ON WINGS OF EAGLES

by 

Ken Follett

        
      A SIGNET BOOK
 SIGNET
 Published by the Penguin Group
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 First Signet Printing, September, 1984
 23 22 21

 Copyright C 1983 by Petancor BV All rights reserved. For information
 address Penguin Books USA Inc.

 The excerpt from Night Over Water. by Ken Follett, appeared previously in
 a William Morrow hardcover edition. Copyright 0 1991 by Ken Follett.

 Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to use the following
 photographs:

 p. 1: top, Skeeter Hagler; bottom, UP[; p. 3: top and bottom, Skeeter
 Hagler; p. 4: top and bottom, UPI; p. 5: top, UPI; bottom, Skeeter Hagler;
 pp. 6-7, Skeeter Hagler; p. 8: top, Carl Covington; bottom, UPI; p. 9: UPI;
 pp. 10-13, photographs taken by unidentified members of rescue team; pp.
 14-15, Dale Walker; p. 16: top, Dale Walker; bottom, unidentified member of
 rescue team.
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 CAST OF CHARACTERS

 DALLAS
Ross Perot, Chairman of the Board, Electronic Data Systems Corporation,
 Dallas, Texas
 Merv Stauffer, Perot's right-hand man
 T. J. Marquez, a vice-president of EDS
 Tom Walter, chief financial officer of EDS
Mitch Hart, a former president of EDS who had good connections in the
 Democratic party
 Tom Luce, founder of the Dallas law firm Hughes & Hill
 Bill Gayden, president of EDS World, a subsidiary of EDS
 Mort Meyerson, a vice-president of EDS

 TEHRAN
Paul Chiapparone, Country Manager, EDS Corporation Iran; Ruthie Chiapparone,
 his wife
 Bill Gaylord, Paul's deputy; Endly Gaylord, Bill's wife
 Lloyd Briggs, Paul's Number 3
Rich Gallagher, Paul's administrative assistant; Cathy Gallagher, Rich's
 wife; Buffy, Cathy's poodle
Paul Bucha, formerly Country Manager of EDS Corporation Iran, latterly based
 in Paris
 Bob Young, Country Manager for EDS in Kuwait
 John Howell, lawyer with Hughes & Hill
 Keane Taylor, manager of the Bank Orman project

 THE TEAM
 Lt. Col. Arthur D. "Bull" Simons, in command
 Jay Coburn, second-in-command
 Ron Davis, point
 Ralph Boulware, shotgun
 Joe Pochk, driver
 Glenn Jackson, driver
 Pat Sculley, flank
 Jim Schwebach, flank and explosives

 THE IRANIANS
 Abolhasan, Lloyd Briggs's deputy and the most senior Iranian
  employee
 Majid, assistant to Jay Coburn; Fara, Majid's daughter
 Rashid
 Seyyed  trainee systems engineers
 "the Cycle Man" I
 Gholam, personnel/purchasing officer under Jay Coburn
 Hosain Dadpr, examining magistrate

 AT THE U.S. EMBASSY
 William Sullivan, Ambassador
 Charles Naas, Minister Counselor, Sullivan's deputy
 Lou Goelz, Consul General
 Bob Sorenson, Embassy official
 Ali Jordan, Iranian employed by the Embassy
 Barry Rosen, press attach6

 ISTANBUL

 "Mr. Fish," resourceful travel agent
 Ilsman, employee of MIT, the Turkish intelligence agency
 "Charlie Brown," interpreter

 WASHINGTON

 Zbignkw Brzezinski, National Security Advisor Cyrus Vance, Secretary of
 State David Newsom, Undersecretary at the State Department Henry Precht,
 head of the h-an Desk at the State Department Mark Ginsberg, White
 House-State Department liaison Admiral Tom Moorer, former Chairman of the
 Joint Chiefs of Staff
           PREFACE

 This is a true story about a group of people who, accused of crimes they did
 not commit, decided to make their own justice.
  When the adventure was over there was a court case, and they were cleared
  of all charges. The case is not part of my story, but because it
  established their innocence I have included details of the court's Findings
  and Judgment as an appendix to this book.
  In telling the story I have taken two small liberties with the truth.
  Several people are referred to by pseudonyms or nicknames, usually to
  protect them from the revenge of the government of Iran. The false names
  are: Majid, Fara, Abolhasan, Mr. Fish, Deep Throat, Rashid, the Cycle Man,
  Mehdi, Malek, Gholam, Seyyed, and Charlie Brown. All other names are real.
  Secondly, in recalling conversations that took place three or four years
  ago, people rarely remember the exact words used; furthermore, real-Iffe
  conversation, with its gestures and interruptions and unfinished sentences,
  often makes no sense when it is written down. So the dialogue in this book
  is both reconstructed and edited. However, every reconstructed conversation
  has been shown to at least one of the participants for correction or
  approval.
  With those two qualifications, I believe every word of what follows is
  true. This is not a "fictionalization" or a "nonfiction novel. " I have not
  invented anything. What you are about to read is what really happened.
 I bare you on eagles' wings, and brought you unto myself.
       -EXODUS 19:4
             ONE

 It all started on December 5, 1978.
  Jay Coburn, Director of Personnel for EDS Corporation Iran, sat in his
  office in uptown Tehran with a lot on his mind.
  The office was in a three-story concrete building known as Bucharest
  (because it was in an alley off Bucharest Street). Coburn was on the second
  floor, in a room large by American standards. It had a parquet floor, a
  smart wood executive desk, and a picture of the Shah on the wall. He sat
  with his back to the window. Through the glass door he could see into the
  open-plan office where his staff sat at typewriters and telephones. The
  glass door had curtains, but Coburn never closed them.
  It was cold. It was always cold: thousands of Iranians were on strike, the
  city's power supply was intermittent, and the heating was off for several
  hours most days.
  Coburn was a tall, broad-shouldered man, five feet eleven inches and two
  hundred pounds. His red-brown hair was cut businessman-short and carefully
  combed, with a part. Although he was only thirty-two, he looked nearer to
  forty. On closer examination his youth showed in his attractive, open face
  and ready smile; but he had an air of early maturity, the look of a man who
  grew up too fast.
  All his life he had shouldered responsibility: as a boy, working in his
  father's flower shop; at the age of twenty, as a helicopter pilot in
  Vietnam; as a young husband and father; and now, as Personnel Director,
  holding in his hands the safety of 131 American employees and their 220
  dependents in a city where mob violence ruled the streets.
  Today, like every day, he was making phone calls around Tehran trying to
  find out where the fighting was, where it would
                13
 14         Ken Folleu

 break out next, and what the prospects were for the next few days.
  He called the U.S. Embassy at least once a day. The Embassy had an
  information room that was manned twenty-four hours a day. Americans would
  call in from different areas of the city to report demonstrations and
  riots, and the Embassy would spread the news that this district or that was
  to be avoided. But for advance information and advice Coburn found the
  Embassy close to useless. At weekly briefings, which he attended
  faidifully, he would always be told that Americans should stay indoors as
  much as possible and keep away from crowds at all costs, but that the Shah
  was in control and evacuation was not recommended at this time. Coburn
  understood their probleni--if the U.S. Embassy said the Shah was tottering,
  the Shah would surely fall--but they were so cautious they hardly gave out
  any information at all. Disenchanted with the Embassy, the American
  business community in Tehran had set up its own information network. The
  biggest U.S. corporation in town was Bell Helicopter, whose Iran operation
  was run by a retired major general, Robert N. Mackinnon. Mackinnon had a
  first-class intelligence service and he shared everything. Coburn also knew
  a couple of intelligence officers in the U.S. military and he called them.
  Today the city was relatively quiet: There were no major demonstrations.
  The last outbreak of serious trouble had been three days earlier, on
  December 2, the first day of the general strike, when seven hundred people
  had been reported killed in street fighting. According to Coburn's sources
  the lull could be expected to continue until December 10, the Muslim holy
  day of Ashura.
  Coburn was worried about Ashura. The Muslim winter holiday was not a bit
  like Christmas. A day of fasting and mourning for the death of the
  Prophet's grandson Husayn, its keynote was remorse. There would be massive
  street processions, during which the more devout believers would flog
  themselves. In that aftnosphere hysteria and violence could erupt fast.
  This year, Coburn feared, the violence might be directed against Americans.
  A series of nasty incidents had convinced him that anti-American feeling
  was growing rapidly. A card had been pushed through his door saying: "If
  you value your life and possessions, get out of Iran." Friends of his had
  received similar postcards. Spray-can artists had painted "Americans live
  here" on the wall of his
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    15

 house. The bus that took his children to the Tehran American School had been
 rocked by a crowd of demonstrators. Other EDS employees had been yelled at
 in the streets and had their cars damaged. One scary afternoon Iranians at
 the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare-EDS's biggest customer--had gone
 on the rampage, smashing windows and burning pictures of the Shah, while EDS
 executives in the building barricaded themselves inside an office until the
 mob went away.
  In some ways the most sinister development was the change in the attitude
  of Coburn's landlord.
  Like most Americans in Tehran, Coburn rented half of a two-family home: he
  and his wife and children lived upstairs, and the landlord's family lived
  on the ground floor. When the Coburns had arrived, in March of that year,
  the landlord had taken them under his wing. The two families had become
  friendly. Coburn and the landlord discussed religion: the landlord gave him
  an English translation of the Koran, and the landlord's daughter would read
  to her father out of Coburn's Bible. They all went on weekend trips to the
  countryside together. Scott, Coburn's sevenyear-old son, played soccer in
  the street with the landlord's boys. One weekend the Coburns had the rare
  privilege of attending a Muslim wedding. It had been fascinating. Men and
  women had been segregated all day, so Coburn and Scott went with the men,
  Coburn's wife Liz and their three daughters went with the women, and Coburn
  never got to see the bride at all.
  After the summer, things had gradually changed. The weekend trips stopped.
  The landlord's sons were forbidden to play with Scott in the street.
  Eventually all contact between the two families ceased even within the
  confines of the house and its courtyard, and the children would be
  reprimanded for just speaking to Coburn's family.
  The landlord had not suddenly started hating Americans. One evening he had
  proved that he still cared for the Coburns. There had been a shooting
  incident in the street: one of his sons had been out after curfew, and
  soldiers had fired at the boy as he ran home and scrambled over the
  courtyard wall. Coburn and Liz had watched the whole thing from their
  upstairs verandah, and Liz had been scared. The landlord had come up to
  tell them what had happened and to reassure them that all was well. But he
  clearly felt that for the safety of his family he could not be seen to be
  friendly with Americans: he knew which way the wind was blowing. For Coburn
  it was yet another bad sign.
 16         Ken FoUett

  Now, Coburn heard on the grapevine, there was wild talk in the mosques and
  bazaars of a holy war against Americans beginning on Ashura. It was five
  days away, yet the Americans in Tehran were surprisingly calm.
  Coburn remembered when the curfew had been introduced: it had not even
  interfered with the monthly EDS poker game. He and his fellow gamblers had
  simply brought their wives and children, turned it into a slumber party,
  and stayed until morning. They had got used to the sound of gunfire. Most
  of the heavy fighting was in the older, southern sector where the bazaar
  was, and in the area around the University; but everyone heard shots from
  tune to tune. After the first few occasions they had become curiously
  indifferent to it. Whoever was speaking would pause, then continue when the
  shooting stopped, just as he might in the States when a jet aim-raft passed
  overhead. It was as if they could not imagine that shots might be aimed at
  them.
  Coburn was not blas6 about gunfire. He had been shot at rather a lot during
  his young life. In Vietnam he had piloted both helicopter gunships, in
  support of ground operations, and trooptsupply-carrying ships, landing and
  taking off in battlefields. He had killed people, and he had seen men die.
  In those days the army,gave an Air Medal for every twenty-five hours of
  combat flying: Coburn had come home with thirty-nine of them. He also got
  two Distinguished Flying Crosses, a Silver Star, and a bullet in the
  calf---the most vulnerable part of a helicopter pilot. He had learned,
  during that year, that he could handle himself pretty well in action, when
  there was so much to do and no time to be frightened; but every time he
  returned from a mission, when it was all over and he could think about what
  he had done, his knees would shake.
  in a strange way he was grateful for the experience. He had grown up fast,
  and it had given him an edge over his contemporaries in business life. It
  had also given him a healthy respect for the sound of gunfire.
  But most of his colleagues did not feel that way, nor did their wives.
  Whenever evacuation was discussed they resisted the idea. They had time,
  work, and pride invested in EDS Corporation Iran, and they did not want to
  walk away from it. Their wives had turned the rented apartments into real
  homes, and they were making p1m for Christmas. The children had their
  schools, their friends, their bicycles, and their pets. Surely, they were
  telling themselves, if we just lie low and hang on, the trouble will blow
  over.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    17

  Coburn had tried to persuade Liz to take the kids back to the States, not
  just for their safety, but because the time might come when he would have
  to evacuate some 350 people all at once, and he would need to give that job
  his complete undivided attention, without being distracted by private
  anxiety for his own family. Liz had refused to go.
  He sighed when he thought of Liz. She was funny and feisty and everyone
  enjoyed her company, but she was not a good corporate wife. EDS demanded a
  lot from its executives: if you needed to work all night to get the job
  done, you worked all night. Liz resented that. Back in the Stite~, working
  as a recruiter, Coburn had often been away from home Monday to Friday,
  traveling all over the country, and she had hated it. She was happy in
  Tehran because he was home every night. If he was going to stay here, she
  said, so was she. The children liked it here, too. It was the first time
  they had lived outside the United States, and they were intrigued by the
  different language and culture of Iran. Kim, the eldest at eleven, was too
  full of confidence to get worried. Kristi, the eight-year-old, was somewhat
  anxious, but then she was the emotional one, always the quickest to
  overreact. Both Scott, seven, and Kelly, the baby at four, were too young
  to comprehend the danger. ,
  So they stayed, like everyone else, and waited for things to get better--or
  worse.
  Coburn's thoughts were interrupted by a tap at the door, and Majid walked
  in. A short, stocky man of about fifty with a luxuriant mustache, he had
  once been wealthy: his tribe had owned a great deal of land and had lost it
  in the land reform of the sixties. Now he worked for Coburn as an
  administrative assistant, dealing with the Iranian bureaucracy. He spoke
  fluent English and was highly resourceful. Coburn liked him a lot: Majid
  had gone out of his way to be helpful when Coburn's family arrived in Iran.
 "Come in," Coburn said. "Sit down. What's on your mind?"
 "It's about Fara."
  Coburn nodded. Fara was Majid's daughter, and she worked with her father-
  Her job was to make sure that all American employees always had up-to-date
  visas and work permits. "Some problem?" Coburn said.
  "The police asked her to take two American passports from our files without
  telling anyone."
 Coburn frowned. "Any passports in particular?"
 18        Ken Follett

 "Paul Chiapparone's and Bill Gaylord's.-
  Paul was Coburn's boss, the head of EDS Corporation Iran. Bill was
  second-in-command and manager of their biggest project, the contract with
  the Ministry of Health. "What the hell is going on?" Coburn said.
  "Fara is in great danger," Majid said. "She was instructed not to tell
  anyone about this. She came to me for advice. Of course I had to tell you,
  but I'm afraid she will get into very serious trouble."
  "Wait a minute, let's back up," Coburn said. "How did this happen?"
  "She got a telephone call this morning from the Police Department,
  Residence Permit Bureau, American Section. They asked her to come to the
  office. They said it was about James Nyfeler. She thought it was routine.
  She arrived at the office at eleven-thirty and reported to the head of the
  American Section. First he asked for Mr. Nyfeler's passport and residence
  permit. She told him that Mr. Nyfeler is no longer in Iran. Then he asked
  about Paul Bucha. She said that Mr. Bucha also was no longer in the
  country."
 'Did she?"
 'Yes. 11
  Bucha was in Iran, but Fara might not have known that, Coburn thought.
  Bucha had been resident here, had left the country, and had come back in,
  briefly: he was due to fly back to Paris tomorrow.
  Majid continued: "The officer then said, 'I suppose the other two are gone
  alsoT Fara saw that he had four files on his desk, and she asked which
  other two. He told her Mr. Chiapparone and Mr. Gaylord. She said she had
  just picked up Mr. Gaylord's residence permit earlier this morning. The
  officer told her to get the passports and residence permits of both Mr.
  Gaylord and Mr. Chiapparone and bring them to him. She was to do it
  quietly, not to cause alarm."
 "What did she say?" Coburn asked.
  "She told him she could not bring them today. He instructed her to bring
  them tomorrow morning. He told her she was officially responsible for this,
  and he made sure there were witnesses to these instructions."
 "This doesn't make any sense," Coburn said.
 "If they learn that Fara has disobeyed them-"
 "We'll think of a way to protect her," Coburn said. He was
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    19

 wondefing whether Americans were obliged to surrender their passports on
 demand. He had done so, recently, after a minor car accident, but had later
 been told he did not have to. "They didn't say why they wanted the
 passports?"
 "They did not. "
  Bucha and Nyfeler were the predecessors of Chiapparone and Gaylord. Was
  that a clue? Coburn did not know.
  Coburn stood up. "The first decision we have to make is what Fara is going
  to tell the police tomorrow morning," he said. "I'll talk to Paul
  Chiapparone and get back to you."

 On the ground floor of the building Paul Chiapparone sat in his office. He,
 too, had a parquet floor, an executive desk, a picture of the Shah on the
 wall, and a lot on his mind.
  Paul was thirty-nine years old, of middle height, and a little overweight,
  mainly because he was fond of good food. With his olive skin and thick
  black hair he looked very Italian. His job was to build a complete modem
  social-security system in a primitive country. It was not easy.
  In the early seventies Iran had had a rudimentary socialsecurity system,
  which was inefficient at collecting contributions and so easy to defraud
  that one man could draw benefits several times over for the same illness.
  When the Shah decided to spend some of his twenty billion dollars a year in
  oil revenues creating a welfare state, EDS got the contract. EDS ran
  Medicare and Medicaid programs for several states in the U.S., but in Iran
  they had to start from scratch. They had to issue a social-security card to
  each of Iran's thirty-two million people, organize payroll deductions so
  that wage earners paid their contributions, and process claims for
  benefits. The whole system would be nin by computers-EDS's specialty.
  The difference between installing a data-processing system in the States
  and doing the same job in Iran was, Paul found, like the difference between
  making a cake from a packaged mix and making one the old-fashioned way with
  all the original ingredients. It was often frustrating. Iranians did not
  have the can-do attitude of American business executives, and often seemed
  to create problems instead of solving them. At EDS headquarters back in
  Dallas, Texas, not only were people expected to do the impossible, but it
  was usually due yesterday. Here in Iran everything was impossible and in
  any case not due until fardah--usually translated "tomorrow," in practice,
  "some time in the future."
 20        Ken Follett

  Paul had attacked the problems in the only way he knew: by hard work and
  determination. He was no intellectual genius. As a boy he had found
  schoolwork difficult, but his Italian father, with the immigrant's typical
  faith in education, had pressured him to study, and he had got good grades.
  Sheer persistence had served him well ever since. He could remember the
  early days of EDS in the States, back in the sixties, when every new
  contract could make or break the company; and he had helped build it into
  one of the most dynamic and successful corporations in the world. The
  Iranian operation would go the same way, he had been sure, particularly
  when Jay Coburn's recruitment and training program began to deliver more
  Iranians capable of top management.
  He had been all wrong, and he was only just beginning to understand why.
  When he and his family arrived in Iran, in August 1977, the petrodollar
  boom was already over. The government was running out of money. That year
  an anti-inflation program increased unemployment just when a bad harvest
  was driving yet more starving peasants into the cities. The tyrannical rule
  of the Shah was weakened by the human-rights policies of American President
  Jimmy Carter. The time was ripe for political unrest.
  For a while Paul did not take much notice of local politics. He knew there
  were rumblings of discontent, but that was true of just about every country
  in the world, and the Shah seemed to have as firm a grip on the reins of
  power as any ruler. Like the rest of the world, Paul missed the
  significance of the events of the first half of 1978.
  On January 7 the newspaper Eteldat published a scurrilous attack on an
  exiled clergyman called Ayatollah Khomemi, alleging, among other things,
  that he was homosexual. The following day, eighty miles from Tehran in the
  town of Qom---the principal center of religious education in the
  country---outraged theology students staged a protest sit-in that was
  bloodily broken up by the military and the police. The confrontation
  escalated, and seventy people were killed in two more days of disturbances.
  The clergy organized a memorial procession for the dead forty days later in
  accordance with Islamic tradition. There was more violence during the
  procession, and the dead were commemorated in another memorial forty days
  later.... The processions continued, and grew larger and more violent,
  through the first six months of the year.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    21

  With hindsight Paul could see that calling these marches "funeral
  processions" had been a way to circumvent the Shah's ban on political
  demonstrations. But at the time he had had no idea that a massive political
  movement was building. Nor had anyone else.
  In August 1978 Paul went home to the States on leave. (So did William
  Sullivan, the U.S. Ambassador to Iran.) Paul loved all kinds of water
  sports, and he had gone to a sports fishing tournament in Ocean City, New
  Jersey, with his cousin Joe Porreca. Paul's wife, Ruthie, and the children,
  Karen and Ann Marie, went to Chicago to visit Ruthie's parents. Paul was a
  little anxious because the Ministry of Health still had not paid EDS's bill
  for the month of June; but it was not the first time they had been late
  with a payment, and Paul had left the problem in the hands of his
  second-in-command, Bill Gaylord, and he was fairly confident Bill would get
  the money in.
  While Paul was in the U.S. the news from Iran was bad. Martial law was
  declared on September 7, and the following day more than a hundred people
  were killed by soldiers during a demonstration in Jaleh Square in the heart
  of Tehran.
  When the Chiapparone fan-dly came back to Iran the very air seemed
  different. For the first time Paul and Ruthie could hear shooting in the
  streets at night. They were alarmed: suddenly they realized that trouble
  for the Iranians meant trouble for them. There was a series of strikes. The
  electricity was continually being cut off, so they dined by candlelight and
  Paul wore his topcoat in the office to keep warm. It became more and more
  difficult to get money out of the banks, and Paul started a check-cashing
  service at the office for employees. When they got low on heating oil for
  their home Paul had to walk around the streets until he found a tanker,
  then bribe the driver to come to the house and deliver.
  His business problems were worse. The Minister of Health and Social
  Welfare, Dr. Sheikholeslamizadeh, had been arrested under Article 5 of
  martial law, which permitted a prosecutor to jail anyone without giving a
  reason. Also in jail was Deputy Minister Reza Neghabat, with whom Paul had
  worked closely. The Ministry still had not paid its June bill, nor any
  since, and now owed EDS more than four million dollars.
  For two months Paul tried to get the money. The individuals he had dealt
  with previously had all gone. Their replacements usually did not return his
  calls. Sometimes someone would promise to look into the problem and call
  back: after waiting a
 22        Ken Follett

 week for the call that never came, Paul would telephone once again, to be
 told that the person he had spoken to last week had now left the Ministry.
 Meetings would be arranged, then canceled. The debt mounted at the rate of
 $1.4 million a month.
  On November 14 Paul wrote to Dr. Heidargholi Emrani, the Deputy Minister in
  charge of the Social Security Organization, giving formal notice that if
  the Ministry did not pay up within a month EDS would stop work. The threat
  was repeated on December 4 by Paul's boss, the president of EDS World, at
  a personal meeting with Dr. Emrani.
 That was yesterday.
  If EDS pulled out, the whole Iranian social-security system would collapse.
  Yet it was becoming more and more apparent that the country was bankrupt
  and simply could not pay its bills. What, Paul wondered, would Dr. Emrani
  do now?
  He was still wondering when Jay Coburn walked in with the answer.

 At first, however, it did not occur to Paul that the attempt to steal his
 passport might have been intended to keep him, and therefore EDS, in Iran.
  When Coburn had given him the facts he said: "What the hell did they do
  that for?"
 "I don't know. Majid doesn't know, and Fara doesn't know."
  Paul looked at him. The two men had become close in the last month. For the
  rest of the employees Paul was putting on a brave face, but with Coburn he
  had been able to close the door and say, Okay, what do you really think?
  Coburn said: "The first question is, What do we do about Fara? She could be
  in trouble."
 "She has to give them some kind of an answer."
 "A show of cooperationT I
  "She could go back and tell them that Nyfeler and Bucha are no longer
  resident . . . "
 "She already told them."
 "She could take their exit visas as proof."
  "Yeah," Coburn said dubiously. "But it's you and Bill they're really
  interested in now."
 "She could say that the passports aren't kept in the office."
  "They may know that's not true-Fara may even have taken passports down
  there in the past."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    23

  "Say senior executives don't have to keep their passports in the office."
 "'Mat might work."
  "Any convincing story to the effect that she was physically unable to do
  what they asked her."
  "Good. I'll discuss it with her and Majid.- Coburn thought for a moment.
  "You know, Bucha has a reservation on a flight out tomorrow. He could just
  go. "
 "He probably should--they think he's not here anyway."
 "You could do the same."
  Paul reflected. Maybe he should get out now. What would the Iranians do
  then? They might just try to detain someone else. "No, " he said. " If
  we're going, I should be the last to leave.
 "Are we going?" Coburn asked.
  "I don't know." Every day for weeks they had asked each other that
  question. Coburn had developed an evacuation plan that could be put into
  effect instantly. Paul had been hesitating, with his finger on the button.
  He knew that his ultimate boss, back in Dallas, wanted him to evacuate-but
  it meant abandoning the project on which he had worked so hard for the last
  sixteen months. "I don't know," he repeated. "I'll call Dallas."

 That night Coburn was at home, in bed with Liz, and fast asleep when the
 phone rang.
 He picked it up in the dark. "Yeah?"
 "This is Paul."
  "Hello." Coburn turned on the light and looked at his wristwatch. It was
  two A.M.
 "We're going to evacuate," Paul said.
 "You got it.-
  Coburn cradled the phone and sat on the edge of the bed. In a way it was a
  relief. There would be two or three days of frantic activity, but then he
  would know that the people whose safety had been worrying him for so long
  were back in the States, out of reach of these crazy Iranians.
  He ran over in his mind the plans he had made for just this moment. First
  he had to inform 130 families that they would be leaving the country
  within. the next 48 hours. He had divided the city into sectors, with a
  team leader for each sector: he would call the leaders, and it would be
  their job to call the families. He had drafted leaflets for the evacuees
  telling them where to go and
 24        Ken Follett

 what to do. He just had to fill in the blanks with dates, times, and flight
 numbers, then have the leaflets duplicated and distributed.
  He had picked a lively and imaginative young Iranian systems
 engineer, Rashid, and given him the job of taking care of the
 homes, cars, and pets that would be left behind by the fleeing
 Americans and--eventually --- shipping their possessions to the
 U.S. He had appointed a small logistics group to organize plane
 tickets and transportation to the airport.
  Finally he had conducted a small-scale rehearsal of the evacuation with a
  few people. It had worked.
  Coburn got dressed and made coffee. There was nothing he could do for the
  next couple of hours, but he was too anxious and impatient to sleep.
  At four A.m. he called the half-dozen members of the logistics group, woke
  them, and told them to meet him at the "Bucharest" office immediately after
  curfew.
  Curfew began at nine each evening and ended at five in the morning. For an
  hour Coburn sat waiting, smoking and drinking a lot of coffee and going
  over his notes.
  When the cuckoo clock in the hall chirped five he was at the front door,
  ready to go.
  Outside there was a thick fog. He got into his car and headed for
  Bucharest, crawling along at fifteen miles per hour.
  Three blocks from his house, half a dozen soldiers leaped out of the fog
  and stood in a semicircle in front of his car, pointing their rifles at his
  windshield.
 "Oh, shit," Coburn said.
  One of the soldiers was still loading his gun. He was trying to put the
  clip in backward, and it would not fit. He dropped it and went down on one
  knee, scrabbling around on the ground looking for it. Coburn would have
  laughed if he had not been scared.
  An officer yelled at Coburn in Farsi. Coburn lowered the window. He showed
  the officer his wristwatch and said: "It's after five."
  The soldiers had a conference. The officer came back and asked Coburn for
  his identification.
  Coburn waited anxiously. This would be the worst possible day to get
  arrested. Would the officer believe that Coburn's watch was right and his
  was wrong?
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    25

  At last the soldiers got out of the road and the officer waved Coburn on.
  Coburn breathed a sigh of relief and drove slowly on. Iran was like that.

   2

 Coburn's logistics group went to work making plane reservations, chartering
 buses to take people to the airport, and photocopying handout leaflets. At
 ten A.M. Coburn got the team leaders into Bucharest and started them calling
 the evacuees.
  He got reservations for most of them on a Pan Am flight to Istanbul on
  Friday, December 8. The remainder-including Liz Coburn and the four
  children-would get a Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt that same day.
  As soon as the reservations were confirmed, two top executives at EDS
  headquarters, Merv Stauffer and T. J. Marquez, left Dallas for Istanbul to
  meet the evacuees, shepherd them to hotels, and organize the next stage of
  their flight back home.
  During the day there was a small change in plan. Paul was still reluctant
  to abandon his work in Iran. He proposed that a skeleton staff of about ten
  senior men stay behind, to keep the office ticking over, in the hope that
  Iran would quiet down and EDS would eventually be able to resume working
  normally. Dallas agreed. Among those who volunteered to stay were Paul
  himself, his deputy Bill Gaylord, Jay Coburn, and most of Coburn's
  evacuation logistics group. Two people who stayed behind rehictantly were
  Carl and Vicki Commons: Vicki was nine months pregnant and would leave
  after her baby was born.
  On Friday morning Coburn's team, their pockets full of tenthousand-rial
  (about $140) notes for bribes, virtually took over a section of Mehrabad
  Airport in western Tehran. Coburn had people writing tickets behind the Pan
  Am counter, people at passport control, people in the departure lounge, and
  people running baggage-handling equipment. The plane was overbooked: bribes
  ensured that no one from EDS was bumped off the flight.
  There were two especially tense moments. An EDS wife with an Australian
  passport had been unable to get an exit visa because the Iranian government
  offices that issued exit visas
 26        Ken Follett

 were all on strike. (Her husband and children had American passports and
 therefore did not need exit visas.) When the husband reached the
 passport-control desk, he handed over his passport and his children's in a
 stack with six or seven other passports. As the guard tried to sort them
 out, EDS people in the queue behind began to push forward and cause a
 commotion. Some of Coburn's team gathered around the desk asking loud
 questions and pretending to get angry about the delay. In the confusion the
 woman with the Australian passport walked through the departure lounge
 without being stopped.
  Another EDS family had adopted an Iranian baby and had not yet been able to
  get a passport for the child. Only a few months old, the baby would fall
  asleep, lying face down, on its mother's forearm. Another EDS wife, Kathy
  Marketos--of whom it was said that she would try anything once-put the
  sleeping baby on her own forearm, draped her raincoat over it, and carried
  it onto the plane.
  However, it was many hours before anyone got on a plane. Both flights were
  delayed. There was no food to be bought at the airport and the evacuees
  were famished, so just before curfew some of Coburn's team drove around the
  city buying anything edible they could find. They purchased the entire
  contents of several kuche stalls--streetcomer stands that sold candy,
  fruit, and cigarettes-and they went into a Kentucky Fried Chicken and did
  a deal for its stock of bread rolls. Back at the airport, passing food out
  to EDS people in the departure lounge, they were almost mobbed by the other
  hungry passengers waiting for the same flights. On the way back downtown
  two of the team were caught and arrested for being out after curfew-but the
  soldier who stopped them got distracted by another car, which tried to
  escape, and the EDS men drove off while he was shooting the other way.
  The Istanbul flight left just after midnight. The Frankfurt flight took off
  the next day, thirty-one hours late.
  Coburn and most of the team spent the night at Bucharest. They had no one
  to go home to.

