order, better to think with a refreshed mind. Tomorrow might be a long day, depending…
Friday PM, 4 November 1979: Frankfurt, Germany
"I'll debrief him fully when he gets here. Said he'll try to be on the 1915 flight."
John Smith, sitting at a borrowed desk at the I.G. Farben Building in Frankfurt, paused and listened to Colonel Wilson on the secure line to Bolling. "No sir, I don’t have any other information, h
e kept it short. Richards said he's in Geneva alone and will be here ASAP."
He paused again as the colonel interrupted. Wilson seemed uncharacteristically flustered. News of the embassy takeover had everyone on edge, a massive FUBAR in the making.
"Yes sir, I'll get back to you soon as possible—"
Wilson cut in once more. He said he would catch the next available flight to Rein-Main.
"Sir, I'd advise against that. Let me handle things here. We don’t need to attract too much attention on this end. Besides, we don't yet know what happened, we might need you to pull some stings back there. The situation's still too volatile … too many unknowns."
The colonel let out a long sigh, agreed, and hung up.
John picked up the copy of Stars and Stripes newspaper on his desk and gazed at the picture on the front page. American hostages blindfolded, held hostage by a bunch of so-called radical students. He crumpled the page and threw it across the room.
John, a former Army Ranger, still lived by the credo: No man left behind, never leave a fallen comrade in harm’s way. He would never give up, Amadeo was his man, his responsibility, and he would get him out whatever the cost and regardless of what Wilson decided.
Friday PM, 4 November 1979: Washington, D.C.
"I sure hope to hell your boys got that tape before those fanatics took over the embassy? barked Colonel Hansen into his secure phone. The small television in his office was tuned to the local ABC affiliate. Colonel Wilson was on the other end of the line. "Those yahoos didn't get captured, did they?
Wilson replied, "Richards is out of Iran and on his way to Frankfurt. I don't have any word yet on Ruiz."
"You realize your little band of renegades is finished, don't you? This is one of the worst planned fiascos since the Bay of Pigs. You…" Hansen smirked as the line went dead. Wilson had cut him off.
Friday PM, 4 November 1979: Albuquerque, New Mexico
Ross Brannan hung up the phone. Wilson had called to fill him in on the status of the mission. Ross leaned back in his chair and gritted his teeth.