 While Coburn was running the evacuation, Paul had been trying to find out
 who wanted to confiscate his passport and why.
  His administrative assistant, Rich Gallagher, was a young American who was
  good at dealing with the Iranian bureaucracy. Gallagher was one of those
  who had volunteered to stay in
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    27

 Tehran. His wife, Cathy, had also stayed behind. She had a good job with the
 U.S. military in Tehran. The Gallaghers did not want to leave. Furthermore,
 they had no children to worry about-just a poodle called Buffy.
  The day Fara was asked to take the passports-December 5 --Gallagher visited
  the U.S. Embassy with one of the people whose passports had been demanded:
  Paul Bucha, who no longer worked in Iran but happened to be in town on a
  visit.
  They met with Consul General Lou Goelz. Goelz, an experienced consul in his
  fifties, was a portly, balding man with a fringe of white hair: he would
  have made a good Santa Claus. With Goelz was an Iranian member of the
  consular staff, Ali Jordan.
  Goelz advised Bucha to catch his plane. Fara had told the police-4n all
  innocence-4hat Bucha was not in Iran, and they had appeared to believe her.
  There was every chance that Bucha could sneak out.
  Goelz also offered to hold the passports and residence permits of Paul and
  Bill for safekeeping. That way, if the police made a formal demand for the
  documents, EDS would be able to refer them to the Embassy.
  Meanwhile, Ali Jordan would contact the police and try to find out what the
  hell was going on.
  Later that day the passports and papers were delivered to the Embassy.
  The next morning Bucha caught Ins plane and got out. Gallagher called the
  Embassy. Ali Jordan had talked to General Biglari of the Tehran Police
  Department. Biglari had said that Paul and Bill were being detained in the
  country and would be arrested if they tried to leave.
 Gallagher asked why.
  They were being held as "material witnesses in an investigation," Jordan
  understood.
 "What investigation?"
 Jordan did not know.
  Paul was puzzled, as well as anxious, when Gallagher reported all this. He
  had not been involved in a road accident, had not witnessed a crime, had no
  connections with the CIA ... Who or what was being investigated? EDS? Or
  was the investigation just an excuse for keeping Paul and Bill in Iran so
  that they would continue to run the social-security system's computers?
 The police had made one concession. Ali Jordan had argued
 28        Ken Follett

 that the police were entitled to confiscate the residence permits, which
 were the property of the Iranian government, but not the passports, which
 were U.S. government property. General Biglari had conceded this.
  The next day Gallagher and Ali Jordan went to the police station to hand
  the documents over to Biglari. On the way Gallagher asked Jordan whether he
  thought there was a chance Paul and Bill would be accused of wrongdoing.
 "I doubt that very much," said Jordan.
  At the police station the general warned Jordan that the Embassy would be
  held responsible if Paul and Bill left the country by any mean&-such as a
  U.S. military aircraft.
  The following day-December 8, the day of the evacuationLou Goetz called
  EDS. He had found out, through a "source" at the Iranian Ministry of
  Justice, that the investigation in which Paul and Bill were supposed to be
  material witnesses was an investigation into corruption charges against the
  jailed Minister of Health, Dr. Sheikholeslamizadeh-
  It was something of a relief to Paul to know, at last, what the whole thing
  was about. He could happily tell the investigators the truth: EDS had paid
  no bribes. He doubted whether anyone had bribed the Minister. Iranian
  bureaucrats were notoriously corrupt, but Dr. Sheik-as Paul called him for
  short--seemed to come from a different mold. An orthopedic surgeon by
  training, he had a perceptive mind and an impressive ability to master
  detail. In the Ministry of Health he had surrounded himself with a group of
  progressive young technocrats who found ways to cut through red tape and
  get things done. The EDS project was only part of his ambitious plan to
  bring Iranian health and welfare services up to American standards. Paul
  did not think Dr. Sheik was lining his own pockets at the same time.
  Paul had nothing to fear-if Goetz's "source" was telling the truth. But was
  he? Dr. Sheik had been arrested three months Ago. Was it a coincidence that
  the Iranians had suddenly realized that Paul and Bill were material
  witnesses when Paul told them that EDS would leave Iran unless the Ministry
  paid its bills?
  After the evacuation the remaining EDS men moved into two houses and stayed
  there, playing poker, during December 10 and 11, the holy days of Ashura.
  There was a high-stakes house and a low-stakes house. Both Paul and Coburn
  were at the high-stakes house. For protection they invited Coburn's
  "spooks"--his two contacts in military intelligence.---who carried guns. No
  weapons
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    29

 were allowed at the poker table, so the spooks had to leave their firearms
 in the hall.
  Contrary to expectations, Ashura passed relatively peacefully: millions of
  Iranians attended anti-Shah demonstrations all over the country, but there
  was little violence.
  After Ashura, Paul and Bill again considered skipping the country, but they
  were in for a shock. As a preliminary they asked Lou Goelz at the Embassy
  to give them back their passports. Goelz said that if he did that he would
  be obliged to inform General Biglari. That would amount to a warning to the
  police that Paul and Bill were trying to sneak out.
  Goelz insisted that he had told EDS, when he took the passports, that this
  was his deal with the police; but he must have said it rather quietly,
  because no one could remember it.
  Paul was furious. Why had Goelz had to make any kind of deal with the
  police? He was under no obligation to tell them what he did with an
  American passport. It was not his job to help the police detain Paul and
  Bill in Iran, for God's sake! The Embassy was there to help Americans,
  wasn't it?
  Couldn't Goelz renege on his stupid agreement, and return the passports
  quietly, perhaps informing the police a couple of days later, when Paul and
  Bill were safely home? Absolutely not, said Goelz. If he quarreled with the
  police they would make trouble for everyone else, and Goelz had to worry
  about the other twelve thousand Americans still in Iran. Besides, the names
  of Paul and Bill were now on the "stop list" held by the airport police:
  even with all their documents in order they would never get through
  passport control.
  When the news that Paul and Bill were well and truly stuck in Iran reached
  Dallas, EDS and its lawyers went into high gear. Their Washington contacts
  were not as good as they would have been under a Republican administration,
  but they still had some friends. They talked to Bob Strauss, a high-powered
  White House troubleshooter who happened to be a Texan; Admiral Tom Moorer,
  a former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who knew many of the
  generals now running Iran's military government; and Richard Helms, past
  Director of the CIA and a former U.S. Ambassador to Iran. As a result of
  the pressure they put on the State Department, the U.S. Ambassador in
  Tehran, William Sullivan, raised the case of Paul and Bill in a meeting
  with the Iranian Prime Minister, General Azhari.
 None of this brought any results.
 30        Ken Follett

  The thirty days that Paul had given the Iranians to pay their bill ran out,
  and on December 16 he wrote to Dr. Emrani formally terminating the
  contract. But he had not given up. He asked a handful of evacuated
  executives to come back to Tehran, as a sign of EDS's willingness to try to
  resolve its problems with the Ministry. Some of the returning executives,
  encouraged by the peaceful Ashura, even brought their families back.
  Neither the Embassy nor EDS's lawyers in Tehran had been able to find out
  who had ordered Paul and Bill detained. It was Majid, Fara's father, who
  eventually got the information out of General Biglari. The investigator was
  Examining Magistrate Hosain Dadgar, a midlevel functionary within the
  office of the public prosecutor, in a department that dealt with crimes by
  civil servants and had very broad powers. Dadgar was conducting the inquiry
  into Dr. Sheik, the jailed former Minister of Health.
  Since the Embassy could not persuade the Iranians to let Paul and Bill
  leave the country, and would not give back their passports quietly, could
  they at least arrange for this Dadgar to question Paul and Bill as soon as
  possible so that they could go home for Christmas? Christmas did not mean
  much to the Iranians, said Goelz, but New Year did, so he would try to fix
  a meeting before then.
  During the second half of December the rioting started again (and the first
  thing the returning executives did was plan for a second evacuation). The
  general strike continued, and petroleum exports-the government's most
  important source of income-ground to a halt, reducing to zero EDS's chances
  of getting paid. So few Iranians turned up for work at the Ministry that
  there was nothing for the EDS men to do, and Paul sent half of them home to
  the States for Christmas.
  Paul packed his bags, closed up his house, and moved into the Hilton, ready
  to go home at the first opportunity.
  The city was thick with rumors. Jay Coburn fished up most of them in his
  net and brought the interesting ones to Paul. One more disquieting than
  most came from Bunny Fleischaker, an American girl with friends at the
  Ministry of Justice. Bunny had worked for EDS in the States, and she kept
  in touch here in Tehran although she was no longer with the company. She
  called Coburn to say that the Ministry of Justice planned to arrest Paul
  and Bill.
  Paul discussed this with Coburn. It contradicted what they were hearing
  from the U.S. Embassy. The Embassy's advice
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    31

 was surely better than Bunny Fleischaker's, they agreed. They decided to
 take no action.
  Paul spent Christmas Day quietly, with a few colleagues, at the home of Pat
  Sculley, a young EDS manager who had volunteered to return to Tehran.
  Sculley's wife, Mary, had also come back, and she cooked Christmas dinner.
  Paul missed Ruthie and the children.
  Two days after Christmas the Embassy called. They had succeeded in setting
  up a meeting for Paul and Bill with Examining Magistrate Hosain Dadgar. The
  meeting was to take place the following morning, December 28, at the
  Ministry of Health building on Eisenhower Avenue.

 Bill Gaylord came into Paul's office a little after nine, carrying a cup of
 coffee, dressed in the EDS uniform: business suit, white shirt, quiet tie,
 black brogue shoes.
  Like Paul, Bill was thirty-nine, of middle height, and stocky; but there
  the resemblance ended. Paul had dark coloring, heavy eyebrows, deepset
  eyes, and a big nose: in casual clothes he was often mistaken for an
  Iranian until he opened his mouth and spoke English with a New York accent.
  Bill had a flat, round face and very white skin: nobody would take him for
  anything but an Anglo.
  They had a lot in common. Both were Roman Catholic, although Bill was more
  devout. They loved good food. Both had trained as systems engineers and
  joined EDS in the n-dd-sixties, Bill in 1965 and Paul in 1966. Both had had
  splendid careers with EDS, but although Paul had joined a year later he was
  now senior to Bill. Bill knew the health-care business inside out, and he
  was a first-class "people manager," but he was not as pushy and dynamic as
  Paul. Bill was a deep thinker and a careful organizer. Paul would never
  have to worry about Bill making an important presentation: Bill would have
  prepared every word.
  They worked together well. When Paul was hasty, Bill would make him pause
  and reflect. When Bill wanted to plan his way around every bump in the
  road, Paul would tell him just to get in and drive.
  They had been acquainted in the States but had got to know one another well
  in the last nine months. When Bill had arrived in Tehran, last March, he
  had lived at the Chiapparones' house until his wife, Emily, and the
  children came over. Paul felt almost protective toward him: it was a shame
  that Bill had had nothing but problems here in Iran.
 32        Ken Follett

  Bill was much more worried by the rioting and the shooting than most of the
  others-perhaps because he had not been here long, perhaps because he was
  more of a worrier by nature. He also took the passport problem more
  seriously than Paul. At one time he had even suggested that the two of them
  take a train to the northeast of Iran and cross the border into Russia, on
  the grounds that nobody would expect American businessmen to escape via the
  Soviet Union.
  Bill also missed Emily and the children badly, and Paul felt somewhat
  responsible, because he had asked Bill to come to Iran.
  Still, it was almost over. Today they would see Mr. Dadgar and get their
  passports back. Bill had a reservation on a plane out tomorrow. Emily was
  planning a welcome-home party for him on New Year's Eve. Soon all this
  would seem like a bad dream.
 Paul smiled at Bill. "Ready to go?"
 "Any time."
  "Let's get Abolhasan." Paul picked up the phone. Abolhasan was the most
  senior Iranian employee, and advised Paul on Iranian business methods. The
  son of a distinguished lawyer, he was married to an American woman, and
  spoke very good English. One of his jobs was translating EDS's contracts
  into Farsi. Today he would translate for Paul and Bill at their meeting
  with Dadgar.
  He came immediately to Paul's office and the three men left. They did not
  take a lawyer with them. According to the Embassy this meeting would be
  routine, the questioning informal. To take lawyers along would not only be
  pointless, but might antagonize Mr. Dadgar and lead him to suspect that
  Paul and Bill had something to hide. Paul would have liked to have a member
  of the Embassy staff present, but this idea also had been turned down by
  Lou Goelz: it was not normal procedure to send Embassy representatives to
  a meeting such as this. However, Goelz had advised Paul and Bill to take
  with them documents establishing when they had come to Iran, what their
  official positions were, and the scope of their responsibilities.
  As the car negotiated its way through the usual insane Tehran traffic, Paul
  felt depressed. He was glad to be going home, but he hated to admit
  failure. He had come to Iran to build up EDS's business here, and he found
  himself dismantling it. Whatever way you looked at it the company's first
  overseas venture had been a failure. It was not Paul's fault that the
  government of Iran
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    33

 had run out of money, but that was small consolation: excuses did not make
 profits.
  They drove down the treelined Eisenhower Avenue, as -wide and straight as
  any American highway, and pulled into the courtyard of a square, ten-story
  building set back from the stieet and guarded by soldiers with automatic
  rifles. This was the Social Security Organization of the Ministry of Health
  and Social Welfare. It was to have been the powerhouse of the new Iranian
  welfare state: here, side by side, the Iranian government and EDS had
  worked to build a social-security system. EDS occupied the entire seventh
  floor-Bill's office was there.
  Paid, Bill, and Abolhasan showed their passes and went in. The corridors
  were duty and poorly decorated, and the building was cold: the heat was off
  again. They were directed to the office Mr. Dadgar was using.
  They found him in a small room with dirty walls, sitting behind an old gray
  steel desk. In front of him on the desk were a notebook and a pen. Through
  the window Paul could see the data center EDS was building next door.
  Abolhasan introduced everyone. There was an Iranian woman sitting on a
  chair beside Dadgar's desk: her name was Mrs. Nourbash, and she was
  Dadgar's interpreter.
  They all sat down on dilapidated metal chairs. Tea was served. Dadgar began
  to speak in Farsi. His voice was soft but rather deep, and his expression
  was blank. Paul studied him as he waited for the translation. Dadgar was a
  short, stocky man in his fifties, and for some reason he made Paul think of
  Archie Bunker. His complexion was dark and his hair was combed forward, as
  if to hide the fact that it was receding. He had a mustache and glasses,
  and he wore a sober suit.
  Dadgar finished speaking, and Abolhasan said: "He warns you that he has the
  power to arrest you if he finds your answers to his questions
  unsatisfactory. In case you did not realize this, he says you may postpone
  the interview to give your lawyers time to arrange bail
  Paul was surprised by this development, but he evaluated it fast, just like
  any other business decision. Okay, he thought, the worst thing that can
  happen is that he won't believe us and he will arrest us-but we're not
  murderers, we'll be out on bail in twenty-four hours. Then we might be
  confined to the country, and we would have to meet with our attorneys and
  try to work
 34          Ken FoIkU

 things out ... which is no worse than the situation we're in now.
 He looked at Bill. "What do you think?"
  Bill shrugged. "Goelz says this meeting is routine. The stuff about bad
  sounds like a formality--like reading you your rights. "
 Paul nodded. "And the last thing we want is a postponement."
 "Then let's get it over with."
  Paul turned to Mrs. Nourbash. "Please tell Mr. Dadgar that neither of us
  has committed a crune, and neither of us has any knowledge of anyone else
  committing a crime, so we are confident that no charges will be made
  against us, and we would like to get this finished up today so that we can
  go home.
 Mrs. Nourbash translated.
  Dadgar said he wanted first to interview Paul alone. Bill should come back
  in an hour.
 Bill left.

 Bill went up to his office on the seventh floor. He picked up the phone,
 called Bucharest, and reached Lloyd Briggs. Briggs was Number 3 in the
 hierarchy after Paul and Bill.
  "Dadgar says he has the power to arrest us," Bill told Briggs. "We might
  need to put up bail. Call the Iranian attorneys and find out what that
  means."
 "Sure," Briggs said. "Where are you?"
 "In my office here at the Ministry."
 "I'll get back to you."
  Bill hung up and waited. The idea of his being arrested was kind of
  ridiculous-4espite the widespread corruption of modem Iran, EDS had never
  paid bribes to get contacts. But even if bribes had been paid, Bill would
  not have paid them: his job was to deliver the product, not win the order.
  Briggs called back within a few minutes. "You've got nothing to worry
  about," he said. "Just last week a man accused of murder had his bail set
  at a million and a half rials. "
  Bill did a quick calculation: That was twenty thousand dollars. EDS could
  probably pay that in cash. For some weeks they had been keeping large
  arnounts of cash, both because of the bank strikes and for use during the
  evacuation. "How much do we have in the office safe?"
 "Around seven million rials, plus fifty thousand dollars."
 So, Bill thought, even if we are arrested, we'll be able to
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    35

 post bail immediately. "Thanks," he said. "That makes me feel a lot better."

 Downstairs, Dadgar had written down Paul's full name, date and place of
 birth, schools attended, experience in computers, and qualifications; and he
 had carefully examined the document that officially named Paul as Country
 Manager for Electronic Data Systems Corporation Iran. Now he asked Paul to
 give an account of how EDS had secured its contract with the Ministry of
 Health.
  Paul took a deep breath. "First, I would like to point out that I was not
  working in Irari at the time the contract was negotiated and signed, so I
  do not have firsthand knowledge of this. However, I will tell you what I
  understand the procedure to have been."
 Mrs. Nourbash translated and Dadgar nodded.
  Paul continued, speaking slowly and rather formally to help the translator.
  "In 1975 an EDS executive, Paul Bucha, learned that the Ministry was
  looking for a data-processing company experienced in health insurance and
  social-security work. He came to Tehran, had meetings with Ministry
  officials, and deteriiiined the nature and scale of the work the Ministry
  wanted done. He was told that the Ministry had already received proposals
  for the project from Louis Berger and Company, Marsh & McClennan, ISIRAN,
  and UNIVAC, and that a fifth proposal was on its way from Cap Gemini
  Sogeti. He said that EDS was the leading data-processing company in the
  United States and that our company specialized in exactly this kind of
  health-care work. He offered the Ministry a free preliminary study. The
  offer was accepted."
  When he paused for translation, Paul noticed, Mrs. Nourbash seemed to say
  less than he had said; and what Dadgar wrote down was shorter still. He
  began to speak more slowly and to pause more often. "The Ministry obviously
  liked EDS's proposals, because they then asked us to perform a detailed
  study for two hundred thousand dollars. The results of our study were pre-
  sented in October 1975. The Ministry accepted our proposal and began
  contract negotiations. By August 1976 the contract was agreed upon."
  "Was everything above board?" Dadgar asked through Mrs. Nourbash.
  "Absolutely," Paul said. "It took another three months to go through the
  lengthy process of getting all the necessary approvals
 36         Ken Folktt

 from many government departments, including the Shah's court. None of these
 steps was omitted. The contract went into effect at the end of the year."
 "Was the contract price exorbitant?"
  "It showed a maximum expected pretax profit of twenty percent, which is in
  line with other contracts of this magnitude, both here and in other
  countries. "
 "And has EDS fulfilled its obligations under the contract?"
  This was something on which Paul did have firsthand knowledge. "Yes, we
  have."
 "Could you produce evidence?"
  "Certainly. The contract specifies that I should meet with Ministry
  officials at certain intervals to review progress: those meetings have
  taken place and the Ministry has the minutes of the meetings on file. The
  contract lays down a complaints procedure for the Ministry to use if EDS
  fails to fulfill its obligations: that procedure has never been used. "
  Mrs. Nourbash translated, but Dadgar did not write anything down. He must
  know all this anyway, Paul thought.
  He added: "Look out the window. There is our data center. Go and see it.
  There are computers in it. Touch them. They work. They produce information.
  Read the printouts. They are being used."
  Dadgar made a brief note. Paul wondered what he was really after.
  The next question was: "What is your relationship with the Mahvi group?"
  "When we first came to Iran we were told that we had to have Iranian
  partners in order to do business here. The Mahvi group are our partners.
  However, their main role is to supply us with Iranian staff. We meet with
  them periodically, but they have liWe to do with the running of our
  business."
  Dadgar asked why Dr. Towliati, a Ministry official, was on the EDS payroll.
  Was this not a conflict of interest?
  Here at last was a question that made sense. Paul could see how Towliati's
  role could appear irregular. However, it was easily explained. "In our
  contract we undertake to supply expert consultants to help the Ministry
  make the best use of the service we provide. Dr. Towliati is such a
  consultant. He has a dataprocessing background, and he is familiar with
  both Iranian and American business methods. He is paid by EDS, rather than
  by the Ministry, because Ministry salaries are too low to attract a
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    37

 man of his caliber. However, the Ministry is obliged to reimburse us for his
 salary, as laid down in the contract; so he is not really paid by us."
  Once again Dadgar wrote down very little. He could have got all this
  information from the files, Paul thoughiq. perhaps he has.
 Dadgar asked: "But why does Dr. Towliati sign invoices?"
  "That's easy," Paul replied. "He does not, and never has. The closest he
  comes is this: he would inform the Minister that a certain task has been
  completed, where the specification of that task is too technical for
  verification by a layman." Paul smiled. "He takes his responsibility to the
  Ministry very seriously-4ie is easily our harshest critic, and he will
  characteristically ask a lot of tough questions before verifying completion
  of a task. I sometimes wish I did have him in my pocket."
  Mrs. Nourbash translated. Paul was thinking: What is Dadgar after? First he
  asks about the contract negotiations, which happened before my time; then
  about the Mahvi group and Dr. Towliati, as if they were sensationally
  important. Maybe Dadgar himself doesn't know what he's looking for-maybe
  he's just fishing, hoping to come up with evidence of something illegal.
 How long can this farce go on?

 Bill was outside in the corridor, wearing his topcoat to keep out the cold.
 Someone had brought him a glass of tea, and he warmed his hands on it while
 he sipped. The building was dark as well as cold.
  Dadgar had immediately struck Bill as being different from the average
  Iranian. He was cold, gruff, and inhospitable. The Embassy had said Dadgar
  was "favorably disposed" toward Bill and Paul, but that was not the
  impression Bill had.
  Bill wondered what game Dadgar was playing. Was he trying to intimidate
  them, or was he seriously considering arresting them? Either way, the
  meeting was not turning out the way the Embassy had anticipated. Their
  advice, to come without lawyers or Embassy representatives, now looked
  mistaken: perhaps they just did not want to get involved. Anyway, Paul and
  Bill were on their own now. It was not going to be a pleasant day. But at
  the end of it they would be able to go home.
  Looking out the window, Bill saw that there was some excitement down on
  Eisenhower Avenue. Some distance along the street, dissidents were stopping
  cars and putting Khomeini posters on the windshields. The soldiers guarding
  the Ministry Build-
   38        Ken Follett

 ing were stopping the cars and tearing the posters up. As he watched, the
 soldiers became more belligerent. They broke the headlight of a car, then
 the windshield of another, as if to teach the drivers a lesson. Next they
 pulled a driver out of a car and punched him around.
  The next car they picked on was a taxi, a Tehran orange cab. It went by
  without stopping, not surprisingly; but the soldiers seemed angered and
  chased it, firing their guns. Cab and pursuing soldiers disappeared from
  Bill's sight.
  After that the soldiers ended their grim game and returned to their posts
  inside the waited courtyard in front of the Ministry Building. The
  incident, with its queer mixture of childishness and brutality, seemed to
  sum up what was going on in Iran. The country was going down the drain. The
  Shah had lost control and the rebels were determined to drive him out or
  kill him. Bill felt sorry for the people in the cars, victims of
  circumstance who could do nothing but hope that things would get better. If
  Iranians are no longer safe, he thought, Americans must be in even more
  danger. We've got to get out of this country.
  Two Iranians were hanging about in the same corridor, watching the fracas
  on Eisenhower Avenue. They seemed as appalled as Bill at what they saw.
  Moming turned into afternoon. Bill got more tea and a sandwich for lunch.
  He wondered what was happening in the interrogation room. He was not
  surprised to be kept waiting: in Iran "an hour" meant nothing more precise
  than "later, maybe." But as the day wore on he became more uneasy. Was Paul
  in trouble in there?
  The two Iranians stayed in the corridor all afternoon, doing nothing. Bill
  wondered vaguely who they were. He did not speak to them.
  He wished the time would pass more quickly. He had a reservation on
  tomorrow's plane. Emily and the kids were in Washington, where both Emily's
  and Bill's parents lived. They had a big party planned for him on New
  Year's Eve. He could hardly wait to see them all again.
  He should have left Iran weeks ago, when the firebombing started. One of
  the people whose homes had been bombed was a girl with whom he had gone to
  high school in Washington. She was married to a diplomat at the U.S.
  Embassy. Bill had talked to them about the incident. Nobody had been hurt,
  luckily, but it
           oN WINGS OF EAGLES    39

 had been very scary. I should have taken heed, and got out then, he thought.
  At last Abolhasan opened the door and called: "Bill! Come in, please-11
 Bill looked at his watch. It was five o'clock. He went in.
 "It's cold," he said as he sat down.
  "It's warm enough in this seat," Paul said with a smained smile. Bill
  looked at Paul's face: he seemed very uncomfortable.
  Dadgar drank a glass of tea and ate a sandwich before he began to question
  Bill. Watching him, Bill thought: look out--this guy is trying to trap us
  so he won't have to let us leave the country. . Tbe interview started. Bill
  gave his full name, date and place of birth, schools attended,
  qualifications, and experience. Dadgar's face was blank as he asked the
  questions and wrote down the answers: he was like a machine, Bill thought.
  He began to see why the interview with Paul had taken so long. Each
  question had to be translated from Farsi into English and each answer from
  English into Farsi. Mrs. Nourbash did the translation, Abolhasan
  interrupting with clarification and corrections.
  Dadgar questioned Bill about EDS's performance of the Ministry contract.
  Bill answered at length and in detail, although the subject was both
  complicated and highly technical, and he was pretty sure that Mrs. Nourbash
  could not really understand what he was saying. Anyway, no one could hope
  to grasp the complexities of the entire project by asking a handful of
  general questions. What kind of foolishness was this? Bill wondered. Why
  did Dadgar want to sit all day in a freezing cold room and ask stupid
  questions? It was some kind of Persian ritual, Bill decided. Dadgar needed
  to pad out his records, show that he had explored every avenue, and protect
  himself in advance against possible criticism for letting them go. At the
  absolute worst, he might detain them in Iran a while longer. Either way, it
  was just a matter of time.
  Both Dadgar and Mrs. Nourbash seemed hostile. The interview became more
  like a courtroom cross-examination. Dadgar said that EDS's progress reports
  to the Ministry had been false, and EDS had used them to make the Ministry
  pay for work that had not been done. Bill pointed out that Ministry
  officials, who were in a position to know, had never suggested that the
  reports were inaccurate. If EDS had fallen down on the job, where were the
  complaints? Dadgar could examine the Ministry's files.
 Dadgar asked about Dr. Towliati, and when Bill explained Tow- 40        Ken Follett

 liati's role, Mrs. Nourbash--6peaking before Dadgar had given her anything
 to translater-replied that Bill's explanation was untrue.
  There were several miscellaneous questions, including a completely
  mystifying one: did EDS have any Greek employees? Bill said they did not,
  wondering what that had to do with anything. Dadgar seemed impatient.
  Perhaps he had hoped that Bill's answers would contradict Paul's; and now,
  disappointed, he was just going through the motions. His questioning became
  perfunctory and hurried; he did not follow up Bill's answers with further
  questions or requests for clarification; and he wound up the interview
  after an hour.
  Mrs. Nourbash said: "You will now please sip your names against each of the
  questions and answers in Mr. Dadgar's notebook. "
  "But they're in Farsi-we can't read a word of it!" Bin protested. It's a
  trick, he thought; we'll be signing a confession to murder or espionage or
  some other crime Dadgar has invented.
 Abolhasan said: "I will look over his notes and check them."
  Paul and Bill waited while Abolhasan read through the notebook. it seemed
  a very cursory check. He put the book down on the desk. "I advise you to
  sign."
  Bill was sure he should not-but he had no choice. If he wanted to go home,
  he had to sign.
 He looked at Paul. Paul shrugged. "I guess we'd better do it."
  They went through the notebook in turn, writing their names beside the
  incomprehensible squiggles of Farsi.
  When they finished, the atmosphere in the room was tense. Now, Bill
  thought, he has to tell us we can go home.
  Dadgar shuffled his papers into a neat stack while he talked to Abolhasan
  in Farsi for several minutes. Then he left the room. Abolhasan turned to
  Paul and Bill, his face grave.
 "You are being arrested," he said.
  Bill's heart sank. No plane, no Washington, no Emily, no New Year's Eve
  party ...
  "Bail has been set at ninety million tomans, sixty for Paul and thirty for
  Bill. "
 "Jesus!" Paul said. "Ninety million tomans is .
  Abolhasan worked it out on a scrap of paper. "A little under thirteen
  million dollars."
  "You're kidding!" Bill said. "Thirteen million? A murderer's bail is twenty
  thousand."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    41

  Abolhasan said: "He asks whether you are ready to post the bail."
  Paul laughed. "Tell him I'm a little short now, I'm going to have to go to
  the bank."
 Abolhasan said nothing.
 "He can't be serious," Paul said.
 "He's serious," said Abolhasan.
  Suddenly Bill was mad as hell-mad at Dadgar, mad at Lou Goelz, mad at the
  whole darnn world. It had been a sucker trap and they had fallen right into
  it. Why, they had walked in here of their own free will, to keep an
  appointment made by the U.S. Embassy. They had done nothing wrong and
  nobody had a shred of evidence against thern-yet they were going to jail,
  and worse, an Iranian jail!
 Abolhasan said: "You are allowed one phone call each."
  Just like the cop shows on TV---one phone call then into the slammer.
  Paul picked up the phone and dialed. "Lloyd Briggs, please. This is Paul
  Chiapparone ... Lloyd? I can't make dinner tonight. I'm going to jail."
 Bill thought: Paul doesn't really believe it yet.
  Paul listened for a moment, then said: "How about calling Gayden, for a
  start?" Bill Gayden, whose name was so similar to Bill Gaylord's, was
  president of EDS World and Paul's immediate boss. As soon as this news
  reaches Dallas, Bill thought, these Iranian jokers will see what happens
  when EDS really gets into gear.
  Paul hung up and Bill took his turn on the phone. He dialed the U.S.
  Embassy and asked for the Consul General.
  "Goelz? This is Bill Gaylord. We've just been arrested, and bail has been
  set at thirteen million dollars."
 "How did that happen?"
  Bill was infuriated by Goelz's calm, measured voice. "You arranged this
  meeting and you told us we could leave afterward!"
 "I'm sure, if you've done nothing wrong-"
 "What do you mean ip. " Bill shouted.
  "I'll have someone down at the jail as soon as possible," Goelz said.
 Bill hung up.
  The two Iranians who had been hanging about in the corridor 0 day came in.
  Bill noticed they were big and burly, and realized they must be
  plain-clothes policemen.
 42          Ken FoUeu

  Abolhasan said: "Dadgar said it would not be necessary to handcuff YOU. 11
 Paul said: "Gee, thanks."
  Bill suddenly recalled the stories he had heard about the torturing of
  prisoners in the Shah's jails. He tried not to think about it.
  Abolhasan said: "Do you want to give me your briefcases and wallets?"
 They handed them over. Paul kept back a hundred dollars.
 To you know where the jail is?" Paul asked Abolhasan.
  'You're going to a Temporary Detention Facility at the Ministry of Justice
  on Khayyam Street."
  -Get back to Bucharest fast and give Lloyd Briggs all the details. "
 "Sure.
  One of the plain-clothes policemen held the door open. Bill looked at Paul.
  Paul shrugged.
 They went out.
  The policemen escorted them downstairs and into a little car. "I guess
  we'll have to stay in jail for a couple of hours," Paul said. "It'll take
  that long for the Embassy and EDS to get people down there to bail us out."
 'They might be there already," Bill said optimistically.
  The bigger of the two policemen got behind the wheel. His colleague sat
  beside him in the front. They pulled out of the courtyard and onto
  Eisenhower Avenue, driving fast. Suddenly they turned into a narrow one-way
  street, heading the wrong way at top speed. Hill clutched the seat in front
  of him. They swerved in and out, dodging the cars and buses coming the
  other way, other drivers honking and shaking their fists.
  They headed south and slightly east. Bill thought ahead to their arrival at
  the jail. Would people from EDS or the Embassy be there to negotiate a
  reduction in the bail so that they could go home instead of to a cell?
  Surely the Embassy staff would be outraged at what Dadgar had done.
  Ambassador Sullivan would intervene to get them released at once. After
  all, it was iniquitous to put two Americans in an Iranian jail when no
  crime had '6een committed and then set bail at thirteen million dollars.
  The whole situation was ridiculous.
  Except that here he was, sitting in the back of this car, silently looking
  out of the windows and wondering what would happen next.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    43

  As they went farther south, what he saw through the window frightened him
  even more.
  In the north of the city, where the Americans lived and worked, riots and
  fighting were still an occasional phenomenon, but here-Bill now
  realized--4hey must be continuous. The black hulks of burned buses
  smoldered in the streets. Hundreds of demonstrators were running riot,
  yelling and chanting, setting fires and building barricades. Young
  teenagers threw Molotov cocktails--bottles of gasoline with blazing rag
  fuses-at cars. Their targets seemed random. We might be next, Bill thought.
  He heard shooting, but it was dark and he could not see who was firing at
  whom. The driver never went at less than top speed. Every other street was
  blocked by a mob, a barricade, or a blazing car: the driver turned around,
  blind to all traffic signals, and raced through side streets and back
  alleys at breakneck speed to circumvent the obstacles. We're not going to
  get there alive, Bill thought. He touched the rosary in his pocket.
  It seemed to go on forever-then, suddenly, the little car swung into a
  circular courtyard and pulled up. Without speaking, the burly driver got
  out of the car and went into the building.
  The Ministry of Justice was a big place, occupying a whole city block. In
  darkness-the streedights were all off-Bill could make out what seemed to be
  a five-story building. The driver was inside for ten or fifteen minutes.
  When he came out he climbed behind the wheel and drove around the block.
  Bill assumed he had registered his prisoners at the front desk.
  At the rear of the building the car mounted the curb and stopped on the
  sidewalk by a pair of steel gates set into a long, high brick wall.
  Somewhere over to the right, where the wall ended, there was the vague
  outline of a small park or garden. The driver got out. A peephole opened in
  one of the steel doors, and there was a short conversation in Farsi. Then
  the doors opened. The driver motioned Paul and Bill to get out of the car.
 They walked through the doors.
  Bill looked around. They were in a small courtyard. He saw ten or fifteen
  guards armed with automatic weapons scattered around the courtyard. In
  front of him was a circular driveway with parked cars and trucks. To his
  left, up against the brick wall, was a single-story building. On his right
  was another steel door.
  The driver went up to the second steel door and knocked. There was another
  exchange in Farsi through another peephole. Then the door was opened, and
  Paul and Bill were ushered inside.
 44         Ken Folleu

  They were in a small reception area with a desk and a few chairs. Bill
  looked around. There were no lawyers, no Embassy staff, no EDS executives
  here to spring him from jail. We're on our own, he thought, and this is
  going to be dangerous.
  A guard stood behind the desk with a ball-point pen and a pile of forms. He
  asked a question in Farsi. Guessing, Paul said: "Paul Chiapparone," and
  spelled it.
  Filling out the forms took close to an hour. An Englishspeaking prisoner
  was brought from the jail to help translate. Paul and Bill gave their
  Tehran addresses, phone numbers, and dates of birth, and listed their
  possessions. Their money was taken away and they were each given two
  thousand rials, about thirty dollars.
  They were taken into an adjoining room and told to remove their clothes.
  They both stripped to their undershorts. Their clothing and their bodies
  were searched. Paul was told to get dressed again, but not Bill. It was
  very cold: the heat was off here, too. Naked and shivering, Bill wondered
  what would happen now. Obviously they were the only Americans in the jail.
  Everything he had ever read or heard about being in prison was awful. What
  would the guards do to him and Paul? What would the other prisoners do?
  Surely any minute now someone would come to get him released.
 "Can I put on my coat?" he asked the guard.
 ne guard did not understand.
 "Coat," Bill said, and mimed putting on a coat.
 The guard handed him his coat.
  A little later another guard came in and told Bill to get dressed.
  They were led back into the reception area. Once again, Bill looked around
  expectantly for lawyers or friends; once again, he was disappointed.
  They were taken through the reception area. Another door was opened. They
  went down a flight of stairs into the basement.
  It was cold, dim, and dirty. There were several cells, all crammed with
  prisoners, all of them Iranian. The stink of urine made Bill close his
  mouth and breathe shallowly through his nose. The guard opened the door to
  Cell Number 9. Paul and Bill walked in.
  Sixteen unshaven faces stared at them, alive with curiosity. Paul and Bill
  stared back, horrified.
 The cell door clanged shut behind them.
 TWO

   1

 Until this moment life had been extremely good to Ross Perot.
  On the morning of December 28, 1978, he sat at the breakfast table in his
  mountain cabin at Vail, Colorado, and was served breakfast by Holly, the
  cook.
  Perched on the mountainside and half-hidden in the aspen forest, the "log
  cabin" had six bedroorns, five bathrooms, a thirty-foot living room, and an
  apr6s-ski "recuperation room" with a Jacuzzi pool in front of the
  fireplace. It was just a holiday home.
 Ross Perot was rich.
  He had started EDS with a thousand dollars, and now the shares in the
  company-more than half of which he still owned personally-were worth
  several hundred million dollars. He was the sole owner of the Petrus Oil
  and Gas Company, which had reserves worth hundreds of millions. He also had
  an awful lot of Dallas real estate. It was difficult to figure out exactly
  how much money he had-a lot depended on just how you counted it-but it was
  certainly more than five hundred million dollars and probably less than a
  billion.
 . In novels, fantastically rich people were portrayed as greedy, power-mad,
 neurotic, hated, and unhappy-always unhappy. Perot did not read many novels.
 He was happy.
  He did not think it was the money that made him happy. He believed in
  money-making, in business and profits, because that was what made America
  tick; and he enjoyed a few of the toys money could buy--the cabin cruiser,
  the speedboats, the helicopter; but rolling around in hundred-dollar bills
  had never been one of his daydreams. He had dreamed of building a
  successful business that would employ thousands of people; but his greatest
                45
 46         Ken Follen

 dream-come-true was right hem in front of his eyes. Running around in
 thermal underwear, getting ready to go skiing, was his family. Here was Ross
 Junior, twenty years old, and if there was a finer young man in the state of
 Texas, Perot had yet to meet him. Here were four-count 'em, four--daughters:
 Nancy-, Suzanne, Carolyn, and Katherine. They were all healthy, smart, and
 lovable. Perot had sometimes told interviewers that he would measure his
 success in life by how his children turned out. If they grew into good
 citizens with a deep concern for other people, he would consider his life
 worthwhile. (The interviewers would say: "Hell, I believe you, but if I put
 stuff like that in the article the readers will think I've been bought off!"
 And Perot would just say: "I don't care. I'll tell you the truth-you write
 whatever you like.") And the children had turned out just exactly how he had
 wished, so far. Being brought up in circumstances of great wealth and
 privilege had not spoiled them at all. It was almost miraculous.
  Running around after the children with ski-lift tickets, wool socks, and
  sunscreen lotion was the person responsible for this miracle, Margot Perot.
  She was beautiful, loving, intelligent, classy, and a perfect mother. She
  could, if she had wanted to, have married a John Kennedy, a Paul Newman, a
  Prince Ranier, or a Rockefeller. Instead, she had fallen in love with Ross
  Perot from Texarkana, Texas; five feet seven with a broken nose and nothing
  in his pocket but hopes. All his life Perot had believed he was lucky. Now,
  at the age of forty-eight, he could look back and see that the luckiest
  thing that ever happened to him was Margot.
  He was a happy man with a happy family, but a shadow had fallen over them
  this Christmas. Perot's mother was dying. She had bone cancer. On Christmas
  Eve she had fallen at home: it was not a heavy fall, but because the cancer
  had weakened her bones, she had broken her hip and had to be rushed to
  Baylor Hospital in downtown Dallas.
  Perot's sister, Bette, spent that night with their mother, then, on
  Christmas Day, Perot and Margot and the five children loaded the presents
  into the station wagon and drove to the hospital. Grandmother was in such
  good spirits that they all thoroughly enjoyed their day. However, she did
  not want to see them the following day: she knew they had planned to go
  skiing, and she insisted they go, despite her illness. Margot and the
  children left for Vail on December 26, but Perot stayed behind.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    47

  There followed a battle of wills such as Perot had fought with his mother
  in childhood. Lulu May Perot was only an inch or two, over five feet, and
  slight, but she was no more fi-ail than a sergeant in the marines. She told
  him he worked hard and he needed the holiday. He replied that he did not
  want to leave her. Eventually the doctors intervened, and told him he was
  doing her no good by staying against her will. The next day he joined his
  family in Vail. She had won, as she always had when he was a boy.
  One of their battles had been fought over a Boy Scout trip. There had been
  flooding in Texarkana, and the Scouts were planning to camp near the
  disaster area for three days and help with relief work. Young Perot was
  determined to go, but his mother knew that he was too young-he would only
  be a burden to the scoutmaster. Young Ross kept on and on at her, and she
  just smiled sweetly and said no.
  The time he won a concession from her: he was allowed to go and help pitch
  tents the first day, but he had to come home in the evening. It wasn't much
  of a compromise. But he was quite incapable of defying her. He just had to
  imagine the scene when he would come home, and think of the words he would
  use to tell her that he had disobeyed her---and he knew he cotdd not do it.
  He was never spanked. He could not remember even being yelled at. She did
  not rule him by fear. With her fair hair, blue eyes, and sweet nature, she
  bound him-and his sister, Beft-in chains of love. She would just look you
  in the eye and ten you what to do, and you simply could not bring yourself
  to make her unhappy.
  Even at the age of twenty-three, when Ross had been around the world and
  come home again, she would say: "Who have you got a date with tonight?
  Where are you going? What time will you be back?" And when he came home he
  would always have to kiss her good night. But by this time their battles
  were few and far between, for her principles were so deeply embedded in him
  that they had become his own. She now ruled the family Ue a constitutional
  monarch, wearing the trappings of power and legitimizing the real
  decision-makers.
  He had inherited more than her principles. He also had her iron will. He,
  too, had a way of looking, people in the eye. He had married a woman who
  resembled his mother. Blond and
 48         Ken Follen

 blue-eyed, Margot also had the kind of sweet nature that Lulu May had. But
 Margot did not dominate Perot.
  Everybody's mother has to die, and Lulu May was now eighty-two, but Perot
  could not be stoical about it. She was still a big part of his life. She no
  longer gave him orders, but she did give him encouragement. She had
  encouraged him to start EDS, and she had been the company's bookkeeper
  during the early years as well as a founding director. He could talk over
  problems with her. He had consulted her in December 1969, at the height of
  his campaign to publicize the plight of American prisoners of war in North
  Vietnam. He had been planning to fly to Hanoi, and his colleagues at EDS
  had pointed out that if he put his life in danger the price of EDS stock
  might fall. He was faced with a moral dilemma: Did he have the right to
  make shareholders suffer, even for the best of causes? He had put the
  question to his mother. Her answer had been unhesitating. "Let them sell
  their shares. " The prisoners were dying, and that was far more important
  than the price of EDS stock.
  It was the conclusion Perot would have come to on his own. He did not
  really need her to tell him what to do. Without her, he would be the same
  man and do the same things. He was going to miss her, that was all. He was
  going to miss her very badly indeed.
  But he was not a man to brood. He could do nothing for her today. Two years
  ago, when she had a stroke, he had turned Dallas upside down on a Sunday
  afternoon to find the best neurosurgeon in town and bring him to the
  hospital. He responded to a crisis with action. But if there was nothing to
  be done he was able to shut the problem out of his mind, forgetting the bad
  news and going on to the next task. He would not now spoil his family's
  holiday by walking around with a mournful face. He would enter into the fun
  and games, and enjoy the company of his wife and children.
  The phone rang, interrupting his thoughts, and he stepped into the kitchen
  to pick it up.
 :'Ross Perot," he said.
 'Ross, this is Bill Gayden."
  'Hi, Bill." Gayden was an EDS old-timer, having joined the company in 1967.
  In some ways he was the typical salesman. He was a jovial man, everyone's
  buddy. He liked a joke, a drink, a smoke, and a hand of poker. He was also
  a wizard financier, very good around acquisitions, mergers, and deals,
  which was
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    49

 why Perot had made lurn president of EDS World. Gayden's sense of humor was
 irrepressible--he would find something funny to say in the most serious
 situations-but now he sounded somber.
 "Ross, we got a problem."
  It was an EDS catchphrase: We got a problem. It meant bad news.
 Gayden went on: "It's Paul and Bill."
  Perot knew instantly what he was talking about. The way in which his two
  senior men in Iran had been, prevented from leaving the country was highly
  sinister, and it had never been far from his mind, even while his mother
  lay dying. "But they're supposed to be allowed out today.
 "They've been arrested."
  The anger began as a small, hard knot in the pit of Perot's stomach. "Now,
  Bill, I was assured that they would be allowed to leave Iran as soon as
  this interview was over. Now I want to know how this happened."
 "They just slung them in jail."
 "On what charges?"
 "They didn't specify charges."
 "Under what law did they jail them?"
 "They didn't say."
 "What are we doing to get them out?"
  "Ross, they set bail at ninety million tomans. That's twelve million, seven
  hundred and fifty thousand dollars."
 "Twelve million?"
 "That's right. -
 "Now how the devil has this happened?"
  "Ross, I've been on the phone with Lloyd Briggs for half an hour, trying to
  understand it, and the fact is that Lloyd doesn't understand it either. -
  Perot paused. EDS executives were supposed to give him answers, not
  questions. Gayden knew better than to call without briefing himself as
  thoroughly as possible. Perot was not going to get any more out of him
  right now; Gayden just didn't have the information.
  "Get Tom Luce into the office," Perot said. "Call the State Department in
  Washington. This takes priority over everything else. I don't want them to
  stay in that *1 another damn minute!
 50         Ken Folleu

 Margot pricked up her ears when she heard Ross say damn: it was most unusual
 for him to curse, especially in front of the children. He came in from the
 kitchen with his face set. His eyes were as blue as the Arctic Ocean, and as
 cold. She knew that look. It was not just anger: he was not the kind of man
 to dissipate his energy in a display of bad temper. It was a look of
 inflexible determination. It meant he had decided to do sornething and he
 would move heaven and earth to get it done. She had seen that determination,
 that strength, in him when she had first met him, at the Naval Academy in
 Annapolis ... could it really be twenty-five years ago? It was the quality
 that cut him out from the herd, made him different from the mass of men. Oh,
 he had other qualities-he was smart, he was funny, he could charm the birds
 out of the trees-but what made him excepdonal was his strength of will. When
 he got that look in his eyes you could no more stop him than you could stop
 a railway train on a downhill gradient.
 "The Iranians put Paul and Bill in jail," he said.
  Margot's thoughts flew at once to their wives. She had known them both for
  years. Ruthie Chiapparone was a small, placid, smiling girl with a shock of
  fair hair. She had a vulnerable look: men wanted to protect her. She would
  take it hard. Emily Gaylord was tougher, at least on the surface. A thin
  blond woman, Emily was vivacious and spirited: she would want to get on a
  plane and go spring Bill from jail herself. The difference in the two women
  showed in their clothes: Ruthie chose soft fabrics and gentle outlines;
  Emily went in for smart tailoring and bright colors. Emily would suffer on
  the inside.
 -I'm going back to Dallas," Ross said.
  "Mere's a blizzard out there," said Margot, looking out at the snowflakes
  swirling down the mountainside. She knew she was wasting her breath: snow
  and ice would not stop him now. She thought ahead: Ross would not be able
  to sit behind a desk in Dallas for very long while two of his men were in
  an Iranian jail. He's not going to Dallas, she thought; he's going to Iran.
  - I'll take the four-wheel drive," he said. "I can catch a plane in Denver.
  11
  Margot suppressed her fears and smiled brightly. "Drive carefully, won't
  you," she said.

 Perot sat hunched over the wheel of the GM Suburban, driving carefully. The
 road was icy. Snow built up along the bottom
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    51

 edge of the windshield, shortening the travel of the wipers. He peered at
 the road ahead. Denver was 106 miles from Vail. It gave him time to think.
 He was still furious.
  It was not just that Paul and Bill were in jail. They were in jail because
  they had gone to Iran, and they had gone to Iran because Perot had sent
  them there.
  He had been worried about Iran for months. One day, after lying awake at
  night thinking about it, he had gone into the office and said: "Let's
  evacuate. If we're wrong, all we've lost is the price of three or four
  hundred plane tickets. Do it today. -
  It had been one of the rare occasions on which his orders were not carried
  out. Everyone had dragged their feet, in Dallas and in Tehran. Not that he
  could blame them. He had lacked determination. If he had been firm they
  would have evacuated that day; but he had not been firm, and the following
  day the passports had been called for.
  He owed Paul and Bill a lot anyway. He felt a special debt of loyalty to
  the men who had gambled their careers by joining EDS when it was a
  struggling young company. Many times he had found the right man,
  interviewed him, got him interested, and offered him the job, only to find
  that, on talking it over with his family, the man had decided that EDS was
  just too small, too new, too risky.
  Paul and Bill had not only taken the chance-they had worked their butts off
  to make sure their gamble paid. Bill had designed the basic computer system
  for the administration of Medicare and Medicaid programs that, used now in
  many American states, formed the foundation of EDS's business. He had
  worked long hours, spent weeks away from home, and moved his family all
  over the country in those days. Paul had been no less dedicated: when the
  company had too few men and very little cash, Paul had done the work of duw
  systems engineers. Perot could remember the company's first contract in New
  York, with Pepsico; and Paul walking from Manhattan across the Brooklyn
  Bridge in the snow, to sneak past a picket line-the plant was on strikeand
  go to work.
 Perot owed it to Paul and Bill to get them out.
  He owed it to them to get the government of the United States to bring the
  whole weight of its influence to bear on the hanians.
 America had asked for Perot's help, once; and he had given
 52        Ken Follett

 three years of his life-and a bunch of money-to the prisonersof-war
 campaign. Now he was going to ask for America's help.
  His mind went back to 1969, when the Vietnam War was at its height. Some of
  his friends from the Naval Academy had been killed or captured: Bill
  Leftwich, a wonderfully warm, strong, kind man, had been killed in battle
  at the age of thirty-nine; Bill Lawrence was a prisoner of the North
  Vietnamese. Perot found it hard to watch his country, the greatest country
  in the world, losing a war because of lack of will; and even harder to see
  millions of Americans protesting, not without justification, that the war
  was wrong and should not be won. Then, one day in 1969, he had met little
  Billy Singleton, a boy who did not know whether he had a father or not.
  Billy's father had been missing in Vietnam before ever seeing his son:
  there was no way of knowing whether he was a prisoner, or dead. It was
  heartbreaking.
  For Perot, sentiment was not a mournful emotion but a clarion call to
  action.
  He learned that Billy's father was not unique. There were many, perhaps
  hundreds, of wives and children who did not know whether their husbands and
  fathers had been killed or just captured. The Vietriamese, arguing that
  they were not bound by the rules of the Geneva Convention because the
  United States had never declared war, refused to release the names of their
  prisoners.
  Worse still, many of the prisoners were dying of brutality and neglect.
  President Nixon was planning to "Vietnamize" the war and disengage in three
  years' time, but by then, according to CIA reports, half the prisoners
  would have died. Even if Billy Singleton's father were alive, he might not
  survive to come home.
 Perot wanted to do something.
  EDS had good connections with the Nixon White House. Perot went to
  Washington and talked to Chief Foreign Policy Advisor Henry Kissinger. And
  Kissinger had a plan.
  The Vietnamese were maintaining, at least for the purposes of propaganda,
  that they had no quarrel with the American peopleonly with the U.S.
  government. Furthermore, they were presenting themselves to the world as
  the little guy in a David-andGoliath conflict. It seemed that they valued
  their public image. It might be possible, Kissinger thought, to embarrass
  them into improving their treatment of prisoners, and releasing the names,
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    53

 by an international campaign to publicize the sufferings of the prisoners
 and their families.
  The campaign must be privately financed, and must seem to be quite
  unconnected with the government, even though in reality it would be closely
  monitored by a team of White House and State Department people.
  Perot accepted the challenge. (Perot could resist anything but a challenge.
  His eleventh-grade teacher, one Mrs. Duck, had realized this. "It's a
  shame," Mrs. Duck had said, "that you're not as smart as your friends."
  Young Perot insisted he was as smart as his friends. "Well, why do they
  make better grades than you?" It was just that they were interested in
  school and he was not, said Perot. "Anybody can stand there and tell me
  that they could do something," said Mrs. Duck. "But let's look at the
  record: your friends can do it and you can't." Perot was cut to the quick.
  He told her that he would make straight A's for the next six weeks. He made
  straight A's, not just for six weeks, but for the rest of his high school
  career. The perceptive Mrs. Duck had discovered the only way to manipulate
  Perot: challenge him.)
  Accepting Kissinger's challenge, Perot went to J. Walter Tbompson, the
  largest advertising agency in the worid, and told them what he wanted to
  do. They offered to come up with a plan of campaign within thirty to sixty
  days and show some results in a year. Perot turned them down: he wanted to
  start today and see results tomorrow. He went back to Dallas and put
  together a small team of EDS executives who began calling newspaper editors
  and placing simple, unsophisticated advertisements that they wrote
  themselves.
 And the mail came in truckloads.
  For Americans who were pro-war, the treatment of the prisoners showed that
  the Vietnamese really were the bad guys; and for those who were anti-war
  the plight of the prisoners was one more reason for getting out of Vietnam.
  Only the most hard-line protesters resented the campaign. In 1970 the FBI
  told Perot that the Viet Cong had instructed the Black Panther~ to murder
  him. (At the crazy end of the sixties this had not sounded particularly
  bizarre.) Perot hired bodyguards. Sure enough, a few weeks later a squad of
  men climbed the fence around Perot's seventeen-acre Dallas property. They
  were chased off by savage dogs. Perot's family, including his indomitable
  mother, would not hear of him giving up the campaign for the sake of their
  safety.
 54        Ken Follett

  His greatest publicity stunt took place in December 1969, when he chartered
  two planes and tried to fly into Hanoi with Christmas dinners for the
  prisoners of war. Of course, he was not allowed to land; but during a slow
  news period he created enormous international awareness of the problem. He
  spent two million dollars, but he reckoned the publicity would have cost
  sixty million to buy. And a Gallup poll he commissioned afterward showed
  that the feelings of Americans toward the North Vietnamese were
  overwhelmingly negative.
  During 1970 Perot used less spectacular methods. Small communities all over
  the United States were encouraged to set up their own POW campaigns. They
  raised funds to send people to Paris to badger the North Vietnamese
  delegation there. They organized telethons, and built replicas of the cages
  in which some of the POWs lived. They sent so many protest letters to Hanoi
  that the North Vietnamese postal system collapsed under the strain. Perot
  stumped the country, giving speeches anywhere he was invited. He met with
  North Vietnamese diplomats in Laos, taking with him lists of their
  prisoners held in the south, mail from them, and film of their living
  conditions. He also took a Gallup associate with him, and together they
  went over the results of the poll with the North Vietnamese.
  Some or all of it worked. The treatment of American POWs improved, mail and
  parcels began to get through to them, and the North Vietnamese started to
  release names. Most importantly, the prisoners heard of the campaign-from
  newly captured Amencan soldiers,---and the news boosted their morale
  enormously.
  Eight years later, driving to Denver in the snow, Perot recalled another
  consequence of the campaign; a consequence that had then seemed no more
  than mildly irritating, but could now be important and valuable. Publicity
  for the POWs had meant, inevitably, publicity for Ross Perot. He had become
  nationally known. He would be remembered in the corridors of powerand
  especially in the Pentagon. That Washington monitoring committee had
  included Admiral Tom Moorer, then Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff;
  Alexander Haig, then assistant to Kissinger and now the commander in chief
  of NATO forces; William Sullivan, then a Deputy Assistant Secretary of
  State and now U.S. Ambassador to Iran; and Kissinger himself.
  These people would help Perot get inside the government, find out what was
  happening, and promote help fast. He would call Richard Helms, who had in
  the past been both head of the CIA
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    55

 and U.S. Ambassador to Tehran. He would call Kermit Roosevelt, son of Teddy,
 who had been involved in the CIA coup that put the Shah back on the throne
 in 1953 ...
 But what if none of this works? he thought.
 It was his habit to think more than one step ahead.
 What if the Carter administration could not or would not help?
 Then, he thought, I'm going to break them out of jail.
  How would we go about something like that? We've never done anything like
  it. Where would we start? Who could help us?
  He thought of EDS executives Merv Stauffer and T. J. Marquez and his
  secretary Sally Walther, who had been key organizers of the POW campaign:
  making complex arrangements halfway across the world by phone was meat and
  drink to them, but ... a prison break? And who would staff the mission?
  Since 1968 EDS's recruiters had given priority to Vietnam veterans--a pol-
  icy begun for patriotic reasons and continued when Perot found that the
  vets often made first-class businessmen-but the men who had once been lean,
  fit, highly trained soldiers were now overweight, out-of-condition computer
  executives, more comfortable with a telephone than with a rifle. And who
  would plan and lead the raid?
  Finding the best man for the job was Perot's specialty. Although he was one
  of the most successful self-made men in the history of American capitalism,
  he was not the world's greatest computer expert, or the world's greatest
  salesman, or even the world's greatest business administrator. He did just
  one thing superbly well: pick the right man, give him the resources, moti-
  vate him, then leave him alone to do the job.
  Now, as he approached Denver, he asked himself- who is the world's greatest
  rescuer?
 Then he thought of Bull Simons.
  A legend in the U.S. Army, Colonel Arthur D. "Bull" Simons had hit the
  headlines in November 1970 when he and a team of commandos raided the Son
  Tay prison camp, twentythree miles outside Hanoi, in an attempt to rescue
  American prisoners of war. Theraid had been a brave and well-organized
  operation, but the intelligence on which all the planning was based had
  been faulty: the prisoners had been moved, and were no longer at Son Tay.
  'Me raid was widely regarded as a fiasco, which in Perot's opinion was
  grossly unfair. He had been invited to meet the Son Tay Raiders, to boost
  their morale by telling
 56         Ken Folleu

 them that here was at least one American citizen who was grateful for their
 bravery. He had spent a day at Fort Bragg in North Carolina--and he had met
 Colonel Simons.
  Peering through his windshield, Perot could picture Simons against the
  cloud of falling snowflakes: a big man, just under six feet tall, with the
  shoulders of an ox. His white hair was cropped in a military crewcut, but
  his bushy eyebrows were still black. On either side of his big nose, two
  deep lines ran down to the comers of his mouth, giving him a permanently
  aggressive expression. He had a big head, big ears, a strong jaw, and the
  most powerful hands Perot had ever seen. The man looked as if he had been
  carved from a single block of granite.
  After spending a day with him, Perot thought: in a world of counterfeits,
  he is the genuine article.
  That day and in years to come Perot learned a lot about Simons. What
  impressed him most was the attitude of Simons's men toward their leader. He
  reminded Perot of Vince Lombardi, the legendary coach of the Green Bay
  Packers: he inspired in his men emotions ranging from fear through respect
  and admiration to love. He was an imposing figure and an aggressive com-
  mander-he cursed a lot, and would tell a soldier- "Do what I say or I'll
  cut your bloody head off!"--but that by itself could not account for Ins
  hold on the hearts of skeptical, battle-hardened commandos. Beneath the
  tough exterior there was a tough interior.
  Those who had served under him liked nothing better than to sit around
  telling Simons stories. Although he had a bull-like physique, his nickname
  came not from that but, according to legend, from a game played by Rangers
  called The Bull Pen. A pit would be dug, six feet deep, and one man would
  get into it. The object of the game was to find out how many men it took to
  throw the first man out of the pit. Simons thought the game was foolish,
  but was once needled into playing it. It took fifteen men to get him out,
  and several of them spent the night in the hospital with broken fingers and
  noses and severe bite wounds. After that he was called "Bull. -
  Perot learned later that almost everything in this story was exaggerated.
  Simons played the game more than once; it generally took four men to get
  him out; no one ever had any broken bones. Simons was simply the kind of
  man about whom legends are told. He earned the loyalty of his men not by
  displays of bravado but by his skill as a military commander. He was a
  meticulous, endlessly patient planner, he was cautious,--one of
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    57

 his catchphrases was: "That's a risk we don't have to take"; and he took
 pride in bringing all his men back from a mission alive.
  In the Vietnam War Simons had run Operation White Star. He went to Laos
  with 107 men and organized twelve battalions of Mao tribesmen to fight the
  Vietnamese. One of the battalions defected to the other side, taking as
  prisoners some of Simons's Green Berets. Simons took a helicopter and
  landed inside the stockade where the defecting battalion was. On seeing
  Simons, the Laotian colonel stepped forward, stood at attention, and
  saluted. Simons told him to produce the prisoners immediately, or he would
  call an air strike and destroy the entire battalion. The colonel produced
  the prisoners. Simons took them away, then called the air strike anyway.
  Simons had come back from Laos three years later with all his 107 men.
  Perot had never checked out this legend-he liked it the way it was.
  The second time Perot met Simons was after the war. Perot virtually took
  over a hotel in San Francisco and threw a weekend party for the returning
  prisoners of war to meet the Son Tay Raiders. It cost Perot a quarter of a
  million dollars, but it was a hell of a party. Nancy Reagan, Clint
  Eastwood, and John Wayne came. Perot would never forget the meeting between
  John Wayne and Bull Simons. Wayne shook Simons's hand with tears in his
  eyes and said: "You are the man I play in the movies."
  Before the ticker-tape parade Perot asked Simons to talk to his Raiders and
  wam them against reacting to demonstrators. "San Francisco has had more
  than its share of anti-war demonstrations, -Perot said. "You didn't pick
  your Raiders for their charm. If one of them gets irritated he might just
  snap some poor devil's neck and regret it later."
  Simons looked at Perot. It was Perot's first experience of The Simons Look.
  It made you feel as if you were the biggest fool in history. It made you
  wish you had not spoken. It made you wish the ground would swallow you up.
  "I've already talked to them," Simons said. "There won't be a problem. "
  That weekend and later, Perot got to know Simons better, and saw other
  sides of his personality. Simons could be very charming, when he chose to
  be. He enchanted Perot's wife, Margot, and the children thought he was
  wonderful. With his men he spoke soldiers' language, using a great deal of
  profanity, but he was surprisingly articulate when talking at a banquet or
  press conference. His college major had been journalism. Some of his
 58         Ken FoUett

 tastes were simple-he read westerns by the boxful, and enjoyed what his sons
 called "supermarket music"--but he also read a lot of nonfiction, and had a
 lively curiosity about all sorts of things. He could talk about antiques or
 history as easily as battles and weaponry.
  Perot and Simons, two willful, dominating personalities, got along by
  giving one another plenty of room. They did not become close friends. Perot
  never called Simons by his first name, Art (although Margot did). Like most
  people, Perot never knew what Simons was thinking unless Simons chose to
  tell him. Perot recalled their first meeting in Fort Bragg. Before getting
  up to make his speech, Perot had asked Simons's wife, Lucille: "What is
  Colonel Simons really like?" She had replied: "Oh, he's just a great big
  teddy bear." Perot repeated this in his speech. The Son Tay Raiders fell
  apart. Simons never cracked a smile.
  Perot did not know whether this impenetrable man would care to rescue two
  EDS executives from a Persian jail. Was Simons grateful for the San
  Francisco party? Perhaps. After that party Perot had financed Simons on a
  trip to Laos to search for MlAs-American soldiers missing in action-who had
  not come back with the prisoners of war. On his return from Laos, Simons
  had remarked to a group of EDS executives: "Perot is a hard man to say no
  to."
  As he pulled into Denver Airport, Perot wondered whether, six years later,
  Simons would still find him a hard man to say no to.
  But that contingency was a long way down the line. Perot was going to try
  everything else first.
  He went into the terminal, bought a seat on the next flight to Dallas, and
  found a phone. He called EDS and spoke to T. J. Marquez, one of his most
  senior executives, who was known as T.J. rather than Tom because there were
  so many Toms around EDS. "I want you to go find my passport," he told T.J.,
  "and get me a visa for Iran."
 T. J. said: "Ross, I think that's the world's worst idea."
  T.J. wouldargue until nightfall if you let him. "I'm not going to debate
  with you," Perot said curtly. "I talked Paul and Bill into going over
  there, and I'm going to get them out. -
  He hung up the phone and headed for the departure gate. All in all, it had
  been a rotten Christmas.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    59

 T.J. was a little wounded. An old friend of Perot's as well as a
 vice-president of EDS, he was not used to being talked to like the office
 boy. This was a persistent failing of Perot's: when he was in high gear, he
 trod on people's toes and never knew he had hurt them. He was a remarkable
 man, but he was not a saint.

   2

 Ruthie Chiapparone also had a rotten Christmas.
  She was staying at her parents' home, an eighty-five-year-old two-story
  house on the southwest side of Chicago. In the rush of the evacuation ftom
  Iran she had left behind most of the Christmas presents she had bought for
  her daughters, Karen, eleven, and Ann Marie, five; but soon after arriving
  in Chicago she had gone shopping with her brother Bill and bought some
  more. Her family did their best to make Christmas Day happy. Her sister and
  three brothers visited, and there were lots more toys for Karen and Ann
  Marie; but everyone asked about Paul.
  Ruthie needed Paul. A soft, dependent woman, five years younger than her
  husband-she was thirty-four-she loved him partly because she could lean on
  his broad shoulders and feel safe. She had always been looked after. As a
  child, even when her mother was out at work-supplementing the wages of
  Ruthie's father, a truck driver-Ruthie had two older brothers and an older
  sister to take care of her.
 When she first met Paul he had ignored her.
  She was secretary to a colonel; Paul was working on data processing for the
  army in the same building. Ruthie used to go down to the cafeteria to get
  coffee for the colonel, some of her friends knew some of the young
  officers, she sat down to talk with a group of them, and Paul was there and
  he ignored her. So she ignored him for a while, then all of a sudden he
  asked her for a date. They dated for a year and a half and then got
  married.
  Ruthie had not wanted to go to Iran. Unlike most of the EDS wives, who had
  found the prospect of moving to a new country exciting, Ruthie had been
  highly anxious. She had never been outside the United States-Hawaii was the
  farthest she had ever traveled-and the Middle East seemed a weird and
  frightening place. Paul took her to Iran for a week in June of 1977, hoping
 60        Ken Follett

 she would like it, but she was not reassured. Finally she agreed to go, but
 only because the job was so important to him.
  However, she ended up liking it. The Iranians were nice to her, the
  American community there was close-knit and sociable, and Ruthie's serene
  nature enabled her to deal calmly with the daily frustrations of living in
  a primitive country, like the lack of supermarkets and the difficulty of
  getting a washing machine repaired in less than about six weeks.
  Leaving had been strange. The airport had been crammed, just an
  unbelievable number of people in there. She had recognized many of the
  Americans, but most of the people were fleeing Iranians. She had thought:
  I don't want to leave like this--why are you pushing us out? What are you
  doing? She had traveled with Bill Gaylord's wife, Emily. They went via
  Copenhagen, where they spent a freezing cold night in a hotel where the
  windows would not close: the children had to sleep in their clothes. When
  she got back to the States, Ross Perot had called her and talked about the
  passport problem, but Ruthie had not really understood what was happening.
  During that depressing Christmas Day-so unnatural to have Christmas with
  the children and no Daddy-Paul had called from Tehran. "I've got a present
  for you," he had said.
 :'Your airline ticket?" she said hopefully.
  'No. I bought you a mg."
 "That's nice."
  He had spent the day with Pat and Mary Sculley, he told her. Someone else's
  wife had cooked his Christmas dinner, and he had watched someone else's
  children open their presents.
  Two days later she heard that Paul and Bill had an appointment, the
  following day, to see the man who was making them stay in Iran. After the
  meeting they would be let go.
  The meeting was today, December 28. By midday Ruthie was wondering why
  nobody from Dallas had called her yet. Tehran was eight and a half hours
  ahead of Chicago: surely the meeting was over? By now Paul should be
  packing his suitcase to come home.
  She calledDallas and spoke to Jim Nyfeler, an EDS man who had left Tehran
  last June. "How did the meeting work out?" she asked him.
 "It didn't go too well, Ruthie .
 "What do you mean, it didn't go too well?"
 I 'They were arrested."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    61

 "They were arrested? You're kidding!"
 "Ruthie, Bill Gayden wants to talk to you."
  Ruthie held the line, Paul arrested? Why? For what? By whom?
  Gayden, the president of EDS World and Paul's boss, came on the line.
  "Hello, Ruthie."
 "Bill, what is all this?"
  "We don't understand it," Gayden said. "The Embassy over there set up this
  meeting, and it was supposed to be routine, they weren't accused of any
  crime ... Then, around six-thirty their time, Paul called Lloyd Briggs and
  told him they were going to jail. "
 "Paul's in jail?"
  "Ruthie, try not to worry too much. We got a bunch of lawyers working on
  it, we're getting the State Department on the case, and Ross is already on
  his way back from Colorado. We're sure we can straighten this out in a
  couple of days. It's just a matter of days, really."
  "All right," said Ruthie. She was dazed. It didn't make sense. How could
  her husband be in jail? She said goodbye to Gayden and hung up.
 What was going on out there?

 The last time Emily Gaylord had seen her husband Bill, she had thrown a
 plate at him.
  Sitting in her sister Dorothy's home in Washington, talking to Dorothy and
  her husband Tim about how they might help to get Bill out of jail, she
  could not forget that flying plate.
  It had happened in their house in Tehran. One evening in early December
  Bill came home and said that Emily and the children were to return to the
  States the very next day. Bill and Emily had four children: Vicki, fifteen;
  Jackie, twelve; Jenny, nine; and Chris, six. Emily agreed that they should
  be sent back, but she wanted to stay. She might not be able to do anything
  to help Bill, but at least he would have someone to talk to.
  It,was out of the question, said Bill. She was leaving tomorrow. Ruthie
  Chiapparone would be on the same plane. All the other EDS wives and
  children would be evacuated a day or two later.
  Emily did not want to hear about the other wives. She was going to stay
  with her husband.
 They argued. Emily got madder and madder until finally she
 62        Ken Follett

 could no longer express her frustration in words, so she picked up a plate
 and hurled it at him.
  He would never forget it, she was sure: it was the only time in eighteen
  years of marriage that she had exploded like that. She was highly strung,
  spirited, excitable-but not violent.
 Mild, gentle Bill, it was the last thing he deserved ...
  When she first met him she was twelve, he was fourteen, and she hated him.
  He was in love with her best friend, Cookie, a strikingly attractive girl,
  and all he ever talked about was whom Cookie was dating and whether Cookie
  might like to go out and was Cookie allowed to do this or that ... Emily's
  sisters and brother really liked Bill. She could not get away from him, for
  their families belonged to the same country club and her brother played
  golf with Bill. It was her brother who finally talked Bill into asking
  Emily for a date, long after he had forgotten Coolde; and, after years of
  mutual indifference, they fell madly in love.
  By then Bill was in college, studying aeronautical engineering 240 miles
  away in Blacksburg, Virginia, and coming home for vacations and occasional
  weekends. They could not bear to be so far apart, so, although Emily was
  only eighteen, they decided to get married.
  It was a good match. They came from similar backgrounds, affluent
  Washington Catholic families, and Bill's personalitysensitive, calm,
  logical-complemented Emily's nervous vivacity. They went through a lot
  together over the next eighteen years. They lost a child with brain damage,
  and Emily had major surgery duee times. Their troubles brought them closer
  together.
 And here was a new crisis: Bill was in jail.
  Emily had not yet told her mother. Mother's brother, Emily's uncle Gus, had
  died that day, and Mother was already terribly upset. Emily could not talk
  to her about Bill yet. But she could talk to Dorothy and Tim.
  Her brother-in-law Tim Reardon was a U.S. Attorney in the Justice
  Department and had very good connections. Tim's father had been an
  administrative assistant to President John F. Kennedy, and Tim had worked
  for Ted Kennedy. Tim also knew personally the Speaker of the House of
  Representatives, Thomas P. "Tip" O'Neill, and Maryland Senator Charles
  Mathias. He was familiar with the passport problem, for Emily had told him
  about it as soon as she got back to Washington from Tehran, and he had
  discussed it with Ross Perot.

                                     A
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    63

  "I could write a letter to 'President Carter, and ask Ted Kennedy to
  deliver it personally," Tim was saying.
  Emily nodded. It was hard for her to concentrate. She wondered what Bill
  was doing right now.

 Paul and Bill stood just inside Cell Number 9, cold, numb, and desperate to
 know what would happen next.
  Paul felt very vulnerable: a white American in a business suit, unable to
  speak more than a few words of Farsi, faced by a crowd of what looked like
  thugs and murderers. He suddenly remembered reading that men were
  frequently raped in jail, and he wondered grimly how he would cope with
  something like that.
 Paul looked at Bill. His face was white with tension.
  One of the ininates spoke to them in Farsi. Paul said: "Does anyone here
  speak English?"
  From another cell across the corridor a voice called: "I speak English.
  There was a shouted conversation in rapid Farsi, then the interpreter
  called: "What is your crime?"
 "We haven't done anything," Paul said.
 "What are you accused of?"
  "Nothing. We're just ordinary American businessmen with wives and children,
  and we don't know why we're in jail."
  This was translated. There was more rapid Farsi, then the interpreter said:
  "This one who is talking to me, he is the boss of your cell, because he is
  there the longest.
 "We understand," Paul said.
 "He will tell you where to sleep."
  The tension eased as they talked. Paul took in his surroundings. The
  concrete walls were painted what niight once have been orange but now just
  looked dirty. There was some kind of thin carpet or matting covering most
  of the concrete floor. Around the cell were six sets of bunks, stacked
  three high: the lowest bunk was no more than a thin mattress on the floor.
  The room was lit by a single dim bulb and ventilated by a grille in the
  wall that let in the bitterly cold night air. The cell was very crowded.
  After a while a guard came down, opened the door of Cell Number 9, and
  motioned Paul and Bill to come out.
  This is it, Paul thought; we'll be released now. Thank God I don't have to
  spend a night in that awful cell.
 64         Ken FoUett

  They followed the guard upstairs and into a little room. He pointed at
  their shoes.
 They understood they were to take their shoes off.
 The guard handed them each a pair of plastic slippers.
  Paul realized with bitter disappointment that they were not about to be
  released; he did have to spend a night in the cell. He thought with anger
  of the Embassy staff they had arranged the meeting with Dadgar, they had
  advised Paul against taking lawyers, they had said Dadgar was "favorably
  disposed" . . . Ross Perot would say: "Some people can't organize a two-car
  ftmeral." Mmt applied to the U.S. Embassy staff. They were simply
  incompetent. Surely, Paul thought , after all the mistakes they have made,
  they ought to come here tonight and try to get us out?
  They put on the plastic slippers and followed the guard back downstairs.
  The other prisoners were getting ready for sleep, lying on the bunks and
  wrapping themselves in thin wool blankets. The cell boss, using sign
  language, showed Paul and Bill where to he down: Bill was on the middle
  bunk of a stack, Paul below him with just a thin mattress between his body
  and the floor.
  They lay down. The light stayed on, but it was so dim it hardly mattered.
  After a while Paul no longer noticed the smell, but he did not get used to
  the cold. With the concrete floor, the open vent, and no heating, it was
  almost like sleeping out of doors. What a terrible fife criminals lead,
  Paul thought, having to endure conditions such as these; I'm glad I'm not
  a criminal. One night of this will be more than enough.

   3

 Ross Perot took a taxi from the Dallas/Fort Worth regional airport to EDS
 corporate headquarters at 7171 Forest Lane. At the EDS gate he rolled down
 the window to let the security guards see his face, then sat back again as
 the car wound along the quarter-mile driveway through the park. The site had
 once been a country club, and these grounds a golf course. EDS headquarters
 loomed ahead, a seven-story office building, and
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    65

 next to it a tomado-proof blockhouse containing the vast computers with
 their thousands of miles of magnetic tape,
  Perot paid the driver, walked into the office building, and took the
  elevator to the fifth floor, where he went to Gayden's comer office.
  Gayden was at his desk. Gayden always managed to look untidy, despite the
  EDS dress code. He had taken his jacket off. His tie was loosened, the
  collar of his button-down shirt was open, his,Mr was mussed, and a
  cigarette dangled from the comer of his mouth. He stood up when Perot
  walked in.
 "Ross, how's your mother?"
 "She's in good spirits, thank you."
 "That's good."
 Perot sat down. "Now, where are we on Paul and Bill?"
  Gayden picked up the phone, saying: "Lemme get T.J. in here." He punched T.
  J. Marquez's number and said: "Ross is here . . . Yeah. My office." He hung
  up and said: "He'll be right down. Uh ... I called the State Department.
  The head of the Iran Desk is a man called Henry Precht. At first he
  wouldn't return my call. In the end I told his secretary, I said: 'If he
  doesn't call me within twenty minutes, I'm going to call CBS and ABC and
  NBC, and in one hour's time Ross Perot is going to give a press conference
  to say that we have two Americans-in trouble in Iran and our country won't
  help them.' He called back five minutes later."
 "What did he say?"
  Gayden sighed. "Ross, their basic attitude up there is that if Paul and
  Bill are in jail they must have done something wrong.
 "But what are they going to do?"
 "Contact the Embassy, look into it, blah blah blah."
  "Well, we're going to have to put a firecracker under Precht's tail," Perot
  said angrily. "Now, Tom Luce is the man to do that." Luce, an aggressive
  young lawyer, was the founder of the Dallas firm of Hughes & Hill, which
  handled most of EDS's legal business. Perot had retained him as EDS's
  counsel years ago, mainly because Perot could relate to a young man who,
  like himself, had left a big company to start his own business and was
  struggling to pay the bills. Hughes & Hill, like EDS, had grown rapidly.
  Perot had never regretted hiring Luce.
 Gayden said: "Luce is right here in the office somewhere."
 "How about Tom Walter?"
 I 'He's here, too."
 66        Ken Follett

  Walter, a tall Alabaman with a voice like molasses, was EDS's chief
  financial officer and probably the smartest man, in terms of sheer brains,
  in the company. Perot said: "I want Walter to go to work on the bail. I
  don't want to pay it, but I will if we have to. Walter should figure out
  how we go about paying it. You can bet they won't take American Express."
 "Okay," Gayden said.
 A voice from behind said: "Hi, Ross!"
  Perot looked around and saw T. J. Marquez. "Hi, Tom." T.J, was a tall, slim
  man of forty with Spanish good looks: olive skin, short, curly black hair,
  and a big smile that showed lots of white teeth. The first employee Perot
  ever hired, he was living evidence that Perot had an uncanny knack of
  picking good men. T.J. was now a vice-president of EDS, and his personal
  shareholding in the company was worth millions of dollars. "The Lord has
  been good to us," T.J. would say. Perot knew that T.J.'s parents had really
  struggled to send him to college. Their sacrifices had been well rewarded.
  One of the best things about the meteoric success of EDS, for Perot, had
  been sharing the triumph with people like T.J.
 T.J. sat down and talked fast. "I called Claude."
  Perot nodded: Claude Chappelear was the company's in-house lawyer.
  "Claude's friendly with Matthew Nimetz, counselor to Secretary of State
  Vance. I thought Claude might get Nimetz to talk to Vance himself. Nimetz
  called personally a little later: he wants to help us. He's going to send
  a cable under Vance's name to the U.S. Embassy in Tehran, telling them to
  get off their butts; and he's going to write a personal note to Vance about
  Paul and Bill."
 "Good."
  "We also called Admiral Moorer. He's up to speed on this whole thing
  because we consulted him about the passport problem. Moorer's going to talk
  to Ardeshir Zahedi. Now, Zahedi is not just the Iranian Ambassador in
  Washington but also the Shah's brother-in-law, and he's now back in
  Iran-running the country, some say. Moorer will ask Zahedi to vouch for
  Paul and Bill. Right now we're drafting a cable for Zahedi to send to the
  Ministry of Justice."
 "Who's drafting it?"
 "Tom Luce."
  "Good." Perot summed up: "We've got the Secretary of State, the head of the
  Iran Desk, the Embassy, and the Iranian
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    67

 Ambassador all working on the case. That's good. Now let's talk about what
 else we can do."
  T.J. said: "Tom Luce and Tom Walter have an appointment with Admiral Moorer
  in Washington tomorrow. Moorer also suggested we call Richard Helms-he used
  to be Ambassador to Iran after he quit the CIA."
  "I'll call Helms," Perot said. "And I'll call Al Haig and Henry Kissinger.
  I want you two to concentrate on getting all our people out of Iran."
 Gayden said: "Ross, I'm not sure that's necessary-"
  "I don't want a discussion, Bill," said Perot. "Let's get it done. Now,
  Lloyd Briggs has to stay there and deal with the problem-he's the boss,
  with Paul and Bill in jail. Everyone else comes home."
  "You can't make them come home if they don't want to," Gayden said.
 "Who'll want to stay?"
 "Rich Gallagher. His wife-"
  "I know. Okay, Briggs and Gallagher stay. Nobody else." Perot stood up.
  "I'll get started on those calls."
  He took the elevator to the seventh floor and walked through his
  secretary's office. Sally Walther was at her desk. She had been with him
  for years, and had been involved in the prisonersof-war campaign and the
  San Francisco party. (She had come back from that weekend with a Son Tay
  Raider in tow, and Captain Udo Walther was now her husband.) Perot said to
  her: "Call Henry Kissinger, Alexander Haig, and Richard Helms."
  He went through to his own office and sat at his desk. The office, with its
  paneled walls, costly carpet, and shelves of antiquarian books, looked more
  like a Victorian library in an English country house. He was surrounded by
  souvenirs and his favorite art. For the house Margot bought Impressionist
  paintings, but in his office Perot preferred American art: Norman Rockwell
  originals and the Wild West bronzes of Frederic Remington. Through the
  window he could see the slopes of the old golf course.
  Perot did not know where Henry Kissinger might be spending the holidays: it
  could take Sally a while to find him. There was time to think about what to
  say. Kissinger was not a close friend. It would need all his salesmanship
  to grab Kissinger's attention and, in the space of a short phone call, win
  his sympathy.
 68        Ken Follett

  The phone on his desk buzzed, and Sally called: "Henry Kissinger for you."
 Perot picked it up. "Ross Perot."
 "I have Henry Kissinger for you."
 Perot waited.
  Kissinger had once been called the most powerful man in the world. He knew
  the Shah personally. But how well would he remember Ross Perot? The
  prisoners-of-war campaign had been big, but Kissinger's projects had been
  bigger: peace in the Middle East, rapprochement between the U.S. and China,
  the ending of the Vietnam War ...
  "Kissinger here." It was the familiar deep voice, its accent a curious
  mixture of American vowels and German consonants.
  "Dr. Kissinger, this is Ross Perot. I'm a businessman in Dallas, Texas,
  and-"
 "Hell, Ross, I know who you are," said Kissinger.
  Perot's heart leaped. Kissinger's voice was warm, friendly, and informal.
  This was great! Perot began to tell him about Paul and Bill: how they had
  gone voluntarily to see Dadgar, how the State Department had let them down.
  He assured Kissinger they were innocent, and pointed out that they had not
  been charged with any crime, nor had the Iranians produced an atom of
  evidence against them. "These are my men, I sent them there, and I have to
  get them back," he finished.
 "I'll see what I can do," Kissinger said.
 Perot was exultant. "I sure appreciate it!"
 "Send me a short briefing paper with all the details."
 "We'll get it to you today."
 "I'll get back to you, Ross."
 "Thank you, sir."
 The line went dead.
  Perot felt terrific. Kissinger had remembered him, had been friendly and
  willing to help. He wanted a briefing paper: EDS could send it today-
  Perot was struck by a thought. He had no idea where Kissinger had been
  speaking from-it might have been London, Monte Carlo, Mexico ...
 I 'Sally?"
 "Yes, sir?"
 "Did you find out where Kissinger is?"
 "Yes, sir."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    69

 Kissinger was in New York, in his duplex at the exclusive River House
 apartment complex on East Fifty-second Street. From the window he could see
 the East River.
  Kissinger remembered Ross Perot clearly. Perot was a rough diamond. He
  helped causes with which Kissinger was sympathetic, usually causes having
  to do with prisoners. In the Vietnam War Perot's campaign had been
  courageous, even though he had sometimes harassed Kissinger beyond the
  point of what was doable. Now some of Perot's own people were prisoners.
  Kissinger could readily believe that they were innocent. Iran was on the
  brink of civil war: justice and due process meant little over there now. He
  wondered whether he could help. He wanted to: it was a good cause. He was
  no longer in office, but he still had friends, He would call Ardeshir
  Zahedi, he decided, as soon as the briefing paper arrived from Dallas.

 Perot felt good about the conversation with Kissinger. HeU, Ross, I know who
 you are. That was worth more than money. The only advantage of being famous
 was that it sometimes helped get important things done.
  T.J. came in. "I have your passport," he said. "It already has a visa for
  Iran, but, Ross, I don't think you should go. All of us here can work on
  the problem, but you're the key man. The last thing we need is for you to
  be out of contact-in Tehran or just up in a plane sornewhere--at a moment
  when we have to make a crucial decision."
  Perot had forgotten all about going to Tehran. Everything he
 had heard in the last hour encouraged him to think it would not
 be necessary. "You might be right," he said to T.J. "We have
 so many things going in the area of negotiation --- only one of
 them has to work. I won't go to Tehran. Yet."

   4-
Henry Precht was probably the most harassed man in Washington. A long-serving
 State Department official with a bent for art and philosophy and a wacky
 sense of humor, he had been making American policy on Iran more or less by
 himself for much of 1978, while his superiors---right up to President
 Carter-
  70        Ken Follett

 focused on the Camp David agreement between Egypt and Israel.
  Since early November, when things had really started to warm up in Iran,
  Precht had been working seven days a week from eight in the morning until
  nine at night. And those damn Texans seemed to think he had nothing else to
  do but talk to them on the phone.
  The trouble was, the crisis in Iran was not the only power struggle Precht
  had to worry about. There was another fight going on, in Washington,
  between Secretary of State Cyrus Vance--Precht's bos&-and Zbigniew
  Brzezinski, the President's National Security Advisor.
  Vance believed, like President Carter, that American foreign policy should
  reflect American morality. The American people believed in freedom,
  justice, and democracy, and they did not want to support tyrants. The Shah
  of Iran was a tyrant. Amnesty International had called Man's human-rights
  record the worst in the world, and the many reports of the Shah's
  systematic use of torture had been confirmed by the International
  Commission of Jurists. Since the CIA had put the Shah in power and the
  U.S.A. had kept him there, a President who talked a lot about human rights
  had to do something.
  In January 1977 Carter had hinted that tyrants might be denied American
  aid. Carter was indecisive-later that year he visited Iran and lavished
  praise on the Shah-but Vance believed in the human-rights approach.
  Zbigniew Brzezinski did not. The National Security Advisor believed in
  power. The Shah was an ally of the United States, and should be supported.
  Sure, he should be encouraged to stop torturing peopl"ut not yet. His
  regime was under attack: this was no time to liberalize it.
  When would be the time? asked the Vance faction. The Shah had been strong
  for most of his twenty-five years of rule, but had never shown much
  inclination toward moderate government. Brzezinski replied: "Name one
  single moderate government in that region of the world."
  There were those in the Carter administration who thought that if America
  did not stand for freedom and democracy there was no point in having a
  foreign policy at all; but that was a somewhat extreme view, so they fell
  back on a pragmatic argument: the Iranian people had had enough of the
  Shah, and they were going to get rid of him regardless of what Washington
  thought.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    71

  Rubbish, said Brzezinski. Read history. Revolutions succeed when rulers
  make concessions, and fail when those in power crush the rebels with an
  iron fist. The Iranian Army, four hundred thousand strong, can easily put
  down any revolt.
  The Vance faction--4ricluding'Henry Precht-<hd not agree with the
  Brzezinski Theory of Revolutions: threatened tyrants make concessions
  because the rebels are strong, not the other way around, they said. More
  importantly, they did not believe that the Iranian Army was four hundred
  thousand strong. Figures were hard to get, but soldiers were deserting at
  a rate that fluctuated around 8 percent per month, and there were whole
  units that would go over to the revolutionaries intact in the event of
  all-out civil war.
  The two Washington factions were getting their information f1rom different
  sources. Brzezinski was listening to Ardeshir Zahedi, the Shah's
  brother-in-law and the most powerful proShah figure in Iran. Vance was
  listening to Ambassador Sullivan. Sullivan's cables were not as consistent
  as Washington could have wished--perhaps because the situation in Iran was
  sometimes confusing-but, since September, the general trend of his reports
  had been to say that the Shah was doomed.
  Brzezinski said Sullivan was running around with his head cut off and could
  not be trusted. Vance's supporters said that Brzezinski dealt with bad news
  by shooting the messenger.
  The upshot was that the United States did nothing. One time the State
  Department drafted a cable to Ambassador Sullivan, instructing him to urge
  the Shah to form a broad-based civilian coalition government: Brzezinski
  killed the cable. Another time Brzezinski phoned the Shah and assured him
  that he had the support of President Carter; the Shah asked for a
  confirming cable; the State Department did not send the cable. In their
  frustration both sides leaked information to the newspapers, so that the
  whole world knew that Washington's policy on Iran was paralyzed by
  infighting.
  With all that going on, the last thing Precht needed was a gang of Texans
  on his tail thinking they were the only people in the world with a problem.
  Besides, he knew, he thought, exactly why EDS was in trouble. On asking
  whether EDS was represented by an agent in h-an, he was told: Yes--t&.
  Abolfath Mahvi. That explained everything. Mahvi was a well-known Tehran
  middleman, nicknamed "the king of the five percenters" for his dealings in
 72        Ken Follett

 military contracts. Despite his high-level contacts the Shah had put him on
 a blacklist of people banned from doing business in Iran. This was why EDS
 was suspected of corruption.
  Precht would do what he could. He would get the Embassy in Tehran to look
  into the case, and perhaps Ambassador Sullivan might be able to put
  pressure on the Iranians to release Chiapparone and Gaylord. But there was
  no way the United States government was going to put all other Iranian
  questions on the back burner. They were attempting to support the existing
  regime, and this was no time to unbalance that regime further by
  threatening a break in diplomatic relations over two jailed businessmen,
  especially when there were another twelve thousand U.S. citizens in Iran,
  all of whom the State Department was supposed to look after. It was
  unfortunate, but Chiapparone and Gaylord would just have to sweat it out.

 Henry Precht meant well. However, early in his involvement with Paul and
 Bill, he-like Lou Goelz--made a mistake that at first wrongly colored his
 attitude to the problem and later made him defensive in all his dealings
 with EDS. Precht acted as if the investigation in which Paul and Bin were
 supposed to be witnesses were a legitimate judicial inquiry into allegations
 of corruption, rather than a barefaced act of blackmail. Goelz, on this
 assumption, decided to cooperate with General Biglari. Precht, making the
 same mistake, refused to treat Paul and Bill as criminally kidnapped
 Americans.
  Whether Abolfath Mahvi was corrupt or not, the fact was that he had not
  made a penny out of EDS's contract with the Ministry. Indeed, EDS had got
  into trouble in its early days for refusing to give Mahvi a piece of the
  action.
  It happened like this. Mahvi helped EDS get its first, small contract in
  Iran, creating a document-control system for the Iranian Navy. EDS, advised
  that by law they had to have a local partner, promised Mahvi a third of the
  profit. When the contract was completed, two years later, EDS duly paid
  Mahvi four hundred thousand dollars.
  But while the Ministry contract was being negotiated, Mahvi was on the
  blacklist. Nevertheless, when the deal was about to be signed, Mahvin-who
  by this time was off the blacklist againdemanded that the contract be given
  to a joint company owned by lum. and EDS.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    73

  EDS refused. While Mahvi had earned his share of the navy contract, he had
  done nothing for the Ministry deal.
  Mahvi claimed that EDS's association with him had smoothed the way for the
  Ministry contract through the twenty-four different government bodies that
  had to approve it. Furthermore, he said, he had helped obtain a tax ruling
  favorable to EDS that was written into the contract: EDS only got the
  ruling because Mahvi had spent time with the Minister of Finance in Monte
  Carlo.
  EDS had not asked for his help, and did not believe that he had given it.
  Furthermore, Ross Perot did not like the kind of "help" that takes place in
  Monte Carlo.
  EDS's Iranian attorney complained to the Prime Minister, and Mahvi was
  carpeted for demanding bribes. Nevertheless, his influence was so great
  that the Ministry of Health would not sign the contract unless EDS made him
  happy.
  EDS had a series of stormy negotiations with Mahvi. EDS still refused
  point-blank to share profits with him. In the end there was a face-saving
  compromise: a joint company, acting as subcontractor to EDS, would recruit
  and employ all EDS's Iranian staff. In fact, the joint company never made
  money, but that was later: at the time Mahvi accepted the compromise and
  the Ministry contract was signed.
  So EDS had not paid bribes, and the Iranian government knew it; but Henry
  Precht did not, nor did Lou Goelz. Consequently their attitude to Paul and
  Bill was equivocal. Both men spent many hours on the case, but neither gave
  it top priority. When EDS's combative lawyer Tom Luce talked to them as if
  they were idle or stupid or both, they became indignant and said they might
  do better if he would get off their backs.
  Precht in Washington and Goelz in Tehran were the crucial, ground-level
  operatives dealing with the case. Neither of them was idle. Neither was
  incompetent. But they both made mistakes, they both became somewhat hostile
  to EDS, and in those vital first few days they both failed to help Paul and
  Bill.
            THREE

 A guard opened the cell door, looked around, pointed at Paul and Bill, and
 beckoned them.
 Bill's hopes soared. Now they would be released.
  They got up and followed the guard upstairs. It was good to see daylight
  through the windows. They went out the door and across the courtyard to the
  little one-story building beside the entrance gate. The fresh air tasted
  heavenly.
  It had been a terrible night. Bill had lain on the thin mattress, dozing
  fitfully, startled by the slightest movement from the other prisoners,
  looking around anxiously in the dim light from the all-night bulb. He had
  known it was morning when a guard came with glasses of tea and rough hunks
  of bread for breakfast. He had not felt hungry. He had said a rosary.
 Now it seemed his prayers were being answered.
  Inside the one-story building was a visiting room furnished with simple
  tables and chairs. Two people were waiting. Bill recognized one of them: it
  was Ali Jordan, the Iranian who worked with Lou Goelz at the Embassy. He
  shook hands and introduced his colleague, Bob Sorenson.
  "We brought you some stuff," Jordan said. "A battery shaver -you'll have to
  share it--and some dungarees. "
  Bill looked at Paul. Paul was staring at the two Embassy men, looking as if
  he were about to explode. "Aren't you going to get us out of here?" Paul
  said.
 "I'm afraid we can't do that."
 "Goddammit, you got us in here!"
 Bill sat down slowly, too depressed to be angry.
  "We're very sorry this has happened," said Jordan. "It came as a complete
  surprise to us. We were told that Dadgar was
                74
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    75

 favorably disposed toward you ... The Embassy is filing a very serious
 protest. "
 "But what are you doing to get us out?"
  "You must work through the Iranian legal system. Your attorneys-"
 "Jesus Christ," Paul said disgustedly.
  Jordan said: "We have asked them to move you to a better part of the jail."
 "Gee, thanks.
 Sorenson asked: "Uh, is there anything else you need?"
 "There's nothing I need," Paul said. "I'm not planning to be
 here very long."
  Bill said: "I'd like to get some eye drops."
  "I'll see that you do," Sorenson promised.
  Jordan said: "I think that's all for now . He looked at the
 guard.
  Bill stood up.
  Jordan spoke in Farsi to the guard, who motioned Paul and Bill to the door.
  They followed the guard back across the courtyard. Jordan and Sorenson were
  low-ranking Embassy staff, Bill reflected. Why hadn't Goelz come? It seemed
  that the Embassy thought it was EDS's job to get them out: sending Jordan
  and Sorenson was a way of notifying the Iranians that the Embassy was
  concerned but at the same time letting Paul and Bill know that they could
  not expect much help from the U.S. government. We're a problem the Embassy
  wants to ignore, Bill thought angrily. ,
  Inside the main building the guard opened a door they had not been through
  before, and they went from the reception area into a corridor. On their
  right were three offices. On their left were windows looking out into the
  courtyard. They came to another door, this one made of thick steel. The
  guard unlocked it and ushered them through.
 The first thing Bill saw was a TV set.
  As he looked around he started to feel a little better. This part of the
  jail was more civilized than the basement. It was relatively clean and
  light, with gray walls and gray carpeting. The cell doors were open and the
  prisoners were walking around freely. Daylight came in through the windows.
  They continued along a hall with two cells on the right and, on the left,
  what appeared to be a bathroom: Bill looked forward to a chance to get
  clean again after his night downstairs. Glancing
 76         Ken Follen

 through the last door on the right, he saw shelves of books. Then the guard
 turned left and led them down a long, narrow corridor and into the last
 cell.
 There they saw someone they knew.
  It was Reza Neghabat, the Deputy Minister in charge of the Social Security
  Organization at the Ministry of Health. Both Paul and Bill knew him well
  and had worked closely with him before his arrest last September. They
  shook hands enthusiastically. Bill was relieved to see a familiar face, and
  someone who spoke English.
 Neghabat was astonished. "Why are you in here?"
  Paul shrugged. "I kind of hoped you might be able to tell us that. -
 "But what are you accused of?"
  "Nothing," said Paul. "We were interrogated yesterday by Mr. Dadgar, the
  magistrate who's investigating your former Minister, Dr. Sheik. He arrested
  us. No charges, no accusations. We're supposed to be 'material witnesses,'
  we understand."
  Bill looked around. On either side of the cell were paired stacks of bunks,
  three high, with another pair beside the window, making eighteen
  altogether. As in the cell downstairs, the bunks were furnished with thin
  fbam-rubber mattresses, the bottom bunk of the three being no more than a
  mattress on the floor, and gray wool blankets. However, here some of
  the-prisoners seemed to have sheets, as well. The window, opposite the
  door, looked out into the courtyard. Bill could see grass, flowers, and
  trees, as well as parked cars belonging, he presumed, to guards. He could
  also see the low building where they had just talked with Jordan and
  Sorenson.
  Neghabat introduced Paul and Bill to their cellmates, who seemed friendly
  and a good deal less villainous than the inmates of the basement. There
  were several free bunks-the cell was not as crowded as the one
  downstairs-and Paul and Bill took beds on either side of the doorway.
  Bill's was the middle bunk of three, but Paul was on the floor again.
  Neghabat showed them around. Next to their cell was a kitchen, with tables
  and chairs, where the prisoners could make tea and coffee or just sit and
  talk. For some reason it was called the Chattanooga Room. Beside it was a
  hatch in the wall at the end of the corridor: this was a commissary,
  Neghabat explained, where from time to time you could buy soap, towels, and
  cigarettes.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    77

  Walking back down the long corridor, they passed their own cell-Number
  5--and two more cells before emerging into the hall, which stretched away
  to their right. The room Bill had glanced into earlier turned out to be a
  combination guard's office and library, with books in English as well as
  Farsi. Next to it were two more cells. Opposite these cells was the
  bathroom, with sinks, showers, and toilets. The toilets were Persian style-
  like a shower tray with a drain hole in the middle. Bill learned that he
  was not likely to get the shower he longed for: normally there was no hot
  water.
  Beyond the steel door, Neghabat said, was a little office used by a
  visiting doctor and dentist. The library was always open and the TV was on
  all evening, although of course programs were in Farsi. Twice a week the
  prisoners in this section were taken out into the courtyard to exercise by
  walking in a circle for half an hour. Shaving was compulsory: the guards
  would allow mustaches, but not beards.
  During the tour they met two more people they knew. One was Dr. Towliati,
  the Ministry data-processing consultant about whom Dadgar had questioned
  them. The other was Hussein Pasha, who had been Neghabat's financial man at
  the Social Security Organization.
  Paul and Bill shaved with the electric razor brought in by Sorenson and
  Jordan. Then it was noon, and time for lunch. In the corridor wall was an
  alcove screened by a curtain. From there the prisoners took a linoleum mat,
  which they spread on the cell floor, and some cheap tableware. The meal was
  steamed rice with a little lamb, plus bread and yogurt, and tea or Pepsi-
  Cola to drink. They sat cross-legged on the floor to eat. For Paul and
  Bill, both gourmets, it was a poor lunch. However, Bill found he had an
  appetite: perhaps it was the cleaner surroundings.
  After lunch they had more visitors: their Iranian attorneys. The lawyers
  did not know why they had been arrested, did not know what would happen
  next, and did not know what they could do to help. It was a desultory,
  depressing conversation. Paul and Bill had no faith in them anyway, for it
  was these lawyers who had advised Lloyd Briggs that the bail would not
  exceed twenty thousand dollars. They returned no wiser and no happier.
  They spent the rest of the afternoon in the Chattanooga Room, talking to
  Neghabat, Towliati, and Pasha. Paul described his interrogation by Dadgar
  in detail. Each of the Iranians was highly interested in any mention of his
  own name during the
 78       Ken Follett

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 80        Ken Follett

 interrogation. Paul told Dr. Towliati how his name had come up, in
 connection with a suggested conflict of interest. Towliati described how he,
 too, had been questioned by Dadgar in the same way before being thrown in
 jail. Paul recollected that Dadgar had asked about a memorandum written by
 Pasha. It had been a completely routine request for statistics, and nobody
 could figure out what was supposed to be special about it.
  Neghabat had a theory as to why they were all in jail. "The Shah is making
  scapegoats of us, to show the masses that he really is cracking down on
  corruptio"ut he picked a project where there was no corruption. There is
  nothing to crack down on--but if he releases us, he will look weak. If he
  had looked instead at the construction business, he would have found an
  unbelievable amount of corruption. . . ."
  It was all very vague. Neghabat was just rationalizing. Paul and Bill
  wanted specifics: who ordered the crackdown, why pick on the Ministry of
  Health, what kind of corruption was supposed to have taken place, and where
  were the informants who had put the finger on the individuals who were now
  in jail? Neghabat was not being evasiv"e simply had no answers. His vague-
  ness was characteristically Persian: ask an Iranian what he had for
  breakfast and ten seconds later he would be explaining his philosophy of
  life.
  At six'o'clock they returned to their cell for supper. It was pretty
  grim-no more than the leftovers from lunch mashed into a dip to be spread
  on bread, with more tea.
  After supper they watched TV. Neghabat translated the news. The Shah had
  asked an opposition leader, Shahpour Bakhtiar, to form a civilian
  government, replacing the generals who had ruled han since November.
  Neghabat explained that Shahpour was leader of the Bakhtiar tribe, and that
  he had always refused to have anything to do with the regime of the Shah.
  Nevertheless, whether Bakhtiar's government could end the turmoil would
  depend on the Ayatollah Khomeini.
  The Shah had also denied rumors that he was leaving the country.
  Bill thought this sounded encouraging. With Bakhtiar as Prime Minister the
  Shah would remain and ensure stability,. but the rebels would at last have
  a voice in governing their own country.
  At ten o'clock the TV went off and the prisoners returned to their cells.
  The other inmates hung towels and pieces of cloth
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    81

 across their bunks to keep out the light: here, as downstairs, the bulb
 would shine all night. Neghabat said Paul and Bill could get their visitors
 to bring in sheets and towels for them.
  Bill wrapped himself in the thin gray blanket and settled down to try to
  sleep. We're here for a while, he thought resignedly; we must make the best
  of it. Our fate is in the hands of others.

   2

 Their fate was in the hands of Ross Perot, and in the next two days all his
 high hopes came to nothing.
  At first the news had been good. Kissinger had called back on Friday,
  December 29, to say that Ardeshir Zahedi would get Paul and Bill released.
  First, though, U.S. Embassy officials had to hold two meetings: one with
  people from the Ministry of Justice, the other with representatives of the
  Shah's court.
  In Tehran the American Ambassador's deputy, Minister Counselor Charles
  Naas, was personally setting up those meetings.
  In Washington, Henry Precht at the State Department was also talking to
  Ardeshir Zahedi. Emily Gaylord's brother-in-law, Tim Reardon, had spoken to
  Senator Kennedy. Admiral Moorer was working his contacts with the Iranian
  military government. The only disappointment in Washington had been Richard
  Helms, the former U.S. Ambassador to Tehran: he had said candidly that his
  old friends no longer had any influence.
  EDS consulted three separate Iranian lawyers. One was an American who
  specialized in representing U.S. corporations in Tehran. The other two were
  Iramans: one had good contacts in pro-Shah circles, the other was close to
  the dissidents. AD three had agreed that the way Paul and Bill had been
  jailed was highly irregular and that the bail was astronomical. The
  American, John Westherg, had said that the highest bail he had ever heard
  of in Iran was a hundred thousand dollars. The implication was that the
  magistrate who had jailed Paul and Bill was on weak ground.
  Here in Dallas, EDS's chief financial officer Tom Walter, the slow-talking
  Alabaman, was working on how EDS might-if necessary-go about posting bail
  of $12,750,000. The lawyers had advised him that bail could be in one of
  three forms: cash; a letter of credit drawn on an Iranian bank; or a lien
  on property in
 82        Ken Follett

 Iran. EDS had no property worth that much in Tehran--the computers actually
 belonged to the Ministry--and with the Iranian banks on strike and the
 country in turmoil, it was not possible to send in thirteen million dollars
 in cash; so Walter was organizing a letter of credit. T. J. Marquez, whose
 job it was to represent EDS to the investment community, had warned Perot
 that it might not be legal for a public company to pay that much money in
 what amounted to ransom. Perot deftly sidestepped that problem: he would pay
 the money personally.
  Perot had been optimistic that he would get Paul and Bill out of jail in
  one of the three ways-legal pressure, political pressure, or by paying the
  bail.
 I'lien the bad news started coming in.
  Ile Iranian lawyers changed their tune. In turn they reported that the case
  was "political," had "a high political content," and was "a political hot
  potato." John Westberg, the American, had been asked by his Iranian
  partners not to handle the case because it would bring the firm into
  disfavor with powerful people. Evidently Examining Magistrate Hosain Dadgar
  was not on weak ground.
  Lawyer Tom Luce and financial officer Tom Walter had gone to Washington
  and, accompanied by Admiral Moorer, had visited the State Department. They
  had expected to sit down around a table with Henry Precht and formulate an
  aggressive campaign for the release of Paul and Bill. But Henry Precht was
  cool. He had shaken hands with them--he could hardly do less when they were
  accompanied by a former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff-but he had
  not sat down with them. He had handed them over to a subordinate. The
  subordinate reported that none of the State Department's efforts had
  achieved anything: neither Ardeshir Zahedi nor Charlie Naas had been able
  to get Paul and Bill released.
  Tom Luce, who did not have the patience of Job, got mad as hell. It was the
  State Department's job to protect Americans abroad, he said, and so far all
  State had done was to get Paul and Bill thrown in jail! Not so, he was
  told: what State had done so far was above and beyond its normal duty. If
  Americans abroad committed crimes, they were subject to foreign laws: the
  State Department's duties did not include springing people from jail. But,
  Luce argued, Paul and Bill had not committed a crimethey were being held
  hostage for thirteen million dollars! He was
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    83

 wasting his breath. He and Tom Walter returned to Dallas emptyhanded-
  Late last night Perot had called the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and asked
  Charles Naas why he still had not met with the officials named by Kissinger
  and Zahedi. The answer was simple: those officials were,making themselves
  unavailable to Naas.
  Today Perot had called Kissinger again and reported this. Kissinger was
  sorry: he did not think there was anything more he could do. However, he
  would call Zahedi and try again.
  One more piece of bad news completed the picture. Tom Walter had been
  trying to establish, with the Iranian lawyers, the conditions under which
  Paul and Bill might be released on bail: for example, would they have to
  promise to return to Iran for further questioning if required, or could
  they be interrogated outside the country? Neither, he was told: If they
  were released from prison they still would not be able to leave Iran.
  Now it was New Year's Eve. For three days Perot had been living at the
  office, sleeping on the floor and eating cheese sandwiches. There was
  nobody to go home to-Margot and the children were still in Vail-and,
  because of the nine-and-a-halfhour time difference between Texas and Iran,
  important phone calls were often made in the middle of the night. He was
  leaving the office only to visit his mother, who was now out of the
  hospital and recuperating at her Dallas home. Even with her, he talked
  about Paul and Bill-she was keenly interested in the progress of events.
  This evening he felt the need of hot food, and he decided to brave the
  weather-Dallas was suffering an ice storm-and drive a mile or so to a fish
  restaurant.
  He left the building by the back door and got behind the wheel of his
  station wagon. Margot had a Jaguar, but Perot preferred nondescript cars.
  He wondered just how much influence Kissinger had now, in Iran or anywhere.
  Zahedi and any other Iranian contacts Kissinger had might be like Richard
  Helms's friends-all out of the mainstream, powerless. The Shah seemed to be
  hanging on by the skin of his teeth.
  On the other hand, that whole group might soon need friends in America, and
  might welcome the opportunity to do Kissinger a favor.
 While he was eating, Perot felt a large hand on his shoulder,
 84        Ken Follett

 and a deep voice said: "Ross, what are you doing here, eating all by
 yourself on New Year's Eve?"
  He turned around to see Roger Staubach, quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys,
  a fellow Naval Academy graduate and an old friend. "Hi, Roger! Sit down."
  "I'm here with the family," Staubach said. "The heat's off in our house on
  account of the ice storm.
 "Well, bring them over."
 Staubach beckoned to his family, then said: "How's Margot?"
  "Fine, thank you. She's skiing with the children in Vail. I had to come
  back-we've got a big problem." He proceeded to tell the Staubach family all
  about Paul and Bill.
  He drove back to the office in good spirits. There were still a bunch of
  good people in the world.
  He thought again of Colonel Simons. Of all the schemes he had for getting
  Paul and Bill out, the jailbreak was the one with the longest lead time:
  Simons would need a team of men, a training period, equipment ... And yet
  Perot still had not done anything about it. It had seemed such a distant
  possibility, a last resort: while negotiations had seemed promising he had
  blocked it out of his mind. He was still not ready to call Simons-he would
  wait for Kissinger to have one more try with Zahedi--but perhaps there was
  something he could do to prepare for Simons.
  Back at EDS he found Pat Sculley. Sculley, a West Point graduate, was a
  thin, boyish, restless man of thirty-one. He had been a project manager in
  Tehran and had come out with the December 8 evacuation. He had returned
  after Ashura, then come out again when Paul and Bill were arrested. His job
  at the moment was to make sure that the Americans remaining in Tehran-Lloyd
  Briggs, Rich Gallagher and his wife, Paul and Bill--had reservations on a
  flight out every day, just in case the prisoners should be released.
  With Sculley was Jay Coburn, who had organized the evacuation, and then, on
  December 22, had come home to spend Christmas with his family. Coburn had
  been about to go back to Tehran when he got the news that Paul and Bill had
  been arrested, so he had stayed in Dallas and organized the second
  evacuation. A placid, stocky man, Coburn was thirty-two but looked forty:
  the reason, Perot believed, was that Coburn had lived eight years in one as
  a combat helicopter pilot in Vietnam. For all that, Coburn smiled a lot-a
  slow smile that began as a
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    85

 twinkle in his eye and often ended in a shoulder-shaking belly laugh.
  Perot liked and trusted both men. They were what he called eagles:
  high-fliers, who used their initiative, got the job done, gave him results
  not excuses. The mono of EDS's recruiters was: Eagles Don't Flock-You Have
  to Find Them One at a Time. One of the secrets of Perot's business success
  was his policy of going looking for men like this, rather than waiting and
  hoping they would apply for a job.
  Perot said to Sculley: "Do you think we're doing everything we need to do
  for Paul and Bill?"
 Sculley responded without hesitation. "No, I don't."
  Perot nodded. These young men were never afraid to speak out to the boss:
  that was one of the things that made them eagles. "What do you think we
  ought to do?"
  "We ought to break them out," Sculley said. "I know it sounds strange, but
  I really think that if we don't, they have a good chance of getting killed
  in there."
  Perot did not think it sounded strange: that fear had been at the back of
  his mind for three days. "I'm thinking of the same thing." He saw surprise
  on Sculley's face. "I want you two to put together a list of EDS people who
  could help do it. We'll need men who know Tehran, have some military
  experience-preferably in Special Forces-type action-md are one hundred
  percent trustworthy and loyal. "
 "We'll get on it right away," Sculley said enthusiastically.
  The phone rang and Coburn picked it up. "Hi, Keane! Where are you? ... Hold
  on a minute."
  Coburn covered the mouthpiece with his hand and looked at Perot. "Keane
  Taylor is in Frankfurt. If we're going to do something like this, he ought
  to be on the team."
  Perot nodded. Taylor, a former marine sergeant, was another of his eagles.
  Six foot two and elegantly dressed, Taylor was a somewhat irritable man,
  which made him the ideal butt for practical jokes. Perot said: "Tell him to
  go back to Tehran. But don't explain why."
  A slow smile spread across Coburn's young-old face. "He ain't gonna like
  it. "
  Sculley reached across the desk and switched on the speaker so they could
  all hear Taylor blow his cool.
 Coburn said: "Keane, Ross wants you to go back to Iran."
 "What the hell for?" Taylor demanded.
 86         Ken Folleu

  Coburn looked at Perot. Perot shook his head. Coburn said: "Uh, there's a
  lot we need to do, in terms of tidying up, administratively speaking-"
  "You tell Perot I'm not going back in there for any administrative
  bullshit!"
 Sculley started to laugh.
  Coburn said: "Keane, I have somebody else here who wants to talk to you."
 Perot said: "Keane, this is Ross."
 "Oh. Uh, hello, Ross."
 "I'm sending you back to do something very important.
 "Oh. "
 "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
 There was a long pause, then Taylor said: "Yes, sir. Good. "
 "I'm on my way."
 "What time is it there?" Perot asked.
 "Seven o'clock in the morning. "
 Perot looked at his own watch. It said midnight,
 Nineteen Seventy-nine had begun.

 Taylor sat on the edge of the bed in his Frankfurt hotel room, thinking
 about his wife.
  Mary was in Pittsburgh with the children, Mike and Dawn, staying at
  Taylor's brother's house. Taylor had called her from Tehran before leaving
  and told her he was coming home. She had been very happy to hear it. They
  had made plans for the future: they would return to Dallas, put the kids in
  school ...
  Now he had to call and tell her he would not be coming home after all.
 She would be worried.
 Hell, he was worried.
  He thought about Tehran. He had not worked on the Ministry of Health
  project, but had been in charge of a smaller contract, to computerize the
  old-fashioned manual bookkeeping systems of Bank Omran. One day about three
  weeks ago, a mob had formed outside the bank-On-iran was the Shah's bank.
  Taylor had sent his people home. He and Glenn Jackson were the last to
  leave. They locked up the building and started walking north. As they
  turned the comer onto the main street, they walked into the mob. At that
  moment-die army opened fire and charged down the street.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    87

  Taylor and Jackson ducked into a doorway. Someone opened the door and
  yelled at them to get inside. They did-but before their rescuer could lock
  it again, four of the demonstrators forced their way in, chased by five
  soldiers.
  Taylor and Jackson flattened themselves against the wall and watched the
  soldiers, with their truncheons and rifles, beat up the demonstrators. One
  of the rebels made a break for it. Two of his fingers were almost torn off
  his hand, and blood spurted all over the glass door. He got out but
  collapsed in the street. The soldiers dragged the other three demonstrators
  out. One was a bloody mess but conscious: the other two were out cold, or
  dead.
  Taylor and Jackson stayed inside until the street was clear. The Iranian
  who had saved them kept saying: "Get out while you can."
  And now, Taylor thought, I have to tell Mary that I've just agreed to go
  back into all that.
 To do something very important.
  Obviously it had to do with Paul and Bill; and if Perot could not talk
  about it on the phone, presumably it was something at least clandestine and
  quite possibly illegal.
  In a way Taylor was glad, despite his fear of the mobs. VAlile still in
  Tehran he had talked on the phone with Bill's wife, Emily Gaylord, and had
  promised not to leave without Bill. The orders from Dallas, that everyone
  but Briggs and Gallagher had to get out, had forced him to break his word.
  Now the orders had changed, and perhaps he could keep his promise to Emily
  after all.
  Well, he thought, I can't walk back, so I'd better find a plane. He picked
  up the phone again.

 Jay Coburn remembered the first time he had seen Ross Perot in action. He
 would never forget it as long as he lived.
  It happened in 1971. Coburn had been with EDS less than two years. He was
  a recruiter, working in New York City. Scott was bom that year at a little
  Catholic hospital. It was a normal birth and, at first, Scott appeared to
  be a normal, healthy baby.
  The day after he was bom, when Coburn went to visit, Liz said Scott had not
  been brought in for his feeding that Morning. At the time Coburn took no
  notice. A few minutes later a woman came in and said: "Here are the
  pictures of your baby."
  "I don't remember any pictures being taken," Liz said. The woman showed her
  the photographs. "No, that's not my baby."
 88        Ken Follett

  The woman looked confused for a moment, then said: "Oh! That's right, yours
  is the one that's got the problem."
 It was the first Coburn and Liz had heard of any problem.
  Coburn went to see the day-old Scott, and had a terrible shock. The baby
  was in an oxygen tent, gasping for air, and as blue as a pair of jeans. The
  doctors were in consultation about him.
  Liz became almost hysterical, and Coburn called their family doctor and
  asked him to come to the hospital. Then he waited.
  Something wasn't stacking up right. What kind of a hospital was it where
  they didn't tell you your newborn baby was dying? Coburn became distraught.
  He called Dallas and asked for his boss, Gary Griggs. "Gary, I don't know
  why I'm calling you, but I don't know what to do." And he explained.
 "Hold the phone," said Griggs
 A moment later there was an unfamiliar voice on the line. 'Jay? 11
  'Yes.
 "This is Ross Perot."
  Coburn had met Perot two or three times, but had never worked directly for
  him. Coburn wondered whether Perot even remembered what he looked like; EDS
  had more than a thousand employees at that time.
 "Hello, Ross."
  "Now, Jay, I need some information." Perot started asking questions: What
  was the address of the hospital? What were the doctors' names? What was
  their diagnosis? As he answered, Coburn was thinking bemusedly: does Perot
  even know who I am?
  "Hold on a minute, Jay." There was a short silence. "I'm going to connect
  you with Dr. Urschel, a close friend of mine and a leading cardiac surgeon
  here in Dallas." A moment later Coburn was answering more questions from
  the doctor.
  "Don't you do a thing," Urschel finished. "I'm going to talk to the doctors
  on that staff. You just stay by the phone so we can get back in touch with
  you."
 "Yes, sir," said Coburn dazedly.
  Perot came back on the line. "Did you get all that? How's Liz doing?"
 Coburn thought: How the hell does he know my wife's name?
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    89

 "Not too well," Coburn answered. "Her doctor's here and he's given her some
 sedation . - - "
  While Perot was soothing Coburn, Dr. Urschel was animating the hospital
  staff. He persuaded them to move Scott to New York University Medical
  Center. Minutes later, Scott and Coburn were in an ambulance on the way to
  the city.
 They got stuck in a traffic jam in the Midtown Tunnel.
  Coburn got out of the ambulance, ran more than a mile to the toll gate, and
  persuaded an official to hold up all lanes of traffic except the one the
  ambulance was in.
  When they reached New York University Medical Center there were ten or
  fifteen people waiting outside for them. Among them was the leading
  cardiovascular surgeon on the East Coast, who had been flown in from Boston
  in the time it had taken the ambulance to reach Manhattan.
  As baby Scott was rushed inside, Coburn handed over the envelope of X rays
  he had brought from the other hospital. A woman doctor glanced at them.
  "Where are the rest?"
 "That's all," Coburn replied.
 "That's all they took?"
  New X rays revealed that, as well as a hole in the heart, Scott had
  pneumonia. When the pneumonia was treated, the heart condition came under
  control.
  And Scott survived. He turned into a soccer-playing, treeclimbing,
  creek-wading, thoroughly healthy little boy. And Coburn began to understand
  the way people felt about Ross Perot.
  Perot's single-mindedness, his ability to focus narrowly on one thing and
  shut out distractions until he got the job done, had its disagreeable side.
  He could wound people. A day or two after Paul and Bill were arrested, he
  had walked into an office where Coburn was talking on the phone to Lloyd
  Briggs in Tehran. It had sounded to Perot as though Coburn was giving
  instructions, and Perot believed strongly that people in the head office
  should not give orders to those out there on the battlefield who knew the
  situation best. He had given Coburn a merciless telling-off in front of a
  room full of people.
  Perot had other blind spots. When Coburn had worked in recruiting, each
  year the company had named someone "Recruiter of the Year. " The names of
  the winners were engraved on a plaque. The list went back years, and in
  time some of the winners left the company. When that happened Perot wanted
  to erase their names from the plaque. Coburn thought that was
 90         Ken Folleu

 weird. So the guy left the company--w what? He had been Recruiter of the
 Year, one year, and why try to change history? It was almost as if Perot
 took it as a personal insult that someone should want to work elsewhere.
  Perot's faults were of a piece with his virtues. His peculiar attitude
  toward people who left the company was the obverse of his intense loyalty
  to his employees. His occasional unfeeling harshness was just part of the
  incredible energy and determination without which he would never have
  created EDS. Coburn found it easy to forgive Perot's shortcomings.
 He had only to look at Scott.

 -hft. Perot?" Sally called. "It's Henry Kissinger."
  Perot's heart missed a beat. Could Kissinger and Zahedi have done it in the
  last twenty-four hours? Or was he calling to say he had faded?
 "Ross Perot."
 "Hold the line for Henry Kissinger, please."
  A moment later Perot heard the familiar guttural accent. "Hello, Ross?"
 "Yes." Perot held his breath.
  "I have been assured that your men will be released tomorrow at ten A.M.,
  Tehran time."
  Perot let out his breath in a long sigh of relief. "Dr. Kissinger, that's
  just about the best news I've heard since I don't know when. I can't thank
  you enough."
  "The details are to be finalized today by U.S. Embassy officials and the
  Iranian Foreign Ministry, but this is a formality: I have been advised that
  your men will be released."
 :'It's just great. We sure appreciate your help."
 'You're welcome."

 It was nine-thirty in the morning in Tehran, midnight in Dallas. Perot sat
 in his office, waiting. Most of his colleagues had gone home, to sleep in a
 bed for a change, happy in the knowledge that by the time they woke up, Paul
 and Bill would be fkee. Perot was staying at the office to see it through to
 the end.
  In Tehran, Lloyd Briggs was at the Bucharest office, and one of the hanian
  employees was outside the jail. As soon as Paul and Bill appeared, the
  Iranian would call Bucharest and Briggs would call Perot.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    91

  Now that the crisis was almost over, Perot had time to wonder where he had
  gone wrong. One mistake occurred to him immediately. When he had decided,
  on December 4, to evacuate all his staff from Iran, he had not been
  determined enough and he had let others drag their feet and raise
  objections until it was too late.
  But the big mistake had been doing business in Iran in the first place.
  With hindsight he could see that. At the time, he had agreed with his
  marketing people--and with many other American businessmen--that oil-rich,
  stable, Westem-oriented Iran presented excellent opportunities. He had not
  perceived the strains beneath the surface, he knew nothing about the
  AyatoUah Khomeini, and he had not foreseen that one day there would be a
  President naive enough to try to impose American beliefs and standards on
  a Middle Eastern country.
  He looked at his watch. It was half past midnight. Paul and Bill should be
  walking out of that jail right now.
  Kissinger's good news had been confirmed by a phone call from David Newsom,
  Cy Vance's deputy at the State Department. And Paul and Bill were getting
  out not a moment too soon. The news from Iran had been bad again today.
  Bakhtiar, the Shah's new Prime Minister, had been rejected by the National
  Front, the party that was now seen as the moderate opposition. The Shah had
  announced that he might take a vacation. William Sullivan, the American
  Ambassador, had advised the dependents of all Americans working in Iran to
  go home, and the embassies of Canada and Britain had followed suit. But the
  strike had closed the airport, and hundreds of women and children were
  stranded. However, Paul and Bill would not be stranded. Perot had had good
  friends at the Pentagon ever since the POW campaign: Paul and Bill would be
  flown out on a U.S. Air Forcejet.
  At one o'clock Perot called Tehran. There was no news. Well, he thought,
  everyone says the Iranians have no sense of time.
  The irony of this whole thing was that EDS had never paid bribes, in Iran
  or anywhere else. Perot hated the idea of bribery. EDS's code of conduct
  was set out in a twelve-page booklet given to every new employee. Perot had
  written it himself. "Be aware that federal law and the laws of most states
  prohibit giving anything of value to a goverm-nent official with the intent
  to influence any official act ... Since the absence of such intent might be
  difficult to prove, neither money nor anything of value should be given to
  a federal, state, or foreign government official
 92          Ken FoUeu

 ... A determination that a payment or practice is not forbidden by law does
 not conclude the analysis . . . It is always appropriate to make further
 inquiry into the ethics ... Could you do business in complete trust with
 someone who acts the way you do? The answer must be YES. - The last page of
 the booklet was a form that the employee had to sip, acknowledging that he
 had received and read the code.
  When EDS first went to Iran, Perot's puritan principles had been reinforced
  by the Lockheed scandal. Daniel J. Haughton, chairman of the Lockheed
  Aircraft Corporation, had admitted to a Senate committee that Lockheed
  routinely paid millions of dollars in bribes to sell its planes abroad. His
  testimony had been an embarrassing performance that dispsted Perot:
  wriggling on his seat, Haughton had told the committee that the payments
  were not bribes but "kickbacks. - Subsequently the Foreign Corrupt
  Practices Act made it an offense under U.S. law to pay bribes in foreign
  countries.
  Perot had called in lawyer Tom Luce and made him personally responsible for
  ensuring that EDS never paid bribes. During the negotiation of the Ministry
  of Health contract in Iran, Luce had offended not a few EDS executives by
  the thoroughness and persistence with which he had cross-examined them
  about the propriety of their dealings.
  Perot was not hungry for business. He was already making millions. He did
  not need to expand abroad. If you have to pay bribes to do business there,
  he had said, why, we just won't do business there.
  His business principles were deeply ingrained. His ancestors were Frenchmen
  who came to New Orleans and set up trading posts along the Red River. His
  father, Gabriel Ross Perot, had been a cotton broker. The trade was
  seasonal, and Ross Senior had spent a lot of time with his son, often
  talking about business. "There's no point in buying cotton from a farmer
  once, - he would say. "You have to beat him fairly, earn his trust, and
  develop a relationship with him, so that he'll be happy to sell you his
  cotton year after year. Then you're doing business.
 Bribery just did not fit in there.
  At one-thirty Perot called the EDS office in Tehran again. SUB there was no
  news. "Call the jail, or send somebody down there," he said. "Find out when
  they're getting out."
 He was beginning to feel uneasy.
 What will I do if this doesn't work out? he thought. If I put up
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    93

 the bail, I'll have spent thirteen million dollars and still Paul and Bill
 will be forbidden to leave Iran. Other ways of getting them out using the
 legal system came up against the obstacle raised by the Iranian lawyers-4hat
 the case was political, which seemed to mean that Paul's and Bill's
 innocence made no difference. But political pressure had failed so far:
 neither the U.S. Embassy in Tehran nor the State Department in Washington
 had been able to help; and if Kissinger should fail, that would surely be
 the end of all hope in that area. What, then, was left?
 Force.
 The phone rang. Perot snatched up the receiver. "Ross Perot.
 "This is Lloyd Briggs."
 "Are they out?"
 "No."
 Perot's heart sank. "What's happening?"
  "We spoke to the jail. They have no instructions to release Paul and Bill."
  Perot closed his eyes. The worst had happened. Kissinger had failed.
 He sighed. "Thank you, Lloyd."
 "What do we do next?"
 "I don't know," said Perot.
 But he did know.
 He said good-bye to Briggs and hung up the phone.
  He would not admit defeat. Another of his father's principles had been:
  take care of the people who work for you. Perot could remember the whole
  family driving twelve miles on Sundays to visit an old black man who had
  used to mow their lawn, just to make sure that he was well and had enough
  to eat. Perot's father would employ people he did not need, just because
  they had no job. Every year the Perot family car would go to the county
  fair crammed with black employees, each of whom was given a little money to
  spend and a Perot business card to show if anyone tried to give him a hard
  time. Perot could remember one who had ridden a freight train to California
  and, on being arrested for vagrancy, had shown Perot's father's business
  card. The sheriff had said: "We don't care whose nigger you are, we're
  throwing you in jail. " But he had called Perot Senior, who had wired the
  train fare for the man to come back. "I been to California, and I'se back,"
  the man said when he reached Texarkana; and Perot Senior gave him back his
  job.
 Perot's father did not know what civil rights were: this was
 94        Ken Follett

 how you treated other human beings. Perot had not known his parents were
 unusual until he grew up.
  His father would not leave his employees in jail. Nor would Perot.
 He picked up the phone. "Get T. J. Marquez."
  It was two in the morning, but T.J. would not be surprised: this was not
  the first time Perot had woken him up in the middle of the night, and it
  would not be the last.
 A sleepy voice said: "Hello?"
 :'Tom, it doesn't look good."
  1"Y? I I
  "They haven't been released and the jail says they aren't going to be."
 :'Aw, damn."
  'Conditions are getting worse over there--did you see the news?"
 "I sure did."
 :'Do you think it's time for Simons?"
 'Yeah, I think it is."
 :'Do you have his number?"
 'No, but I can get it. "
 "Call him," said Perot.

   3

 Bull Simons was going crazy.
  He was thinking of burning down his house. It was an old woodframe
  bungalow, and it would go up like a pile of matchwood, and that would be
  the end of it. The place was hell to him--but it was a hell he did not want
  to leave, for what made it hell was the bittersweet memory of the time when
  it had been heaven.
  Lucille had picked the place. She saw it advertised in a magazine, and
  together they had flown down from Fort Bragg, North Carolina, to look it
  over. At Red Bay, in a dirt-poor part of the Florida Panhandle, the
  ramshackle house stood in forty acres of rough timber. But there was a
  two-acre lake with bass in it.
 Lucille had loved it.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    95

  It was 1971, and time for Simons to retire. He had been a colonel for ten
  years, and if the Son Tay Raid could not get him promoted to general,
  nothing would. The truth was, he did not fit in the Generals' Club: he had
  always been a reserve officer, he had never been to a top military school
  such as West Point, his methods were unconventional, and he was no good at
  going to Washington cocktail parties and kissing ass. He knew he was a
  goddain fine soldier, and if that was not good enough, why, Art Simons was
  not good enough. So he retired, and did not regret it.
  He had passed the happiest years of his life here at Red Bay. All their
  married life he and Lucille had endured periods of separation, sometimes as
  much as a year without seeing one another, during his tours in Vietnam,
  Laos, and Korea. From the moment he retired they were together all day and
  all night, every day of the year. Simons raised hogs. He knew nothing about
  farming, but he got the information he needed out of books, and built his
  own pens. Once the operation was under way he found there was not much to
  do but feed the pigs and look at them, so he spent a lot of time fooling
  around with his collection of 150 guns, and eventually set up a little
  gunsmithing shop where he would repair his and his neighbors' weapons and
  load his own ammunition. Most days he and Lucille would wander, hand in
  hand, through the woods and down to the lake, where they might catch a
  bass. In the evening, after supper, she would go to the bedroom as if she
  were preparing for a date, and come out later, wearing a housecoat over her
  nightgown and a red ribbon tied in her dark, dark hair, and sit on his lap
  ...
 Memories like these were breaking his heart.
  Even the boys had seemed to grow up, at last, during those golden years.
  Harry, the younger, had come home one day and said: "Dad, I've got a heroin
  habit and a cocaine habit and I need your help. " Simons knew little about
  drugs. He had smoked marijuana once, in a doctor's office in Panama, before
  giving his men a talk on drugs, just so that he could tell them he knew
  what it was like; but all he knew about heroin was that it killed people.
  Still, he had been able to help Harry by keeping him busy, out in the open,
  building hog pens. It had taken a while. Many times Harry left the house
  and went into town to score dope, but he always came back, and eventually
  he did not go into town anymore.
 The episode had brought Simons and Harry together again.
 96        Ken Follett

 Simons would never be close to Bruce, his elder son; but at least he had
 been able to stop worrying about the boy. Boy? He was in his thirties, and
 just about as bullheaded as . . . well, as his father. Bruce had found Jesus
 and was detennined to bring the rest of the world to the Lord-starting with
 Colonel Simons. Simons had practically thrown him out. However, unlike
 Bruce's other youthful enthusiasms--dnigs, I Ching, back-to-nature
 communes--Jesus had lasted, and at least Bruce had settled down to a stable
 way of life, as pastor of a tiny church in the frozen northwest of Canada.
  Anyway, Simons was through agonizing about the boys. He had brought them up
  as well as he could, for better or worse, and now they were men and had to
  take care of themselves. He was taking care of Lucille.
  She was a tall, handsome, statuesque woman with a penchant for big hats.
  She looked pretty damn impressive behind the wheel of their black Cadillac.
  But in fact she was the reverse of formidable. She was soft, easygoing, and
  lovable. The daughter of two teachers, she had needed someone to make
  decisions for her, someone she could follow blindly and trust completely;
  and she had found what she needed in Art Simons. He, in turn, was devoted
  to her. By the time he retired they had been married for thirty years, and
  in all that time he had never been in the least interested in another
  woman. Only his job, with its overseas postings, had come between them; and
  now that was over. He had told her: "My retirement plans can be summed up
  in one word: you."
 They had seven wonderful years.
 Lucille died of cancer on March 16, 1978.
 And Bull Simons went to pieces.
  Every man has a breaking point, they said. Simons had thought the rule did
  not apply to him. Now he knew it did: Lucille's death broke him. He had
  killed many people, and seen more die, but he had not understood the
  meaning of death until now. For thirty-seven years they had been together,
  and now, suddenly, she just wasn't there.
  Without her, he did not see what life was supposed to be about. There was
  no point in anything. He was sixty years old and he could not think of a
  single goddam reason for living another day. He stopped taking care of
  himself. He ate cold food from cans and let his hair-which had always been
  so shortgrow long. He fed the hogs religiously at three forty-five P.m.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES    97

 every day, although he knew perfectly well that it hardly mattered what time
 of day you fed a pig. He started taking in stray dogs, and soon had thirteen
 of them, scratching the furniture and messing on the floor.
  He knew he was close to losing his mind, and only the iron self-discipline
  that had been part of his character for so long enabled him to retain his
  sanity. When he first thought of burning the place down, he knew his
  judgment was unbalanced, and he promised himself he would wait a year, and
  see how he felt then.
  His brother Stanley was worried about him, he knew. Stan had tried to get
  him to pull himself together: had suggested he give some lectures, had even
  tried to get him to join the Israeli Army. Simons was Jewish by ancestry,
  but thought of himself as American: he did not want to go to Israel. He
  could not pun himself together. It was as much as he could do to live from
  day to day.
  He did not need someone to take care of him-he had never needed that. On
  the contrary, he needed someone to take care of. That was what he had done
  all his life. He had taken care of Lucille, he had taken care of the men
  under his command. Nobody could rescue him from his depression, for his
  role in life was to rescue others. That was why he had been reconciled with
  Harry but not with Bruce: Harry had come to him asking to be rescued from
  his heroin habit, but Bruce had come offering to rescue Art Simons by
  bringing him to the Lord. In military operations Simons's aim had always
  been to bring all his men back alive. The Son Tay Raid would have been the
  perfect climax to his career, if only there had been prisoners in the camp
  to rescue.
  Paradoxically, the only way to rescue Simons was to ask him to rescue
  someone else.
 It happened at two o'clock in the morning on January 2, 1979.
 The phone woke him.
 "Bull Simons?" The voice was vaguely familiar.
 "Yeah."
 "This is T. J. Marquez from EDS in Dallas."
  Simons remembered: EDS, Ross Perot, the POW campaign, the San Francisco
  party . . . "Hello, Tom."
 "Bull, I'm sorry to wake you."
 "It's okay. What can I do for you?"
 98        Ken Folleu

  "We have two people in jail in Iran, and it looks like we may not be able
  to get them out by any conventional means. Would you be willing to help
  us?"
  Would he be willing? "Hell, yes," Simons said. "When do we start?"
             FoUR

 Ross Perot drove out of EDS and turned left on Forest Lane, then right on
 Central Expressway. He was heading for the Hilton Inn on Central and
 Mockingbird. He was about to ask seven men to risk their lives.
  Sculley and Coburn had made their list. Their own names were at the top,
  followed by five more.
  How many American corporate chiefs in the twentieth century had asked seven
  employees to perpetrate a jailbreak? Probably none.
  During the night Coburn and Sculley had called the other five, who were
  scattered all over the United States, staying with friends and relations
  after their hasty departure from Tehran. Each had been told only that Perot
  wanted to see him in Dallas today. They were used to midnight phone calls
  and sudden summonses-that was Perot's style--and they had all agreed to
  come.
  As they arrived in Dallas they had been steered away from EDS headquarters
  and sent to check in at the Hilton Inn. Most of them should be there by
  now, waiting for Perot.
  He wondered what they would say when he told them he wanted them to go back
  to Tehran and bust Paul and Bill out of jail.
  They were good men, and loyal to him, but loyalty to an employer did not
  norinally extend to risking your life. Some of them might feel that the
  whole idea of a rescue by violence was foolhardy. Others would think of
  their wives and children, and for their sakes refu"uite reasonably.
  I have no right to ask these men to do this, he thought. I must take care
  not to put any pressure on them. No salesmanship
               99
 100       Ken Follett

 today, Perot: just straight talk. They must understand that they're free to
 say: no, thanks, boss; count me out.
 How many of them would volunteer?
 One in five, Perot guessed.
  If that were the case it would take several days to get a team together,
  and he might end up with people who did not know Tehran.
 What if none volunteered?
  He pulled into the parking lot of the Hilton Inn and switched off the
  engine.

 Jay Coburn looked around. There were four other men in the room: Pat
 Sculley, Glenn Jackson, Ralph Boulware, and Joe Poch6. Two more were on
 their way: Jim Schwebach was coming from Eau Claire, Wisconsin, and Ron
 Davis from Columbus, Ohio.
 The Dirty Dozen they were not.
  In their business suits, white shirts, and sober ties, with their short
  haircuts and clean-shaven faces and well-fed bodies, they looked like what
  they were: ordinary American business executives. It was hard to see them
  as a squad of mercenaries -
  Coburn and Sculley had made separate lists, but these five men had been on
  both. Each had worked in Tehran-most had baen on Coburn's evacuation team.
  Each had either military experience or some relevant skill. Each was a man
  Coburn trusted completely.
  While Sculley was calling them in the early hours of this morning, Coburn
  had gone to the personnel files and put together a folder on each man,
  detailing his age, height, weight, marital status, and knowledge of Tehran.
  As they arrived in Dallas, each of them completed another sheet recounting
  his military experience, military schools attended, weapons training, and
  other special skills. The folders were for Colonel Simons, who was on his
  way from Red Bay. But before Simons arrived, Perot had to ask these men
  whether they were willing to volunteer.
  For Perot's meeting With them, Coburn had taken three adjoining rooms. Only
  the middle room would be used: the rooms on either side had been rented ag
  a precaution against eavesdroppers.
 It was all rather melodramatic.
  Coburn studied the others, wondering what they were thinking. They still
  had not been told what this was all about, but they had probably guessed.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   101

  He could not tell what Joe Poch6 was thinking: nobody ever could. A short,
  quiet man of thirty-two, Poch6 kept his emotions locked away. His voice was
  always low and even, his face generaRy blank. He had spent six years in the
  army, and had seen action as commander of a howitzer battery in Vietnam. He
  had fired just about every weapon the army possessed up to some level of
  proficiency, and had killed time, in Vietnam, practicing with a .45. He had
  spent two years with EDS in Tehran, first designing the enrollment
  systeni--the computer program that listed the names of people eligible for
  health-care benefits---and later as the programmer responsible for loading
  the files that made up the data base for the whole system. Coburn knew him
  to be a deliberate, logical thinker, a man who would not give his assent to
  any idea or plan until he had questioned it from all angles and thought out
  all its consequences slowly and carefully. Humor and intuition were not
  among his strengths: brains and patience were.
  Ralph Boulware was a full five inches taller than Pochd. One of the two
  black men on the list, he had a chubby face and small, darting eyes, and he
  talked very fast. He had spent nine years in the air force as a technician,
  working on the complex inboard computer and radar systems of bombers. In
  Tehran for only nine months, he had started as data-preparation manager and
  had swiftly been promoted to data-center manager. Coburn knew him well and
  liked him a lot. In Tehran they had got drunk together. Their children had
  played together and their wives had become friends. Boulware loved his
  family, loved his friends, loved his job, loved his life. He enjoyed living
  more than anyone else Coburn could think of, with the possible exception of
  Ross Perot. Boulware was also a highly independent-minded son of a gun. He
  never had any trouble speaking out. Like many successful black men, he was
  a shade oversensitive, and liked to make it clear he was not to be pushed
  around. In Tehran over Ashura, when he had been in the high-stakes poker
  game with Coburn and Paul, everyone else had slept in the house for safety,
  as previously agreed; but Boulware had not. There had been no discussion,
  no announcement: Boulware just went home. A few days later he had decided
  that the work he was doing in Tehran did not justify the risk to his
  safety, so he returned to the States. He was not a man to run with the pack
  just because it was a pack: if he thought the pack was running the wrong
  way, he would leave it. He was the most skeptical of the group assem-
   102       Ken Follett

 bling at the Hilton Inn: if anyone was going to pour scom on the idea of a
 jailbreak, Boulware would.
  Glenn Jackson looked less like a mercenary than any of them. A mild man
  with spectacles, he had no military experience, but he was an enthusiastic
  hunter and an expert shot. He knew Tehran well, having worked there for
  Bell Helicopter as well as for EDS. He was such a straight, forthright,
  honest guy, Coburn thought, that it was hard to imagine him getting
  involved in the deception and violence that a jailbreak would entail.
  Jackson was also a Baptist-the others were Catholic, except for Poch6 who
  did not say what he was-and Baptists were famous for punching Bibles, not
  faces. Coburn wondered haw Jackson would make out.
  He had a similar concern about Pat Sculley. Sculley had a good military
  record-he had been five years in the army, ending up as a Ranger instructor
  with the rank of captain--but he had no combat experience. Aggressive and
  outgoing in business, he was one of EDS's brightest up-and-coming young
  executives. Like Coburn, Sculley was an irrepressible optimist, but whereas
  Coburn's attitudes had been tempered by war, Sculley was youthfully naive.
  If this thing gets violent, Coburn wondered, will Sculley be hard enough to
  handle it?
  Of the two men who had not yet arrived, one was the most qualified to take
  part in a jailbreak, and the other perhaps the least.
  Jim Schwebach knew more about combat than he did about computers. Eleven
  years in the army, he had served with the 5th Special Forces Group in
  Vietnam, doing the kind of commando work Bull Simons specialized in,
  clandestine operations behind enemy lines; and he had even more medals than
  Coburn. Because he had spent so many years in the military, he was still a
  low-level executive, despite his age, which was thirty-five. He had been a
  trainee systems engineer when he went to Tehran, but he was mature and
  dependable, and Coburn had made him a team leader during the evacuation.
  Only five feet six inches, Schwebach had the erect, chin-up posture of many
  short men, and the indomitable fighting spirit that is the only defense of
  the smallest boy in the class. No matter what the score, it could be 12-0,
  ninth inning and two outs, Schwebach would be up on the edge of the dugout,
  clawing away and trying to figure out how to get an extra hit. Coburn
  admired him for volunteering-out of high-principled patriotism-for extra
  tours in Vietnam. In battle,
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   103

 Cobum thought, Schwebach would be the last guy you would want to take
 prisoner-if you had your druthers, you would make sure you killed the little
 son of a bitch before you captured him, he would make so much trouble.
  However, Schwebach's feistiness was not immediately apparent. He was a very
  ordinary-looking fellow. In fact, you hardly noticed him. In Tehran he had
  lived farther south than anyone else, in a district where there were no
  other Americans, yet he had often walked around the streets, wearing a
  beat-up old field jacket, blue jeans, and a knit cap, and had never been
  bothered. He could lose himself in a crowd of two-a talent that might be
  useful in a jailbreak.
  The other missing man was Ron Davis. At thirty he was the youngest on the
  list. The son of a poor black insurance salesman, Davis had risen fast in
  the white world of corporate America. Few people who started, as he had, in
  operations ever made it to management on the customer side of the business.
  Perot was especially proud of Davis: "Ron's career achievement is like a
  moonshot," he would say. Davis had acquired a good knowledge of Farsi in a
  year and a half in Tehran, working under Keane Taylor, not on the Ministry
  contract but on a smaller, separate project to computerize Bank Omran, the
  Shah's bank. Davis was cheerful, flippant, full of jokes, a juvenile
  version of Richard Pryor, but without the profanity. Coburn thought he was
  the most sincere of the men on the list. Davis found it easy to open up and
  talk about his feelings and his personal life. For that reason Coburn
  thought of him as vulnerable. On the other hand, perhaps the ability to
  talk honestly about yourself to others was a sign of great inner confidence
  and strength.
  Whatever the truth about Davis's emotional toughness, physically he was as
  hard as a nail. He had no military experience, but he was a karate black
  belt. One time in Tehran three men had attacked him and attempted to rob
  him: he had beaten them all up in a few seconds. Like Schwebach's ability
  to be inconspicuous, Davis's karate was a talent that might become useful.
 Like Coburn, all six men were in their thirties.
 They were all married.
 And they all had children.
 The door opened and Perot walked in.
  He shook hands, saying "How are you?" and "Good to see you!" as if he
  really meant it, remembering the names of their wives and children. He's
  good with people, Coburn thought.
 104       Ken Follett

 "Schwebach and Davis didn't get here yet," Coburn told him. "All right,"
 Perot said, sitting down. "I'll have to see them later. Send them to my
 office as soon as they arrive. " He paused. "I'll tell them exactly what I'm
 going to tell y'all. "
  He paused again, as if gathering his thoughts. Then he frowned and looked
  hard at them. "I'm asking for volunteers for a project that might involve
  loss of life. At this stage I can't tell you what it's about, although you
  can probably guess. I want you to take five or ten minutes, or more, to
  think about it, then come back and talk to me one at a time. Think hard. If
  you choose, for any reason, not to get involved, you can just say so, and
  no one outside this room will ever know about it. If you decide to
  volunteer, I'll tell you more. Now go away and think."
 They all stood up and, one by one, they left the room.

 I could get killed on Central Expressway, thought Joe Poch6.
  He knew perfectly well what the dangerous project was: they were going to
  get Paul and Bill out of jail.
  He had suspected as much since two-thirty A.M., when he had been woken up,
  at his mother-in-law's house in San Antonio, by a phone call from Pat
  Sculley. Sculley, the world's worst liar, had said: "Ross asked me to call
  you. He wants you to come to Dallas in the morning to begin work an a study
  in Europe."
  Poch6 had said: "Pat, why in hell are you calling me at two-thirty in the
  morning to tell me that Ross wants me to work on a study in Europe?"
  "It is kind of important. We need to know when you can be here. "
  Okay, Pochd thought resignedly, it's something he can't talk about on the
  phone. "My first flight is probably around six or seven o'clock in the
  morning."
 "Fine. 11
  Poch6 had made a plane reservation then gone back to bed. As he set his
  alarm clock for five A.m. he said to his wife: "I don't know what this is
  all about, but I wish somebody would be straight, just for once."
  In fact, he had a pretty good idea what it was all about, and his
  suspicions had been confirmed, later in the day, when Ralph Boulware had
  met him at the Coit Road bus station and, instead of taking him to EDS, had
  driven him to this hotel and refused to talk about what was going on.
 Poch6 liked to think everything through, and he had had
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   105

 plenty of time to consider the idea of busting Paul and Bill out of jail. It
 made him glad, glad as hell. It reminded him of the old days, when there
 were only three thousand people in the whole of EDS, and they had talked
 about the Faith. It was their word for a whole bunch of attitudes and
 beliefs about how a company ought to deal with its employees. What it boiled
 down to was: EDS took care of its people. As long as you were giving your
 maximum effort to the company, it would stand by you through thick and thin:
 when you were sick, when you had personal or family problems, when you got
 yourself into any kind of trouble ... It was a bit like a family. Pochd felt
 good about that, although he did not talk about the feeling-he did not talk
 much about any of his feelings.
  EDS had changed since those days. With ten thousand people instead of three
  thousand, the family atmosphere could not be so intense. Nobody talked
  about the Faith anymore. But it was still there: this meeting proved it.
  And although his face was as expressionless as ever, Joe Poch6 was glad. Of
  course they would go in there and bust their friends out of jail. Pochd was
  just happy to get the chance to be on the team.

 Contrary to Coburn's expectation, Ralph Boulware did not pour scom on the
 idea of a rescue. The skeptical, independentminded Boulware was as hot for
 the idea as anyone.
  He, too, had guessed what was going on, helped--like Pochd --by Sculley's
  inability to lie convincingly.
  Boulware and his family were staying with friends in Dallas. On New Year's
  Day Boulware had been doing nothing much, and his wife had asked him why he
  did not go to the office. He said there was nothing for him to do there.
  She did not buy that. Mary Boulware was the only person in the world who
  could bully Ralph, and in the end he went to the office. There he ran into
  Sculley.
 "What's happening?" Boulware had asked.
 "Oh, nothing," Sculley said.
 "What are you doing?"
 "Making plane reservations, mostly."
  Sculley's mood seemed strange. Boulware knew him well-in Tehran they had
  ridden to work together in the mornings-and his instinct told him Sculley
  was not telling the truth.
 "Something's wrong," Boulware said. "What's going on?"
 "There's nothing going on, Ralph!"
 106        Ken FoUett

 :'What are they doing about Paul and Bill?"
  'They're going through all the channels to try and get them out. The bail
  is thirteen million dollars, and we have to get the money into the
  country-"
  "Bullshit. The whole government system, the whole judicial system, has
  broken down over there. There ain't no channels left. What are y'all going
  to do?"
 :'Look, don,t worry about it."
  'You guys ain't going to try to go in and get them out, are you?"
 Sculley said nothing.
 :'Hey, count me in," Boulware said.
  'What do you mew, count you in?"
 :'It's obvious you're going to try to do something."
  'What do you mean?"
 :'Let's don't play games anymore. Count me in."
  10kay. I I
  For him it was a simple decision. Paul and Bill were his friends, and it
  could as easily have been Boulware in jail, in which case he would have
  wanted his friends to come and get him out.
  There was another factor. Boulware was enormously fond of Pat Sculley.
  Hell, he loved Sculley. He also felt very protective toward him. In
  Boulware's opinion, Sculley really did not understand that the world was
  full of corruption and crime and sin: he saw what he wanted to see, a
  chicken in every pot, a Chevrolet on every driveway, a world of Mom and
  apple pie. If Sculley was going to be involved in a jailbreak, he would
  need Boulware to take care of him. It was an odd feeling to have about
  another man more or less your own age, but there it was.
  That was what Boulware had thought on New Year's Day, and he felt the same
  today. So he went back into the hotel room and said to Perot what he had
  said to Sculley: "Count me in."

 Glenn Jackson was not afraid to die.
  He knew what was going to happen after death, and he had no fears. When the
  Lord wanted to call him home, why, he was ready to go.
  However, he was concerned about his family. They had just been evacuated
  from Iran, and were now staying at his mother's house in East Texas. He had
  not yet had time even to start looking for a place for them all to live. If
  he got involved in this,
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   107

 he was not going to have time to go off and take care of family matters: it
 would be left to Carolyn. All on her own, she would have to rebuild the life
 of the family here in the States. She would have to find a house, get
 Cheryl, Cindy, and Glenn Junior into schools, buy or rent some furniture ...
  Carolyn was kind of a dependent person. She would not find it easy.
  Plus, she was already mad at him. She had come to Dallas with him that
  morning, but Sculley had told him to send her home. She was not permitted
  to check into the Hilton Inn with her husband. That had made her angry.
  But Paul and Bill had wives and families, too. "Thou shalt love thy
  neighbor as thyself. " It was in the Bible twice: Leviticus, chapter 19,
  verse 18; and Matthew's Gospel, chapter 19, verse 19. Jackson thought: If
  I were stuck in jail in Tehran, I'd sure love for somebody to do something
  for me.
 So he volunteered.

 Sculley had made his choice days ago.
  Before Perot started talking about a rescue, Sculley had been discussing
  the idea. It had first come up the day after Paul and Bill were arrested,
  the day Sculley flew out of Tehran with Joe Pochd and Jim Schwebach.
  Sculley had been upset at leaving Paul and Bill behind, all the more so
  because Tehran had become dramatically more violent in the last few days.
  At Christmas two Afghanis caught stealing in the bazaa had been summarily
  hanged by a mob; and a taxi driver who tried to jump the queue at a gas
  station had been shot in the head by a soldier. What would they do to
  Americans, once they got started? It hardly bore thinking about.
  On the plane Sculley had sat next to Jim Schwebach. They had agreed that
  Paul's and Bill's lives were in danger. Schwebach, who had experience of
  clandestine commando-type operations, had agreed with Sculley that it
  should be possible for a few determined Americans to rescue two men from an
  Iranian jail.
  So Sculley had been surprised and delighted when, three days later, Perot
  had said: "I've been thinking the same thing."
 Sculley had put his own name on the list.
 He did not need time to think about it.
 He volunteered.
 108        Ken Folleu

 Sculley had also put Coburn's name on the list-without telling Coburn.
  Until this moment, happy-go-lucky Coburn, who lived from day to day, had
  not even thought about being on the team himself.
 But Sculley had been right: Coburn wanted to go.
 He thought: Liz won't like it.
  He sighed. There were many things his wife did not like, these days.
  She was clinging, he thought. She had not liked his being in the military,
  she did not like his having hobbies that took him away from her, and she
  did not like his working for a boss who felt free to call on him at all
  hours of the day or night for special tasks.
  He had never lived the way she wanted, and it was probably too late to
  start now. If he went to Tehran to rescue Paul and Bill, Liz might hate him
  for it. But if he did not go, he would probably hate her for making him
  stay behind.
 Sorry, Liz, he thought; here we go again.

 Jim Schwebach arrived later in the afternoon but heard the same speech from
 Perot.
  Schwebach had a highly developed sense of duty. (He had once wanted to be
  a priest, but two years in a Catholic seminary had soared him on organized
  religion.) He had spent eleven years in the army, and had volunteered for
  repeated tours in Vietnam, out of that same sense of duty. In Asia he had
  seen a lot of people doing their jobs badly, and he knew he did his well.
  He had thought: if I walk away from this, someone else will do what I'm
  doing, but he will do it badly, and in consequence a man will lose his arm,
  his leg, or his life. I've been trained to do this, and I'm good at it, and
  I owe it to them to carry on doing it.
  He felt much the same about the rescue of Paul and Bill. He was the only
  member of the proposed team who had actually done this sort of thing
  before. They needed him.
  Anyway, he liked it. He was a fighter by disposition. Perhaps this was
  because he was five and a half feet tall. Fighting was his thing, it was
  where he lived. He did not hesitate to volunteer.
 He couldn't wait to get started.

 Ron Davis, the second black man on the list and the youngest of them all,
 did hesitate.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   109

  He arrived in Dallas early that evening and was taken straight to EDS
  headquarters on Forest Lane. He had never met Perot, but had talked to him
  on the phone from Tehran during the evacuation. For a few days, during that
  period, they had kept a phone line open between Dallas and Tehran all day
  and all night. Someone had to sleep with the phone to his ear at the Tehran
  end, and frequently the job had fallen to Davis. One time Perot himself had
  come on the line.
  "Ron, I know it's bad over there, and we sure appreciate your staying. Now,
  is there anything I can do for you?"
  Davis was surprised. He was only doing what his friends were doing, and he
  did not expect a special thank-you. But he did have a special worry. "My
  wife has conceived, and I haven't seen her for a while," he told Perot. "If
  you could have someone call her and tell her I'm okay and I'll be home as
  soon as possible, I'd appreciate it."
  Davis had been surprised to learn from Marva, later, that Perot had not had
  someone call her-he had called himself.
  Now, meeting Perot for the first time, Davis was once again impressed.
  Perot shook his hand warmly and said: "Hi, Ron, how are you?" just as if
  they had been friends for years.
  However, listening to Perot's speech about "loss of life," Davis had
  doubts. He wanted to know more about the rescue. He would be glad to help
  Paul aand Bill, but he needed to be assured that the whole project would be
  well organized and professional.
 Perot told him about Bull Simons, and that settled it.

 Perot was just so proud of them.
 Every single one had volunteered.
  He sat in his office. It was dark outside. He was waiting for Simons.
  Smiling Jay Coburn; boyish Pat Sculley; Joe Poch6, the man of iron; Ralph
  Boulware, tall, black, and skeptical; mild-mannered Glenn Jackson; Jim
  Schwebach the scrapper; Ron Davis the comedian.
 Every single one!
  He was grateful as well as proud, for the burden they had shouldered was
  more his than theirs.
  One way and another it had been quite a day. Simons had agreed instantly to
  come and help. Paul Walker, an EDS security man who had (coincidentally)
  served with Simons in Laos, had jumped on a plane in the middle of the
  night and flown to Red
 110       Ken Follett

 Bay to take care of Simons's pigs and dogs. And seven young executives had
 dropped everything at a moment's notice and agreed to take off for Iran to
 organize a jailbreak.
  They were now down the hall, in the EDS boardroom, waiting for Simons, who
  had checked into the Hilton Inn and gone to dinner with T. J. Marquez and
  Merv Stauffer.
  Perot thought about Stauffer. Stocky, bespectacled, forty years old, an
  economics graduate, Stauffer was Perot's right-hand man. He could remember
  vividly their first meeting, when he had interviewed Stauffer. A graduate
  of some college in Kansas, Merv had looked right off the farm, in his cheap
  coat and slacks. He had been wearing white socks.
  During the interview, Perot had explained, as gently as he knew how, that
  white socks were not appropriate clothing for a business meeting.
  But the socks were the only mistake Stauffer had made. He impressed Perot
  as being smart, tough, organized, and used to hard work.
  As the years went by, Perot had learned that Stauffer had yet more useful
  talents. He had a wonderful mind for detailsomething Perot lacked. He was
  completely unflappable. And he was a great diplomat. When EDS landed a
  contract, it often meant taking over an existing data-processing
  department, with its staff. This could be difficult: the staff were
  naturally waxy, touchy, and sometimes resentful. Merv Stauffer-calm,
  smiling, helpful, soft-spoken, gently detern-iined--could smooth their
  feathers like no one else.
  Since the late sixties he had been working directly with Perot. His
  specialty was taking a hazy, crazy idea from Perot's restless imagination,
  thinking it through, putting the pieces together, and making it work.
  Occasionally he would conclude that the idea was impracticable--and when
  Stauffer said that, Perot began to think that maybe it was impracticable.
  His appetite for work was enormous. Even among the workaholics on the
  seventh floor, Stauffer was exceptional. As well as doing whatever Perot
  had dreamed up in bed the previous night, he supervised Perot's real-estate
  company and his oil company, managed Perot's investments, and planned
  Perot's estate.
  The best way to help Simons, Perot decided, would be to give him Merv
  Stauffer.
 He wondered whether Simons had changed. It had been years
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   111

 since they last met. The occasion had been a banquet. Simons had told him a
 story.
  During the Son Tay Raid, Simons's helicopter had landed in the wrong place.
  It was a compound very like the prison camp, but some four hundred yards
  distant; and it contained a barracks full of sleeping enemy soldiers.
  Awakened by the noise and the flares, the soldiers had begun to stumble out
  of the barracks, sleepy, half-dressed, carrying their weapons. Simons had
  stood outside the door, with a lighted cigar in his mouth. Beside him was
  a burly sergeant. As each man came through the door, he would see the glow
  of Simons's cigar, and hesitate. Simons would shoot him. The sergeant would
  heave the corpse aside, then they would wait for the next one.
  Perot had been unable to resist the question: "How many men did you kill?"
  "Must have been seventy or eighty," Simons had said in a matter-of-fact
  voice.
  Simons had been a great soldier, but now he was a pig farmer. Was he still
  fit? He was sixty years old, and he had suffered a stroke even before Son
  Tay. Did he still have a sharp mind? Was he still a great leader of men?
  He would want total control of the rescue, Perot was certain. The colonel
  would do it his way or not at all. That suited Perot just fine: it was his
  way to hire the best man for the job, then let him get on with it. But was
  Simons still the greatest rescuer in the world?
  He heard voices in the outer office. They had arrived. He stood up, and
  Simons walked in with T. J. Marquez and Merv Stauffer.
  "Colonel Simons, how are you?" said Perot. He never called Simons "Bull--he
  thought it was corny.
 "Hello, Ross," said Simons, shaking hands.
  The handshake was firm. Simons was dressed casually, in khaki pants. His
  shirt collar was open, showing the muscles of his massive neck. He looked
  older: more lines in that aggressive face, more gray in the crewcut hair,
  which was also longer than Perot had ever seen it. But he seemed fit and
  hard. He still had the same deep, tobacco-roughened voice, with a faint but
  clear trace of a New York accent. He was carrying the folders Coburn had
  put together on the volunteers.
 "Sit down," said Perot. "Did y'all have dinner?"
 "We went to Dusty's," said Stauffer.
 112       Ken Follett

  Simons said: "When was the last time this room was swept for bugs?"
  Perot smiled. Simons was still sharp, as well as fit. Good. He replied:
  "It's never been swept, Colonel."
  "From now on I want every room we use to be swept every day. 11
 Stauffer said: "I'll see to that."
  Perot said: "Whatever you need, Colonel, just tell Merv. Now, let's talk
  business for a minute. We sure appreciate you coming here to help us, and
  we'd like to offer you some compensation-"
 "Don't even think about it," Simons said gruffly.
 "Well-"
  "I don't want payment for rescuing Americans in trouble," Simons said. "I
  never got a bonus for it yet, and I don't want to start now."
  Simons was offended. 'Me force of his displeasure filled the room. Perot
  backed off quickly: Simons was one of the very few people of whom he was
  wary.
 The old warrior hasn't changed a bit, Perot thought.
 Good.
  "The team is waiting for you in the boardroom, I see you have the folders,
  but I know you'll want to make your own assessment of the men. They all
  know Tehran, and they all have either military experience or some skill
  that may be useful-but in the end the choice of the team is up to you. If
  for any reason you don't like these men, we'll get some more. You're in
  charge here." Perot hoped Simons would not reject anyone, but he had to
  have the option.
 Simons stood up. "Let's go to work."
  T.J. hung back after Simons and Stauffer left. He said in a low voice- "His
  wife died."
 :'Lucille? I ' I ' Perot had not heard. "I'm sorry."
 'Cancer.
 "How did he take it, did you get an idea?"
 T.J. nodded. "Bad."
  As T.J. went out, Perot's twenty-year-old son, Ross Junior, walked in. It
  was common for Perot's children to drop by the office, but this time, when
  a secret meeting was in session in the boardroom, Perot wished his son had
  chosen another moment. Ross Junior must have seen Simons in the hall. The
  boy had met Simons before and knew who he was. By now, Perot thought,
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   113

 he's figured out that the only reason for Simons to be here is to organize
 a rescue.
  Ross sat down and said: "Hi, Dad. I've been by to see Gtandrnother.
  "Good," Perot said. He looked fondly at his only son. Ross junior was tall,
  broad-shouldered, slim, and a good deal betterlooking than his father.
  Girls clustered around him like flies: the fact that he was heir to a form
  was only one of the acuutions. He handled it the way he handled everything:
  with immaculate good manners and a maturity beyond his years.
  Perot said: "You and I need to have a clear understanding about something.
  I expect to live to be a hundred, but if anything should happen to me, I
  want you to leave college and come home and take care of your mother and
  your sisters."
 "I would," Ross said. "Don't worry."
  "And if anything should happen to your mother, I want you to live at home
  and raise your sisters. I know it would be hard on you, but I wouldn't want
  you to hire people to do it. They would need you, a member of the family.
  I'm counting on you to live at home with them and see they're properly
  raised-"
  "Dad, that's what I would have done if you'd never brought it UP- I I

 "Good.
 The boy got up to go. Perot walked to the door with him.
  Suddenly Ross put his arm around his father and said: "Love you, Pop."
 Perot hugged him back.
 He was surprised to see tears in his son's eyes.
 Ross went out.
  Perot sat down. He should not have been surprised by those tears: the
  Perots were a close faniily, and Ross was a warmhearted boy.
  Perot had no specific plans to go to Tehran, but he knew that if his men
  were going there to risk their lives, he would not be far behind. Ross
  Junior had known the same thing.
  The whole family would support him, Perot knew. Margot might be entitled to
  say, "While you're risking your life for your employees, what about us?"
  but she would never say it. All through the prisoners-of-war campaign, when
  he had gone to Vietnam and Laos, when he had tried to fly into Hanoi, when
  the family had been forced to live with bodyguards, they had never
  complained, never said, "What about us?" On the contrary,
 114       Ken Follett

 they had encouraged him to do whatever he saw to be his duty.
 While he sat thinking, Nancy, his eldest daughter, walked in. "Poops!" she
 said. It was her pet name for her father.
 "Little Nan! Come in!"
 She came around the desk and sat on his lap.
  Perot adored Nancy. Eighteen years old, blond, tiny but strong, she
  reminded him of his mother. She was determined and hardheaded, like Perot,
  and she probably had as much potential to be a business executive as her
  brother.
 "I came to say good-bye--I'm going back to Vanderbilt."
 "Did you drop by Grandmother's house?"
 "I sure (lid. " Good girl."
  She was in high spirits, excited about going back to school, oblivious of
  the tension and the talk of death here on the seventh floor.
 "How about some extra funds?" she said.
  Perot smiled indulgently and took out his wallet. As usual, he was helpless
  to resist her.
  She pocketed the money, hugged him, kissed his cheek, jumped off his lap,
  and bounced out of the room without a care in the world.
 This time there were tears in Perot's eyes.

 It was like a reunion, Jay Coburn thought: the old Tehran hands in the
 boardroom waiting for Simons, chatting about Iran and the evacuation. There
 was Ralph Boulware talking at ninety miles an hour; Joe Pochd sitting and
 thinking, looking about as animated as a robot in a sulk; Glenn Jackson
 saying something about rifles; Jim Schwebach smiling his lopsided smile, the
 smile that made you think 'he knew something you didn't; and Pat Sculley
 talking about the Son Tay Raid. They all knew, now, that they were about to
 meet the legendary Bull Simons. Sculley, when he had been a Ranger
 instructor, had taught Simons's famous raid, and he knew all about the
 meticulous planning, the endless rehearsals, and the fact that Simons had
 brought back all his fifty-nine men alive.
 The door opened and a voice said: "All stand."
 They pushed back their chairs and stood up.
 Coburn looked around.
 Ron Davis walked in grinning all over his black face.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   115

  "Goddam you, Davis!" said Coburn, and they all laughed as they realized
  they had been fooled. Davis walked around the room slapping hands and
  saying hello.
 That was Davis: always the clown.
  Coburn looked at all of them and wondered how they would change when faced
  with physical danger. Combat was a funny thing, you could never predict how
  people would cope with it. The man you thought the bravest would crumble,
  and the one you expected to nin scared would be solid as a rock.
 Coburn would never forget what combat had done to him.
  The crisis had come a couple of months after he arrived in Vietnam. He was
  flying support aircraft, called "slicks" because they had no weapons
  systems. Six times that day he had come out of the battle zone with a full
  load of troops. It had been a good day: not a shot had been fired at his
  helicopter.
 The seventh time was different.
  A burst of 12.75 fire hit the aircraft and severed the tail-rotor drive
  shaft.
  When the main rotor of a helicopter turns, the body of the aircraft has a
  natural tendency to turn in the same directiQn. The function of the tail
  rotor is to counteract this tendency. If the tail rotor stops, the
  helicopter starts spinning.
  Immediately after takeoff, when the aircraft is only a few feet off the
  ground, the pilot can deal with tail-rotor loss by landing again before the
  spinning becomes too fast. Later, when the aircraft is at cruising height
  and normal flying speed, the flow of wind across the fuselage is strong
  enough to prevent the helicopter turning. But Coburn was at a height of 150
  feet, the worst possible position, too high to land quickly but not yet
  traveling fast enough for the wind flow to stabilize the fuselage.
  The standard procedure was a simulated engine stall. Coburn had learned and
  rehearsed the routine at flying school, and he went into it instinctively,
  but it did not work: the aircraft was already spinning too fast.
  Within seconds he was so dizzy he had no idea where he was. He was unable
  to do anything to cushion the crash landing. The helicopter came down on
  its right skid (he learned afterward) and one of the rotor blades flexed
  down under the impact, slicing through the fuselage and into the head of
  his copilot, who died instantly.
  Coburn smelled fuel and unstrapped himself. That was when he realized he
  was upside down, for he fell on his head. But he
 116       Ken Follett

 got out of the aircraft, his only injury a few compressed neck vertebrae.
 His crew chief also survived.
  The crew had been belted in, but the seven troops in the back had not. The
  helicopter had no doors, and the centrifugal force of the spin had thrown
  them out at a height of more than a hundred feet. They were all dead.
 Coburn was twenty years old at the time.
  A few weeks later he took a bullet in the calf, the most vulnerable part of
  a helicopter pilot, who sits in an armored seat but leaves his lower legs
  exposed.
  He had been angry before, but now he just had the ass. Pissed off with
  being shot at, he went in to his commanding officer and demanded to be
  assigned to gunships so that he could kill some of those bastards down
  there who were trying to kill him.
 His request was granted.
  That was the point at which smiling Jay Coburn had turned into a
  cool-headed, cold-hearted professional soldier. He made no close friends in
  the army. If someone in the unit was wounded, Coburn would shrug and say:
  "Well, that's what he gets combat pay for." He suspected his comrades
  thought he was a little sick. He did not care. He was happy flying
  gunships. Every time he strapped himself in, he knew he was going out there
  to kill or be killed. Clearing out areas in advance of ground troops,
  knowing that women and children and innocent civilians were getting hurt,
  Coburn just closed his mind and opened fire.
  Eleven years later, looking back, he could think: I was an animal.
  Schwebach and Pochd, the two quietest men in the room, would understand:
  they had been there, they knew how it had been. The others did not:
  Sculley, Boulware, Jackson, and Davis. If this rescue turns nasty, Coburn
  wondered again, how will they make out?
 The door opened, and Simons came in.

 The room fell silent as Simons walked to the head of the conference table.
 He's a big son of a bitch, Coburn thought.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   117

  T. J. Marquez and Merv Stauffer came in after Simons and sat near the door.
  Simons threw a black plastic suitcase into a comer, dropped into a chair,
  and lit a small cigar.
  He was casually dressed in a shirt and pants-no tie-and his hair was long
  for a colonel. He looked more like a farmer than a soldier, Coburn thought.
 He said: "I'm Colonel Simons."
  Coburn expected him to say, I'm in charge, listen to me and do what I say,
  this is my plan.
 Instead, he started asking questions.
  He wanted to know all about Tehran: the weather, the traffic, what the
  buildings were made of, the people in the streets, the numbers of policemen
  and how they were armed.
  He was interested in every detail. They told him that all the police were
  armed except the traffic cops. How could you distinguish them? By their
  white hats. They told him there were blue cabs and orange cabs. What was
  the difference? The blue cabs had fixed routes and fixed fares. Orange cabs
  would go anywhere, in theory, but usually when they pulled up there was
  already a passenger inside, and the driver would ask which way you were
  headed. If you were going his way you could get in, and note the amount
  already on the meter; then when you got out you paid the increase: the
  system was an endless source of arguments with cabbies.
  Simons asked where, exactly, the jail was located. Merv Stauffer went to
  find street maps of Tehran. What did the building look like? Joe Poch6 and
  Ron Davis both remembered driving past it. Poch6 sketched it on an easel
  pad.
  Coburn sat back and watched Simons work. Picking the men's brains was only
  half of what he was up to, Coburn realized. Coburn had been an EDS
  recruiter for years, and he knew a good interviewing technique when he saw
  it. Simons was sizing up each man, watching reactions, testing for common
  sense. Like a recruiter, he asked a lot of open-ended questions, often
  following with "Why?," giving people an opportunity to reveal themselves,
  to brag or bullshit or show signs of anxiety.
 Coburn wondered whether Simons would flunk any of them.
 At one point he said: "Who is prepared to die doing this?"
 Nobody said a word.
  "Good," said Simons. "I wouldn't take anyone who was planning on dying."
 118      Ken Follett
      Hyatt Crown
      Regan- 11--'...

    Mehrabad
    International
 Z~Airport
 ON WINGS OF EAGLES   119
 120       Ken Follett

  The discussion went on for hours. Simons broke it up soon after midnight.
  It was clear by then that they did not know enough about the jail to begin
  planning the rescue. Coburn was deputized to find out more overnight: he
  would make some phone calls to Tehran.
  Simons said: "Can you ask people about the jail without letting them know
  why you want the information?"
 "I'll be discreet," Coburn said.
  Simons turned to Merv Stauffer. "We'll need a secure place for us all to
  meet. Somewhere that isn't connected with EDS.-
 "What about the hotel?"
 "The walls ard thin."
  Stauffer considered for a moment. "Ross has a little house at Lake
  Grapevine, out toward DFW Airport. There won't be anyone out there swimming
  or fishing in this weather, that's for sure. 11
 Simons looked dubious.
  Stauffer said: "Why don't I drive you out there in the morning so you can
  look it over?"
  "Okay." Simons stood up. "We've done all we can at this point in the game."
 They began to drift out.
  As they were leaving, Simons asked Davis for a word in private.

 "You ain't so goddam tough, Davis."
 Ron Davis stared at Simons in surprise.
 "What makes you think you're a tough guy?" Simons said.
  Davis was floored. All evening Simons had been polite, reasonable,
  quiet-spoken. Now he was making like he wanted to fight. What was
  happening?
  Davis thought of his martial arts expertise, and of the three muggers he
  had disposed of in Tehran, but he said: "I don't consider myself a tough
  guy."
  Simons acted as if he had not heard. "Against a pistol your karate is no
  bloody good whatsoever."
 "I guess not-"
  "This team does not need any ba-ad black bastards spoiling for a fight."
  Davis began to see what this was all about. Keep cool, he told himself. "I
  did not volunteer for this because I want to fight people, Colonel, I--
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   121

 "Then why did you volunteer?"
  "Because I know Paul and Bill and their wives and children and I want to
  help."
 Simons nodded dismissively. "I'll see you tomorrow.
 Davis wondered whether that meant he had passed the test.

 In the afternoon on the next day, January 3, 1979, they all met at Perot's
 weekend house on the shore of Lake Grapevine.
  The two or three other houses nearby appeared empty, as Merv Stauffer had
  predicted. Perot's house was screened by several acres of rough woodland,
  and had lawns running down to the water's edge. It was a compact woodframe
  building, quite small--the garage for Perot's speedboats was bigger than
  the house.
  The door was locked and nobody had thought to bring the keys. Schwebach
  picked a window lock and let them in.
  There was a living room, a couple of bedrooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom.
  The place was cheerfully decorated in blue and white, with inexpensive
  furniture.
  The men sat around the living room with their maps and easel pads and magic
  markers and cigarettes. Coburn reported. Overnight he had spoken to Majid
  and two or three other people in Tehran. It had been difficult, trying to
  get detailed information about the jail while pretending to be only mildly
  curious, but he thought he had succeeded.
  The jail was part of the Ministry of Justice complex, which occupied a
  whole city block, he had learned. The jail entrance was at the rear of the
  block. Next to the entrance was a courtyard, separated from the street only
  by a twelve-foot-high fence of iron railings. This courtyard was the
  prisoners' exercise area. Clearly it was also the prison's weak point.
 Simons agreed.
  All they had to do, then, was wait for an exercise period, get over the
  fence, grab Paul and Bill, bring them back over the fence, and get out of
  Iran.
 They got down to details.
  How would they get over the fence? Would they use ladders, or climb on each
  other's shoulders?
  They would arrive in a van, they decided, and use its roof as a step.
  Traveling in a van rather than a car had another advantage: nobody would be
  able to see inside while they were driving to-and, more importantly, away
  from-the jail.
 122       Ken Follett

  Joe PocM was nominated driver because he knew the streets of Tehran best.
  How would they deal with the prison guards? They did not want to kill
  anyone. They had no quarrel with the Iranian man in the street, or with the
  guards: it was not the fault of those people that Paul and Bill were
  unjustly imprisoned. Furthermore, if there was any killing" the subsequent
  hue and cry would be worse, making escape from Iran more hazardous.
 But the prison guards would not hesitate to shoot them.
  'Me best defense, Simons said, was a combination of surprise, shock, and
  speed.
  They would have the advantage of surprise. For a few seconds the prison
  guards would not understand what was happening.
  Then the rescuers would have to do something to make the guards take cover.
  Shotgun fire would be best. A shotgun would make a big flash and a lot of
  noise, especially in a city street: the shock would cause the guards to
  react defensively instead of attacking the rescuers. That would give them
  a few more seconds.
 With speed, those seconds might be enough.
 And then they might not.
  The room filled with tobacco smoke as the plan took shape. Simons sat
  there, chain-smoking his little cigars, listening, asking questions,
  guiding the discussion. This was a very democratic army, Coburn thought. As
  they got involved in the plan, his friends were forgetting about their
  wives and children, their mortgages, their lawn mowers and station wagons;
  forgetting, too, how outrageous was the very idea of their snatching
  prisoners out of a jail. Davis stopped clowning; Sculley no longer seemed
  boyish but became very cold and calculating; Poch6 wanted to talk
  everything to death, as usual; Boulware was skeptical, as usual.
  Afternoon wore into evening. They decided the van would pull onto the
  sidewalk beside the iron railings. This sort of parking would not be in the
  least remarkable in Tehran, they told Simons. Simons would be sitting in
  the front seat, beside Poch6, with a shotgun beneath his coat. He would
  jump out and stand in front of the van. The back door of the van would open
  and Ralph Boulware would get out, also with a shotgun under his coat.
  So far, nothing out of the ordinary would appear to have happened.
  With Simons and Boulware ready to give covering fire, Ron Davis would get
  out of the van, climb on the roof, step from the
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   123

 roof to the top of the fence, then jump down into the courtyard. Davis was
 chosen for this role because he was the youngest and fittest, and the
 jump~-a twelve-foot drop-would be hard to take.
  Coburn would follow Davis over the fence. He was not in good shape, but his
  face was more familiar than any other to Paul and Bill, so they would know
  as soon as they saw him that they were being rescued.
 Next, Boulware would lower a ladder into the courtyard.
  Surprise might take them this far, if they were quick; but at this point
  the guards were sure to react. Simons and Boulware would now fire their
  shotguns into the air.
  The prison guards would hit the dirt, the Iranian prisoners would run
  around in terrified confusion, and the rescuers would have gained a few
  more seconds.
  What if there were interference from outside the jail, Simons asked-from
  police or soldiers in the street, revolutionary rioters or just
  public-spirited passers-by?
  There would be two flanking guards, they decided; one at either end of the
  street. They would arrive in a car a few seconds before the van. They would
  be armed with handguns. Their job was simply to stop anyone who came to
  interfere with the rescue. Jim Schwebach and Pat Sculley were norriinated.
  Coburn was sure Schwebach would not hesitate to shoot people if necessary;
  and Sculley, although he had never in his life shot anyone, had become so
  surprisingly ice-cool during the discussion that Coburn supposed he would
  be equally ruthless.
  Glenn Jackson would drive the car: the question of Glenn the Baptist
  shooting people would not arise.
  Meanwhile, in the confusion in the courtyard, Ron Davis would provide close
  cover, dealing with any nearby guards, while Coburn cut Paul and Bill out
  of the herd and urged them up the ladder. They would jump from the top of
  the fence to the roof of the van, then from there to the ground, and
  finally inside the van. Coburn would follow, then Davis.
  "Hey, I'm taking the biggest risk of all," said Davis. "Hell, I'm first in
  and last out-maximum exposure."
 "No shit," said Boulware. "Next question."
  Simons would get into the front of the van, Boulware would jump in the back
  and close the door, and Pochd would drive them away at top speed.
 124       Ken Follett

  Jackson, in the car, would pick up the flanking guards, Schwebach and
  Sculley, and follow the van.
  During the getaway, Boulware would be able to shoot through the back window
  of the van, and Simons would cover the road ahead. Any really serious
  pursuit would be taken care of by Sculley and Schwebach in the car.
  At a prearranged spot they would dump the van and split up in several cars,
  then head for the air base at Doshen Toppeh, on the outskirts of the city.
  A U.S. Air Force jet would fly them out of Iran: it would be Perot's job to
  arrange that somehow.
  At the end of the evening they had the skeleton of a workable plan.
  Before they left, Simons told them not to talk about the rescue -not to
  their wives, not even to each other-outside the lake house. They should
  each think up a cover story to explain why they would be going out of the
  U.S. in a week or so. And, he added, looking at their full ashtrays and
  their ample waisdines, each man should devise his own exercise program for
  getting in shape.
  'Me rescue was no longer a zany idea in Ross Perot's mind: it was real.

 Jay Coburn was the only one who made a serious effort to deceive his wife.
 He went back to the Hilton Inn and called Liz. "Hi, honey."
 "Hi, Jay! Where are you?"
 "I'm in Paris . . .-
 Joe Poch6 also called his wife from the Hilton.
 "Where are you?" she asked him.
 "I'm in Dallas."
 "What are you doing?"
 "Working at EDS, of course."
  "Joe, EDS in Dallas has been calling me to ask where you are! "
  Poch6 realized that someone who was not in on the secret of the rescue team
  had been trying to locate him. "I'm not working with those guys, I'm
  working directly with Ross. Somebody forgot to tell someone else, that's
  all."
 "What are you working on?"
  "It has to do with some things that have to be done for Paul and Bill."
 "Oh . . . "
 When Boulware got back to the home of the friends with
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   125

 whom his family was staying, his daughters, Stacy Elaine and Kecia Nicole,
 were asleep. His wife said: "How was your day?"
  I've been planning a jailbreak, Boulware thought. He said: "Oh, okay. 11
 She looked at him strangely. "Well, what did you do?"
 "Nothing much."
  "For someone who was doing nothing much, you've been pretty busy. I called
  two or three time"ey said they couldn't find you."
 "I was around. Hey, I think I'd like a beer."
  Mary Boulware was a warm, open woman to whom deceit was foreign. She was
  also intelligent. But she knew that Ralph had some firm ideas about the
  roles of husband and wife. The ideas might be old-fashioned, but they
  worked in this marriage. If there was an area of his business life that he
  didn't want to tell her about, well, she wasn't about to fight him over it.
 "One beer, coming up . . ."
  Jim Schwebach did not try to fool his wife, Rachel. She had already
  outguessed him. When Schwebach had got the original call from Pat Sculley,
  Rachel had asked: "Who was that?"
  "That was Pat Sculley in Dallas. They want me to go down there and work on
  a study in Europe."
  Rachel had known Jim for almost twenty years--they had started dating when
  he was sixteen, she eighteen--and she could read his mind. She said:
  "They're going back over there to get those guys out of jail."
  Schwebach said feebly: "Rachel, you don't understand, I'm out of that line
  of business, I don't do that anymore."
 "That's what you're going to do . . ."
  Pat Sculley could not lie successfully even to his colleagues, and with his
  wife he did not try. He told Mary everything.
 Ross Perot told Margot everything.
  And even Simons, who had no wife to pester him, broke security by telling
  his brother Stanley in New Jersey ...
  It proved equally impossible to keep the rescue plan from other senior
  executives at EDS. The first to figure it all out was Keane Taylor, the
  tall, irritable, well-dressed ex-marine whom Perot had turned around in
  Frankfurt and sent back to Tehran.
  Since that New Year's Day, when Perot had said: "I'm sending you back to do
  something very important, " Taylor had been sure that a secret operation
  was being planned; and it did not take him long to figure out who was doing
  it.
 126        Ken Follen

  One day, on the phone from Tehran to Dallas, be had asked for Ralph
  Boulware.
 "Boulware's not here," he was told.
 "When will he be back?"
 "We're not sure."
  Taylor, never a man to suffer fools gladly, had raised his voice. "So,
  where has he gone?"
 "We're not sure. 11
 "What do you mean, you're not sure?"
 "He's on vacation."
  Taylor had known Boulware for years. It had been Taylor who gave Boulware
  his first management opportunity. They were drinking partners. Many times
  Taylor, drinking himself sober with Ralph in the early hours of the
  morning, had looked around and realized his was the only white face in an
  all-black bar. Those nights they would stagger back to whichever of their
  homes was nearest, and the unlucky wife who welcomed them would call the
  other and say: "It's okay, they're here."
  Yes, Taylor knew Boulware; and he found it hard to believe that Ralph would
  go on vacation while Paul and Bill were still in jail.
  The next day he asked for Pat Sculley, and got the same runaround.
  Boulware and Sculley on vacation while Paul and Bill were in jail?
 Bullshit.
 The next day he asked for Coburn.
 Same story.
  It was beginning to make sense: Coburn had been with Perot when Perot sent
  Taylor back to Tehran. Coburn, Director of Personnel, evacuation mastermind
  , would be the right choice to organize a secret operation.
  Taylor and Rich Gallagher, the other EDS man still in Tehran, started
  making a list.
  Boulware, Sculley, Coburn, Ron Davis, Jim Schwebach, and Joe Pochd were all
  "on vacation."
 That group had a few things in common.
  When Paul Chiapparone had first come to Tehran he found that EDS's
  operation there was not organized to his liking: it had been too loose, too
  casual, too Persian. The Ministry contract had not been running to time.
  Paul had brought in a number of tough, down-to-earth EDS troubleshooters,
  and together they had
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   127

 knocked the business back into shape. Taylor himself had been one of Paul's
 tough guys. So had Bill Gaylord. And Coburn, and Sculley, and Boulware, and
 all the guys who were now "on vacation. "
  The other thing they had in common was that they were all members of the
  EDS Tehran Roman Catholic Sunday Brunch Poker School. Like Paul and Bill,
  like Taylor himself, they were Catholics, with the exception of Joe Pochd
  (and of Glenn Jackson, the only rescue-team member Taylor failed to spot).
  Each Sunday they had met at the Catholic Mission in Tehran. After the
  service they would all go to the house of one of them for brunch. And while
  the wives were cooking and the children playing, the men would get into a
  poker game.
  There was nothing like poker for revealing a man's true character.
  If, as Taylor and Gallagher now suspected, Perot had asked Coburn to put
  together a team of completely trustworthy men, then Coburn was sure to have
  picked them from the poker school.
  "Vacation my ass," Taylor said to Gallagher. "Tilis is a rescue team."

 The rescue team returned to the lake house on the morning of January 4 and
 went over the whole plan again.
  Simons had endless patience for detail, and he was determined to prepare
  for every possible snag that anyone could dream up. He was much helped by
  Joe Poch6, whose tireless questioningwearying though it was, to Coburn at
  least-was in fact highly creative, and led to numerous improvements of the
  rescue scenario.
  First, Simons was dissatisfied with the arrangements for protecting the
  rescue team's flanks. The idea of Schwebach and Sculley, short but deadly,
  just plain shooting anyone who tried to interfere was crude. It would be
  better to have some kind of diversion, to distract any police or military
  types who might be nearby. Schwebach suggested setting fire to a car down
  the street from the jail. Simons was not sure that would be enough-he
  wanted to blow up a whole building. Anyway, Schwebach was given the job of
  designing a time bomb.
  They thought of a small precaution that would shave a second or two off the
  time for which they would be exposed. Simons would get out of the van some
  distance from the jail and walk up
 128       Ken Follett

 to the fence. If all was clear he would give a hand signal for the van to
 approach.
  Another weak element of the plan was the business of getting out of the van
  and climbing on its roof. All that jumping out and scrambling up would use
  precious seconds. And would Paul and Bill, after weeks in prison, be fit
  enough to climb a ladder and jump off the roof of a van?
  All sorts of solutions were canvassed--an extra ladder, a mattress on the
  ground, grab handles on the roof-but in the end the team came up with a
  simple solution: they would cut a hole in the roof of the van and get in
  and out through that. Another little refinement, for those who had to jump
  back down through the hole, was a mattress on the floor of the van to
  soften their landing.
  The getaway journey would give them time to alter their appearances. In
  Tehran they planned to wear jeans and casual jackets, and they were all
  beginning to grow beards and mustaches to look less conspicuous there; but
  in the van they would carry business suits and electric shavers, and before
  switching to the cars they would all shave and change their clothes.
  Ralph Boulware, independent as ever, did not want to wear jeans and a
  casual jacket beforehand. In a business suit with a white shirt and a tie
  he felt comfortable and able to assert himself, especially in Tehran, where
  good Western clothing labeled a man as a member of the dominant class in
  society. Simons calmly gave his assent: the most important thing, he said,
  was for everyone to feel comfortable and confident during the operation.
  At the Doshen Toppeh Air Base, from which they planned to leave in an air
  force jet, there were both American and Iranian planes and personnel. The
  Americans would, of course, be expecting them, but what if the Iranian
  sentries at the entrance gave them a hard time? They would all carry forged
  military identity cards, they decided. Some wives of EDS executives had
  worked for the military in Tehran and still had their ID cards: Merv
  Stauffer would get hold of one and use it as a model for the forgeries.
  Throughout all this, Simons was still very low key, Coburn observed.
  Chain-smoking his cigars (Boulware told him: -Don't worry about getting
  shot, you're going to die of cancer"'), he did little more than ask
  questions. The plans were made in a round-table discussion, with everyone
  contributing, and deci-
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   129

 sions were arrived at by mutual agreement. Yet Coburn found himself coming
 to respect Simons more and more. The man was knowledgeable, intelligent,
 painstaking, and imaginative. He also had a sense of humor.
  Coburn could see that the others were also beginning to get the measure of
  Simons. H anyone asked a dumb question, Simons would give a sharp answer.
  In consequence, they would hesitate before asking a question, and wonder
  what his reaction might be. In this way he was getting them to think like
  him.
  Once on that second day at the lake house they felt the fun fbrce of his
  displeasure. It was, not surprisingly, young Ron Davis who angered him.
  They were a bumorous bunch, and Davis was the funniest. Coburn approved of
  that: laughter helped to ease the tension in an operation such as this. He
  suspected Simons felt the same. But one time Davis went too far.
  Simons had a pack of cigars on the floor beside his chair, and five more
  packs out in the kitchen. Davis, getting to like Simons and
  characteristically making no secret of it, said with genuine concern:
  "Colonel, you smoke too many cigars, it's bad for your health.99
  By way of reply he got The Simons Look, but he ignored the warning.
  A few minutes later, he went into the kitchen and hid the five packs of
  cigars in the dishwasher.
  When Simons finished the first pack he went looking for the rem and could
  not find them. He could not operate without tobacco. He was about to get in
  a car and go to a store when Davis opened the dishwasher and said: "I have
  your cigars IM."
  "You keep dim, goddammit," Simons growled, and he went out.
  When he came back with another five packs he said to Davis: "These are
  mine. Keep your goddam hands off them."
  Davis felt like a child who has been put in the comer. It was the first and
  last prank he played on Colonel Simons.
  While the discussion went on, Jim Schwebach sat on the floor, trying to
  make a bomb.
  To smuggle a bomb, or even just its component parts, through Iranian
  customs would have been dangerous-"That's a risk we don't have to take,"
  Simons said--so Schwebach had to design
 130         Ken FoUeU

 a device that could be assembled from ingredients readily available in
 Tehran.
  The idea of blowing up a building was dropped: it was too ambitious and
  would probably lull innocent people. They would make do with a blazing car
  as a diversion. Schwebach knew how to make "instant napalm" from gasoline,
  soap flakes, and a little oil. The timer and the fuse were his two
  problems. In the States he would have used an electrical timer connected
  with a toy rocket motor, but in Tehran he would be restricted to more
  primitive mechanisms.
  Schwebach enjoyed the challenge. He liked fooling around with anything
  mechanical: his hobby was an ugly-looking stripped-down '73 Oldsmobile
  Cutlass that went like a bullet out of a gun.
  At first he experimented with an old-fashioned clockwork stove-top timer
  that used a striker to hit a bell. He attached a phosphorus match to the
  striker and substituted a piece of sandpaper for the bell, to ignite the
  match. The match in turn would light a mechanical fuse.
  The system was unreliable, and caused great hilarity among the rest of the
  team, who jeered and laughed every time the match failed to ignite.
  In the end Schwebach settled on the oldest timing device of all: a candle.
  He test-burned a candle to see how long it took to burn down one inch, then
  he cut another candle off at the right length for fifteen minutes.
  Next he scraped the heads off several old-fashioned phosphorus matches and
  ground up the inflammable material intD a powder. This he packed tightly
  into a piece of aluminum kitchen foil. Then he stuck the foil into the base
  of the candle. When the candle burned all the way down, it heated the
  aluminum foil and the ground-up match heads exploded. The foil was thinner
  at the bottom so that the explosion would travel downward.
  The candle, with this primitive but reliable fuse in its base, was set into
  the neck of a plastic jar, about the size of a hip flask, full of jellied
  gasoline.
  "You light the candle and walk away from it," Schwebach told them when his
  design was complete. "Fifteen minutes later you've got a nice little fire
  going."
  And any police, soldiers, revolutionaries, or passers-by-plus, quite
  possibly, some of the prison guards--would have their
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   131

 attention fixed on a blazing automobile three hundred yards up the street
 while Ron Davis and Jay Coburn were jumping over the fence into the prison
 courtyard.

 That day they moved out of the Hilton Inn. Coburn slept at the lake house,
 and the others checked into the Airport Marina-which was closer to Lake
 Grapevine-all except Ralph Boulware, who insisted on going home to his
 family.
  They spent the next four days training, buying equipment, practicing their
  shooting, rehearsing the jailbreak, and further refining the plan.
  Shotguns could be bought in Tehran, but the only kind of ammunition allowed
  by the Shah was birdshot. However, Simons was expert at reloading
  ammunition, so they decided to smuggle their own shot into Iran.
  The trouble with putting buckshot into birdshot slugs would be that they
  would get relatively few shot into the smaller slugs: the ammunition would
  have great penetration but little spread. They decided to use Number 2
  shot, which would spread wide enough to knock down more than one man at a
  time, but had enough penetration to smash the windshield of a pursuing car.
  In case things turned really nasty, each member of the team would also
  carry a Walther PPK in a holster. Merv Stauffer got Bob Snyder, head of
  security at EDS and a man who knew when not to ask questions, to buy the
  PPKs at Ray's Sporting Goods in Dallas. Schwebach had the job of figuring
  out how to smuggle the guns into Iran.
  Stauffer inquired which U.S. airports did not fluoroscope outgoing baggage:
  one was Kennedy.
  Schwebach bought two Vuitton trunks, deeper than ordinary suitcases, with
  reinforced comers and hard sides. With Coburn, Davis, and Jackson, he went
  to the woodwork shop at Perot's Dallas home and experimented with ways of
  constructing false bottoms in the cases.
  Schwebach was perfectly happy about carrying guns through banian customs in
  a false-bottomed case. "If you know how customs people work, you don't get
  stopped," he said. His confidence was not shared by the rest of the team.
  In case he did get stopped and the guns were found, there was a fallback
  plan. He would say the case was not his. He would return to the baggage
  claim area, and there, sure enough, would be another
 132        Ken FoUett

 Vuitton trunk just like the first, but full of personal belongings and
 containing no guns.
  Once the team was in Tehran they would have to communicate with Dallas by
  phone. Coburn was quite sure the Iranians bugged the phone fines, so the
  team developed a simple code.
  GR meant A, GS meant B, GT meant C, and so on through GZ which meant 1;
  then HA meant J, HB meant K, through HR which meant Z. Numbers one through
  nine were IA through U: zero was IJ.
  They would use the military alphabet, in which A is called Alpha, B is
  Bravo, C is Charlie and so on.
  For speed, only key words would be coded. The sentence "He is with EDS"
  would therefore become "He is with Golf Victor Goff Uniform Hotel Kdo. -
  Only three copies of the key to the code were made. Simons gave one to Merv
  Stauffer, who would be the team's contact here in Dallas. He gave the other
  two to Jay Coburn and Pat Sculley, wh"ough nothing was said formally-were
  emerging as his lieutenants.
  The code would prevent an accidental leak through a casual phone tap,
  but-as computer men knew better than anyonesuch a simple letter cipher
  could be broken by an expert in a few minutes. As a further precaution,
  therefore, certain common words had special code groups: Paul was AG, Bill
  was AH, the American Embassy was GC, and Tehran was AU. Perot was always
  referred to as The Chairman, guns were tapes, the prison was The Data
  Center, Kuwait was Oil Town, Istanbul was Resort, and the attack on the
  prison was Plan A. Everyone had to memorize these special code words.
  If anyone were questioned about the code, he was to say that it was used to
  abbreviate teletype messages.
  The code name for the whole rescue was Operation Hotfoot. It was an
  acronym, dreamed up by Ron Davis: Help Our Two Friends Out of Tehran.
  Simons was tickled by that. "Hotfoot has been used so many times for
  operations," he said , and this is the first time it's ever been
  appropriate."
  They rehearsed the attack on the prison at least a hundred times.
  in the grounds of the lake house Schwebach and Davis nailed up a plank
  between two trees at a height of twelve feet, to represent the courtyard
  fence. Merv Stauffer brought them a van borrowed from EDS security.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   133

  Time and time again Simons walked up the "fence" and gave a hand signal;
  Pochd drove the van up and stopped it at the fence; Boulware jumped out of
  the back; Davis got on the roof and jumped over the fence; Coburn followed;
  Boulware climbed on the roof and lowered the ladder into the "courtyard";
  "Paul" and "Bill"-played by Schwebach and Sculley, who did not need to
  rehearse their roles as flanking guards-came up the ladder and over the
  fence, followed by Coburn and then Davis; everyone scrambled into the van;
  and PochA, drove off at top speed.
  Sometimes they switched roles so that each man learned how to do everyone
  else's job. They prioritized tasks so that, if one of them dropped out,
  wounded or for any other reason, they knew automatically who would take his
  place. Schwebach and Sculley, playing the parts of Paul and Bill, sometimes
  acted sick and had to be carried up the ladder and over the fence.
  The advantage of physical fitness became apparent during the rehearsals.
  Davis could come back over the fence in a second and a half, touching the
  ladder twice: nobody else could do it anywhere near that fast.
  One time Davis went over too fast and landed awkwardly on the frozen
  ground, straining his shoulder. The injury was not serious, but it gave
  Simons an idea. Davis would travel to Tehran with his arm in a sling,
  carrying a beanbag for exercise. The bag would be weighted with Number 2
  shot.
  Simons timed the rescue, from the moment the van stopped at the fence to
  the moment it pulled away with everyone inside. In the end, according to
  his stopwatch, they could do it in under thirty seconds.
  They practiced with the Walther PPKs at the Garland Public Shooting Range.
  They told the range operator that they were security men from all over the
  country on a course in Dallas, and they had to get their target practice in
  before they could go home. He did not believe them, especially after T. J.
  Marquez turned up looking just like a Mafia chieftain in a movie, with his
  black coat and black hat, and took ten Walther PPKs and five thousand
  rounds of anummition out of the trunk of his black Lincoln.
  After a little practice they could all shoot reasonably well except Davis.
  Simons suggested he try shooting lying down, since that was the position he
  would be in when he was in the courtyard; and he found he could do much
  better that way.
 134       Ken Follett

  It was bitterly cold out in the open, and they all huddled in a little
  shack, trying to get warm, while they were not shootingall except Simons,
  who stayed outside an day long, as if he were made of stone.
  He was not made of stone-when he got into Merv Stauffer's car at the end of
  the day he said: "Jesus Christ it's cold."
  He had begun to needle them about how soft they were. They were always
  talking about where they would go to eat and what they would order, he
  said. When he was hungry he would open a can. He would laugh at someone for
  nursing a drink: when he was thirsty he would fill a tumbler with water and
  drink it all straight down, saying: "I didn't pour it to look at it." He
  showed them how he could shoot, one time: every bullet in the center of the
  target. Once Coburn saw him with his shirt off. his physique would have
  been impressive on a man twenty years younger-
  It was a tough-guy act, the whole performance. What was peculiar was that
  none of them ever laughed at it. With Simons, it was the real thing.

 One evening at the lake house he showed them the best way to kill a man
 quickly and silently.
  He had ordered--and Merv Stauffer had purchased--Gerber knives for each of
  them, short stabbing weapons with a narrow two-edged blade.
  "It's kind of small," said Davis, looking at his. "Is it long enough?"
  "It is unless you want to sharpen it when it comes out the other side,"
  Simons said.
  He showed them the exact spot in the small of Glenn Jackson's back where
  the kidney was located. "A single stab, right there, is lethal," he said.
 :'Wouldn't he scream?" Davis asked.
 'It hurts so bad he can't make a sound."
  While Simons was demonstrating, Merv Stauffer had come in, and now he stood
  in the doorway, openmouthed, with a McDonald's paper bag in either arm.
  Simons saw him and said: "LA)ok at this guy--he can't make a sound and
  nobody's stuck him yet.'9
  Merv laughed and started handing round the food. "You know what the
  McDonald's girl said to me, in a completely empty
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   135

 restaurant, when I asked for thirty hamburgers and thirty orders of fries?"
  "'Wbat?"
  "What they always say-'Is this to eat here or to goT

 Simons just loved working for private enterprise.
  One of his biggest headaches in the army had always been supplies. Even
  planning the Son Tay Raid, an operation in which the President himself was
  personally interested, it had seemed as if he had to fill in six
  requisition forms and get approval from twelve generals every time he
  needed a new pencil. Then, when all the paper work was done, he would find
  that the items were out of stock, or there was a four-month wait for
  delivery, or-worst of all-when the stuff came it did not work. Twentytwo
  percent of the blasting caps he ordered misfired. He had tried to get night
  sights for his Raiders. He learned that the army had spent seventeen years
  trying to develop a night sight, but by 1970 all they had were six
  hand-built prototypes. Then he discovered a perfectly good British-made
  night sight available from the Armalite Corporation for $49.50, and that
  was what the Son Tay Raiders took to Vietnam.
  At EDS there were no forms to be filled out and no permissions to be
  sought, at least not for Simons: he told Merv Stauffer what he needed and
  Stauffer got it, usually the same day. He asked for, and got, ten Walther
  PPKs and ten thousand rounds of ammunition; a selection of holsters, both
  left-handed and right-handed, in different styles so the men could pick the
  kind they felt most comfortable with; shotgun-ammunition reloading kits in
  twelve-gauge, sixteen-gauge and twenty-gauge; and cold-weadier clothes for
  the team including coats, mittens, shirts, socks, and woolen stocking caps.
  One day he asked for a hundred thousand dollars in cash: two hours later T.
  J. Marquez arrived at the lake house with the money in an envelope.
  It was different from the army in other ways. His men were not soldiers who
  could be bullied into submission: they were some of the brightest young
  corporate executives in the United States. He had realized from the start
  that he could not assume command. He had to earn their loyalty.
  These men would obey an order if they agreed with it. If not, they would
  discuss it. That was fine in the boardroom, but useless on the battlefield.
 They were squeamish, too. The first time they talked about
 136       Ken Follett

 setting fire to a car as a diversion, someone had objected on the grounds
 that innocent passers-by might get hurt. Simons needled them about their Boy
 Scout morality, saying they were afraid of losing their merit badges, and
 calling them "you Jack Armstrongsafter the too-good-to-be-true radio
 character who went around solving crimes and helping old ladies cross the
 road.
  They also had a tendency to forget the seriousness of what they were doing.
  There was a lot of joking and a certain amount of horseplay, particularly
  from young Ron Davis. A measure of humor was useful in a team on a
  dangerous mission, but sometimes Simons had to put a stop to it and bring
  them back to reality with a sharp remark.
  He gave them all the opportunity to back out at any time. He got Ron Davis
  on his own again and said: "You're going to be the first one over that
  fence-don't you have some reservations about that?"
 "Yeah. -
  "Good thing you do, otherwise I wouldn't take you. Suppose Paul and Bill
  don't come right away? Suppose they figure that if they head for the fence
  they'll get shot? You'll be stuck there and the guards will see you. You'll
  be in bad trouble."
 'Yeah. "
  "Me, I'm sixty years old, I've lived my life. Hell, I don't have a thing to
  lose. But you're a young man--wd Marva's pregnant, isn't she?"
 "Yeah. -
 "Are you really sure you want to do this?"
 'Yeah. "
  He worked on them all. There was no point in his telling them that his
  military judgment was better than theirs: they had to come to that
  conclusion themselves. Similarly, his tough-guy act was intended to let
  them know that from now on such things as keeping warm, eating, drinking,
  and worrying about innocent bystanders would not occupy much of their time
  or attention. The shooting practice and the knife lesson also had a hidden
  purpose: die last thing Simons wanted was any killing on this operation,
  but learning how to kill reminded the men that the rescue could be a
  life-and-death affair.
  The biggest element in his psychological campaign was the endless
  practicing of the assault on the jail. Simons was quite sure that the jail
  would not be exactly as Coburn had described it, and that the plan would
  have to be modified. A raid never
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   137

 went precisely according to the scenario-as he knew better than most.
  The rehearsals for the Son Tay Raid had gone on for weeks. A complete
  replica of the prison camp had been built, out of two-by-four timbers and
  target cloth, at Eglin Air Base in Florida. The bloody thing had to be
  dismantled every morning before dawn and put up again at night, because the
  Russian reconnaissance satellite Cosmos 355 passed over Florida twice every
  twenty-four hours. But it had been a beautiful thing: every goddarn tree
  and ditch in the Son Tay prison camp had been reproduced in the mock-up.
  And then, after all those rehearsals, when they did it for real, one of the
  helicoptms--the one Simons was in-had landed in the wrong place.
  Simons would never forget the moment he realized the mistake. His
  helicopter was taking off again, having discharged the Raiders. A startled
  Vietnamese guard emerged from a foxhole and Simons shot him in the chest.
  ShootinZ broke out, a flare went tip, and Simons saw that the buildings
  surrounding him were not the buildings of the Son Tay camp. "Get that
  fucking chopper back in here!" he yelled to his radio operator. He told a
  sergeant to turn on a strobe light to mark the landing zone.
  He knew where they were: four hundred yards from Son Tay, in a compound
  marked on intelligence maps as a school. This was no school. There were
  enemy troops everywhere. It was a barracks, and Simons realized that his
  helicopter pilot's mistake had been a lucky one, for now he was able to
  launch a preemptive attack and wipe out a concentration of enemy troops who
  might otherwise have jeopardized the whole operation.
  That was the night he stood outside a barracks and shot eighty men in their
  underwear.
  No, an operation never went exactly according to plan. But becoming
  proficient at executing the scenario was only half the purpose of
  rehearsals anyway. The other half-and, in the case of the EDS men, the
  important half-was learning to work together as a team. Oh, they were
  already terrific as an inteUectual team-4ve them each an office and a
  secretary and a telephone, and together they would computerize the worl"ut
  working tDgedier with their hands and their bodies was different. When they
  had started, on January 3, they would have had trouble launching a rowboat
  as a team. Five days later they were a machine.
 138        Ken Folktt

 And that was all that could be done here in Texas. Now they had to take a
 look at the real-life jail. It was time to go to Tehran. Simons told
 Stauffa he wanted to meet with Perot again.

   3

 While the rescue team was in training, President Carter got his last chance
 of preventing a bloody revolution in Iran.
 And he blew it.
 This is how it happened ...

 Ambassador William Sullivan went to bed content on the night of January 4 in
 his private apartment within the large, cool residence in the Embassy
 compound at the comer of Roosevelt and Takht-e-Jamshid avenues in Tehran.
  Sullivan's boss, Secretary of State Cyrus Vance, had been busy with the
  Camp David negotiations all through November and December, but now he was
  back in Washington and concentrating on Iran--and boy, did it show.
  Vagueness and vacillation had ended. The cables containing Sullivan's
  instructions had become crisp and decisive. Most importantly, the United
  States at last had a strategy for dealing with the crisis: they were going
  to talk to the Ayatollah Khomeini.
  It was Sullivan's own idea. He was now sure that the Shah would soon leave
  Iran and Khomeini would return in triumph. His job, be believed, was to
  preserve America's relationship with Iran through the change of government,
  so that when it was all over, Iran would still be a stronghold of American
  influence in the Middle East. The way to do that was to help the Iranian
  armed forces to gay intact and to continue American military aid to any new
  regime.
  Sullivan had called Vance on the secure telephone line and told him just
  that. The U.S. should send an emissary to Paris to see the Ayatollah,
  Sullivan had urged. Khomeini should be told that the main concern of the
  U.S. was to preserve the territorial integrity of Iran and deflect Soviet
  influence; that the Americans did not want tc~see a pitched battle in Iran
  between the army and the Islamic revolutionaries; and that once the
  Ayatollah was in
                ON WINGS OF EAGLES   139

     power, the U.S. would offer him the same military assistance and arms
     sales it had given the Shah.
      It was a bold plan. There would be those who would accuse the U.S. of
      abandoning a friend. But Sullivan was sure it was time for the
      Americans to cut their losses with the Shah and look to the future.
      To his intense satisfaction, Vance had agreed.
      So had the Shah. Weary, apathetic, and no longer willing to shed blood
      in order to stay in power, the Shah had not even put up a show of
      reluctance.
      Vance had nominated, as his endssary to the Ayatollah, Theodore H.
      Eliot, a senior diplomat who had served as economic counselor in Tehran
      and spoke Farsi fluently. Sullivan was delighted with the choice.
      Ted Eliot was scheduled to arrive in Paris in two days' time, on
      January 6.
      In one of the guest bedrooms at the ambassadorial residence, Air Force
      General Robert "Dutch" Huyser was also going to bed. Sullivan was not
      as enthusiastic about the Huyser Mission as he was about the Eliot
      Mission. Dutch Huyser, the deputy commander (under Haig) of U.S. forces
      in Europe, had arrived yesterday to persuade Iranian generals to
      support the new Bakhtiar government in Tehran. Sullivan knew Huyser.
      He was a fine soldier, but no diplomat. He spoke no Farsi and he did
      not know Iran. But even if he had been ideally qualified, his task
      would have been hopeless. The Bakhtiar government had failed to gain
      the support even of the moderates, and Shahpour Bakhtiar himself bad
      been expelled from the centrist National Front party inewly for
      accepting the Shah's invitation to form a government. Meanwhile, the
      army, which Huyser was trying futilely to swing to Bakhtiar, continued
      to weaken as thousands of soldiers deserted and joined the
      revolutionary mobs in the streets. The best Huyser could hope for was
      to hold the army together a little longer, while Eliot in Pans arranged
      for the peaceful return of the Ayatollah.
      If it worked it would be a great achievement for Sullivan, something
      any diplomat could be proud of for the rest of his life: his plan would
      have strengthened his country and saved lives.
      As he went to sleep, there was just one worry nagging at the back of
      his mind. The Eliot Mission, for which he had such high hopes, was a
      State Department scheme, identified in Washington with Secretary of
      State Vance. The Huyser Mission was the idea

 Ir
 140         Ken FoIku

 of Zbigniew Brzezinski, the National Security Advisor. The emmity between
 Vance and Brzezinski was notorious. And at this moment Brzezinski, after the
 summit meeting in Guadeloupe, was deep-sea fishing in the Caribbean with
 President Carter. As they sailed over the clear blue sea, what was
 Brzezinski whisper~ ing in the President's ear?

 The phone woke Sullivan in the early hours of the morning.
  It was the duty officer, calling from the communications vault in the
  Embassy Budding just a few yards away. An urgent cable had arrived from
  Washington. The Ambassador might want to read it immediately.
  Sullivan got out of bed and walked across the lawns to the Embassy, full of
  foreboding.
 The cable said that the Eliot Mission was canceled.
  The decision had been taken by the President. Sullivan's comments on the
  change of plan were not invited. He was instructed to tell the Shah that
  the United States government no longer intended to hold talks with the
  Ayatollah Khomeini.
 Sullivan was heartbroken.
  This was the end of America's influence in Iran. It also meant that
  Sullivan personally had lost his chance of distinguishing himself as
  Ambassador by preventing a bloody civil war.
  He sent an angry message back to Vance, saying the President had in&& a
  gross mistake and should reconsider.
 He went back to bed, but he could not sleep.
  In the morning another cable informed bun that the President's decision
  would Stand.
  Wearily, Sullivan made his way up the hill to the palace to tell the Shah.
  The Shah appeared drawn and tense that morning. He and Sullivan sat down
  and drank the inevitable cup of tea. Then Sullivan told him that President
  Carter had canceled the Eliot Mission.
  The Shah was upset. "But why have they canceled it?" he said agitatedly.
 'I don't know," Sullivan replied.
  'But how do they expect to influence those people if they won't even talk
  to them?"
 "I don't know."
  $'Then what does Washington intend to do now?" asked the Shah , throwing up
  his hands in despair.
 I 'I don't know," said Sullivan.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   141

   4

 "Ross, this is idiotic," Tom Luce said loudly. "You're going to destroy the
 company and you're going to destroy yourse4f "
  Perot looked at his lawyer. They were sitting in Perot's office. The door
  was closed.
  Luce was not the first to say this. During the week, as the news had spread
  through the seventh floor, several of Perot's top executives had come in to
  tell him that a rescue team was a fbolhardy and dangerous notion, and he
  should drop the idea. "Stop worrying," Perot had told them. "Just
  concentrate on what you have to do."
  Tom Luce was characteristically vociferous. Wearing an aggressive scowl and
  a courtroom manner, he argued his case as if a jury were listening.
  "I can only advise you on the legal situation, but I'm here to tell you
  that this rescue can cause more problems, and worse problems, than you've
  got now. Hell, Ross, I can't make a list of the laws you're going to
  break!"
 "Try,19 said Perot.
  "You'll have a mercenary army-which is illegal here, in Iran, and in every
  country the team would pass through- Anywhere they go they'd be liable to
  criminal penalties and you could have ten men in jail instead of two.
  "But it's worse than that. Your men would be in a position much worse than
  soldiers in battle-4nternational laws and the Geneva Convention, winch
  protect soldiers in utifform, would not protect the rescue Main.
  I Iff they get captured in Iran ... Ross, they'll be shot. If they get
  captured in any country that has an extradition treaty with Iran, they'll
  be sew back and shot. Instead of two innocent employees in jail, you could
  have eight guilty employees dead.
  "And if that happens, the families of the dead men may turn on
  you--understandably, because this whole dung will look stupid. The widows
  will have huge claims against EDS in the American courts. They could
  bankrupt the company. Think of the ten thousand people who would be out of
  a job if that
 142       Ken Follett

 happened. Think of yourself-Ross, there might even be criminal charges
 against you that could put you in jail!"
 Perot said calmly: "I appreciate your advice, Tom."
 Luce stared at him. "I'm not getting through to you, am IT'
  Perot smiled. "Sure you are. But if you go through life worrying about all
  the bad things that can happen, you soon convince yourself that it's best
  to do nothing at all."

 The truth was that Perot knew something Luce did not.
 Ross Perot was lucky.
 All his life he had been lucky.
  As a twelve-year-old boy he had had a paper route in the poor black
  district of Texarkana. The Texarkana Gazette cost twentyfive cents a week
  in those days, and on Sundays, when he collected the money, he would end up
  with forty or fifty dollars in quarters in his pocket. And every Sunday,
  somewhere along the route, some poor man who had spent his week's wages in
  a bar the previous night would try to take the money from little Ross. This
  was why no other boy would deliver papers in that district. But Ross was
  never scared. He was on a horse; the attempts were never very determined;
  and he was lucky. He never lost his money.
  He had been lucky again in getting admitted to the Naval Academy at
  Annapolis. Applicants had to be sponsored by a senator or a congressman,
  and of course the Perot family did not have the right contacts. Anyway,
  young Ross had never even seen the sea-4he farthest he had ever traveled
  was to Dallas, 180 miles away. But there was a young man in Texarkana
  called Josh Morriss, Jr., who had been to Annapolis and told Ross all about
  it, and Ross had fallen in love with the navy without ever seeing a ship.
  So he just kept writing to senators begging for sponsorship. He
  succeeded-as he would many times during later life-because he was too dumb
  to lmow it was impossible.
  It was not until many years later that he found out how it had happened.
  One day back in 1949 Senator W. Lee O'Daniel was clearing out his desk: it
  was the end of his term and he was not going to run again. An aide said:
  "Senator, we have an unfilled appointment to the Naval Academy."
 "Does anyone want it?" the senator said.
  "Well, we've got this boy from Texarkana who's been trying for years ...
 "Give it to him," said the senator.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   143

  The way Perot heard the story, his name was never actually mentioned during
  the conversation.
  He had been lucky once again in setting up EDS when he did. As a computer
  salesman for IBM, he realized that his customers did not always make the
  best use of the machines he sold them. Data processing was a new and
  specialized skill. The banks were good at banking, the insurance companies
  were good at insurance, the manufacturers were good at manufacturing---and
  the computer men were good at data processing. The customer did not want
  the machine, he wanted the fast, cheap information it could provide. Yet,
  too often, the customer spent go much time creating his new data-processing
  department and learning how to use the machine that his computer caused him
  trouble and expense instead of saving them. Perot's idea was to sell a
  total package-4 complete data-processing department with machinery,
  software, and staff. The customer had only to say, in simple language, what
  information he needed, and EDS would give it to him. Then he could get on
  with what he was good at---banking, insurance, or manufacturing.
  IBM turned down Perot's idea. It was a good concept but the pickings would
  be small. Out of every dollar spent on data processing, eighty cents went
  into hardware-the machineryand only twenty cents into software, which was
  what Perot wanted to sell. IBM did not want to chase pennies under the
  table.
  So Perot drew a thousand dollars out of his savings and started up on his
  own. Over the next decade the proportions changed until software was taking
  seventy cents of every data-processing dollar, and Perot became one of the
  richest self-made men in the world.
  The chairman of IBM, Tom Watson, met Perot in a restaurant one day and
  said: "I just want to know one thing, Ross. Did you foresee that the ratio
  would change?"
  "No," said Perot. "The twenty cents looked good enough to me. Is
  Yes, he was lucky; but he had to give his luck room to operate. It was no
  good sitting in a comer being careful. You never got the chance to be lucky
  unless you took risks. All his life Perot had taken risks.
 This one just happened to be the biggest.
 Merv Stauffer walked into the office. "Ready to go?" he said.
 .'Yes. f9
 144       Ken Follett

  Perot got up and the two men left the office. They went down in the
  elevator and got into Stauffer's car, a brand-new four-door Lincoln
  Versailles. Perot read the nameplate on the dashboard: "Merv and Helen
  Stauffer. " The interior of the car stank of Simons's cigars.
 "He's waiting for you," Stauffer said.
 -C
   3ood.
  Perot's oil company, Petrus, had offices in the next building along Forest
  Lane. Merv had already taken Simons there, then come for Perot. Afterward
  he would take Perot back to EDS, then return for Simons. The object of the
  exercise was secrecy: as few people as possible were to see Simons and
  Perot together.
  In the last six days, while Simons and the rescue team had been doing their
  thing out at Lake Grapevine, the prospects of a legal solution to the
  problem of Paul and Bill had receded. Kissinger, having failed with
  Ardeshir Zahedi, was unable to do anything else to help. Lawyer Tom Luce
  had been busy calling every single one of the twenty-four Texas
  congressmen, both Texas senators, and anyone else in Washington who would
  take his calls; but what they all did was to call the State Department to
  find out what was going on, and all the calls ended up on the desk of Henry
  Precht.
  EDS's chief financial officer, Tom Walter, still had not found a bank
  willing to post a letter of credit for $12,750,000. The difficulty, Walter
  had explained to Perot, was this: under American law, an individual or a
  corporation could renege on a letter of credit if there was proof that the
  letter had been signed under illegal pressure; for example, blackmail or
  kidnapping. The banks saw the imprisonment of Paul and Bill as a
  straightforward piece of extortion, and they knew EDS would be able to
  argue, in an American court, that the letter was invalid and the money
  should not be paid. In theory that would not matter, for by then Paul and
  Bill would be home, and-the American bank would simplyand quite
  legally-.refuse to honor the letter of credit when it was presented for
  payment by the Iranian government. However, most American banks had large
  loans outstanding with Iran, and their fear was that the Iranians would
  retaliate by deducting $12,750,000 from what they owed. Walter was still
  searching for a large bank that did no business with Iran.
 So, unfortunately, Operation Hotfoot was still Perot's best bet.
  Perot left Stauffer in the car park and went into the oil company building.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   145

  He found Simons in the little office reserved for Perot. Simons was eating
  peanuts and listening to a portable radio. Perot guessed that the peanuts
  were his lunch and the radio was to swamp any eavesdropping devices that
  might be hidden in the room.
  They shook hands. Perot noticed that Simons was growing a beard. "How are
  things?" he said.
  "They're good," Simons answered. "The men are beginning to pull together as
  a team. "
  "Now," said Perot, "you realize you can reject any member of the team you
  find unsatisfactory." A couple of days earlier Perot bad proposed an
  addition to the team, a man who knew Tehran and had an outstanding military
  record, but Simons had turned him down after a short interview, saying:
  "That guy believes his own bullshit." Now Perot wondered whether Simons had
  found fault, during the training period, with any of the others. He went
  on: "You're in charge of the rescue, and--
  "There's no need," Simons said. "I don't want to reject anyone." He laughed
  softly. "They're easily the most intelligent squad I've ever worked with,
  and that does create a problem, because they think orders are to be
  discussed, not obeyed. But they're teaming to turn off their thinking
  switches when necessary. I've made it very clear to them that at some point
  in the game discussion ends and blind obedience is called for."
  Perot smiled. "Then you've achieved more in six days than I have in sixteen
  years."
  "There's no more we can do here in Dallas," Simons said. "Our next step is
  to go to Tehran."
  Perot nodded. This might be his last chance to call off Operation Hotfoot.
  Once the team left Dallas, they might be out of touch and they would be out
  of his control. The die would be cast.
  Ross, this is idiotic. You're going to destroy the company and you're going
  to destroy yourself.
  Hell, Ross, I can't make a list of the laws you're going to break.1
  Instead of two innocent employees in jail, you could have eight guilty
  employees dead.
  Well, we've got this boyfrom Texarkana who's been tryingfor years ...
 "When do you want to leave?" Perot asked Simons.
 . 'Tomorrow. 19
 "Good luck," said Perot.
 While Simons was talking to Perot in Dallas, Pat Sculley-the world's worst
 liar-was in Istanbul, trying and failing to pull the wool over the eyes of
 a wily Turk.
  Mr. Fish was a travel agent who had been "discovered" during the December
  evacuation by Merv Stauffer and T. J. Marquez. They had hired him to make
  arrangements for the evacuees' stopover in Istanbul, and he had worked
  miracles. He had booked them all into the Sheraton and organized buses to
  take them from the anport to the hotel. When they arrived there had been a
  meal waiting for diem. They left him to collect their baggage and clear it
  through customs, and it appeared outside their hotel rooms as if by magic.
  The next day there had been video movies for the children and sightseeing
  tours for the adults to keep everyone occupied while they waited for their
  flights to Now York. Mr. Fish achieved all this while most of the hotel
  staff were on strike-T.J. found out later that Mrs. Fish had made the beds
  in the hotel rooms. Once onward flights had been reserved, Merv Stauffer
  had wanted to duplicate a handout sheet with instructions for everyone, but
  the hotel's photocopier was broken: Mr. Fish got an electrician to mend it
  at five o'clock on a Sunday morning. Mr. Fish could make it happen.
  Simons was still worried about smuggling the Walther PPKs into Tehran, and
  when he heard how Mr. Fish had cleared the evacuees' baggage through
  Turkish customs he proposed that the same man be asked to solve the problem
  of the guns. Sculley had left for Istanbul on January 8.
  The following day he met Mr. Fish at the coffee shop in the Sheraton. Mr.
  Fish was a big, fat man in his late forties, dressed

               146
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   147

 in drab clothes. But he was shrewd: Sculley was no, match for him.
  Sculley told him that EDS needed help with two problems. "One, we need an
  aircraft that can fly into and out of Tehran. Two, we want to get some
  baggage through customs without its being inspected. Naturally, we'll pay
  you anything reasonable for help with these problems. "
  Mr. Fish looked dubious. "Why do you want to do these things?"
  "Well, we've got some magnetic tapes for computer systems in Tehran,"
  Sculley said. "We've got to get them in there and we can't take any
  chances. We don't want anyone to X-ray those tapes or do anything that
  could damage them, and we can't risk having them confiscated by some petty
  customs official."
  "And for this, you need to hire a plane and get your bags through customs
  unopened?"
  "Yes, that's right." Sculley could see that Mr. Fish did not believe a word
  of it.
  Mr. Fish shook his head. "No, Mr. Sculley. I have been happy to help your
  friends before, but I am a travel agent, not a smuggler. I will not do
  this."
 "What about the plane-can you get us a plane?"
  Mr. Fish shook his head again. "You will have to go to Amman, Jordan. Arab
  Wings run charter flights from there to Tehran. That is the best suggestion
  I can make."
 Sculley shrugged. "Okay."
  A few minutes later he left Mr. Fish and went up to his room to call
  Dallas.
  His first assignment as a member of the rescue team had not gone well.
  When Simons got the news he decided to leave the Walther PPKs in Dallas.
  He explained his thinking to Coburn. "Let's not jeopardize the whole
  mission, right at the start, when we're not even sure we're going to need
  the handguns: that's a risk we don't have to take, not yet anyway. Let's
  get in the country and see what we're up against. If and when we need the
  guns, Schwebach will go back to Dallas and get 'em. "
  The guns were put in the EDS vault, together with a too] Simons had ordered
  for filing off the serial numbers. (Since that was against the law it would
  not be done until the last possible moment.)
 148        Ken Follen

  However, they would take the false-bottomed suitcase and do a dry run. They
  would also take the Number 2 shot-Davis would carry it in his beanbag---and
  the equipment Simons needed for reloading the shot into birdshot
  cartridges-Simons would carry that himself.
  There was now no point in going via Istanbul, so Simons sent Sculley to
  Paris to book hotel rooms there and try to get reservations for the team on
  a flight into Tehran.
  The rest of the team took off from the Dallas/Fort Worth Regional Airport
  at 11:05 A.M. on January 10 aboard Braniff flight 341 to Miami, where they
  transferred to National 4 to Paris.
  They met up with Sculley at Orly Airport, in the picture gallery between
  the restaurant and the coffee shop, the following morning.
  Coburn noticed that Sculley was jumpy. Everyone was becoming infected with
  Simons's security-consciousness, he realized. Coming over from the States,
  although they had all been on the same plane, they had traveled separately,
  sitting apart and not acknowledging one another. In Paris Sculley had got
  nervous about the staff at the Orly Hilton and suspected that someone was
  listening to his phone calls, so Simons-who was always uneasy in hotels
  anyway-had decided they would talk in the picture gallery.
  Sculley had failed in his second assignment, to get onward reservations
  from Pans to Tehran for the team. "Half the airlines have just stopped
  flying to Iran, because of the political unrest and the strike at the
  airport," he said. "What flights there are are overbooked with Iranians
  trying to get home. All I have is a rumor that Swissair is flying in from
  Zurich."
  They split into two groups. Simons, Coburn, Poch6, and Boulware would go to
  Zurich and try for the Swissair flight. Sculley, Schwebach, Davis, and
  Jackson would stay in Paris.
  Simons's group flew Swissair first class to Zurich. Coburn sat next to
  Simons. They spent the whole of the flight eating a splendid lunch of
  shrimp and steak. Simons raved about how good the food was. Coburn was
  amused, remembering how Simons had said: "When you're hungry, you open a
  can."
  At Zurich Airport the reservations desk for the Tehran flight was mobbed by
  Iranians. The team could get only one seat on the plane. Which of them
  should go? Coburn, they decided. He would be the logistics man: as Director
  of Personnel and as
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   149

 evacuation mastermind he had the most complete knowledge of EDS resources in
 Tehran: 150 empty houses and apartments, 60 abandoned cars and jeeps, 200
 Iranian employees-4hose who could be trusted and those who could not---and
 the food, drink, and tools left behind by the evacuees. Going in first,
 Coburn could arrange transport, supplies, and a hideout for the rest of the
 team.
  So Coburn said good-bye 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 falsebottomed 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
 150         Ken FolkU

 skirted two men who appeared to be fighting over a taxi, and took the next
 in fine.
  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 aston-
  ished 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 hem 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?"
 "It
  '1~%tever 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."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   151

 "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 diem, at my house-4t'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. I I
 "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
 152       Ken Follett

 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."
 I '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 prospects.
  Tomorrow he would visit them and pick up canned and dned food and bottled
  drinks for the hideouts.
 He selected a fifth apartment, but did not visit it. It was to be
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   153

 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. "Fli, 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. 9 *
 "What is Honky Keith Goofball?"
 -H for Honky, K for Keith-"
 "Merv, H is Hotel, K is Kilo . .
  "Ohl" 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 PocW were arriving in Tehran the next day.

   2

 By January II-Aw day Coburn arrived in Tehran and Perot flew to London-4)aul
 and Bill had been in jail exactly two weeks.
  In that time they bad 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
 154        Ken Folleu

 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 niind to
  boost monde 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
  promment 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 hen 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
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   155

 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
  budder 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 bad. Hounian 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 hank lawyer-client discussion; but Hournan
  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 hying to impress his
  supenor&--or perhaps the revolutionane&-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 bad 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 bad."
 "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 Dadgaes superiors at the Ministry of
  Justice had agreed to force Dadgar to back down and reduce the bad 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
 156       Ken Follett

 that everything would be finalized at a second meeting between Paul and Bill
 and Dadgar on January I I -
  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 dollarsalmost 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. Hournan.
  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, ~~.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
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   157

 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?"
  The woman translated the last sentence. Paul studied Dadgar: His expression
  had frozen again. He said something in Farsi.
 Mrs. Nourbash translated. "He will see the other one now."
 Paul stared at her.
 158         Ken FoIku

  He had wasted his breath, he realized. He might just as well have recited
  nursery rhymes. Dadgar was immovable.

 Paul was deeply depressed. He lay on his mattress, looking at the pictures
 of Karen and Ann Marie that he had stuck on the underside of the bunk above
 him. He missed the girls badly. Being unable to see them made him realize
 that in the past he had taken them for granted. Ruthie, too. He looked at
 his watch: it was the middle of the night in the States now. Ruthie would be
 asleep, alone in a big bed. How good it would be to climb in beside her and
 hold her in his arms. He put the thought out of his niind: he was just
 making himself miserable with self-pity. He had no need to worry about them.
 They were out of Iran, out of danger, and he knew that whatever might
 happen, Perot would take care of diem. That was the good thing about Perot.
 He asked a lot of you--boy, he was just about the most demanding employer
 you could have-but when you needed to rely on him, he was like a rock.
  Paul lit a cigarette. He had a cold. He could never get warm in the jail.
  He felt too down to do anything. He did not want to go to the Chattanooga
  Room and drink tea; he did not want to watch the news in gibberish on TV;
  he did not want to play chess with Bill. He did not want to go to the
  library for a new book. He had been reading The Thorn Birds by Colleen
  McCullough. He had found it a very emotional book. It was about several
  generations of families, and it made him think of his own family. The
  central character was a priest, and as a Catholic, Paul had been able to
  klentify with that. He had read the book three times. He had also read
  Hawaii by James Michener, Airport by Arthur Hailey, and the Guinness Book
  of World Records. He never wanted to read another book for the rest of his
  life.
  Sometimes he thought about what he would do when he got out, and let his
  mind wander on his favorite pastimes, boating and fishing. But that could
  be depressing.
  He could not remember a time in his adult life when he had been at a loss
  for something to do. He was always busy. At the office he would typically
  have three days' work backed up. Never, never, did he lie down smoking and
  wondering how on earth he could keep himself amused.
  But the worst thing of all was the helplessness. Although he had always
  been an employee, going where his boss sent him and doing what he was
  ordered to do, nevertheless he had always
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   159

 known that he could at any time get on a plane and go home, or quit his job,
 or say no to his boss. Ultimately the decisions had been his. Now he could
 not make any decisions about his own life. He could not even do anything
 about his plight. With every other problem he had ever had, he had been able
 to work on it, try things, attack the problem. Now he just had to sit and
 suffer.
  He realized that he had never known the meaning of freedom until he lost
  it.

   3

 The demonstration was relatively peaceful. There were several blazing cars
 but otherwise no violence: the demonstrators were marching up and down
 carrying pictures of Khomeini and putting flowers in the turrets of tanks.
 The soldiers looked on passively.
 The traffic was at a standstill.
  It was January 14, the day after Simons and Poch6 flew in. Boulware had
  gone back to Paris, and now he and the other four were waiting there for a
  flight to Tehran. Meanwhile Simons, Coburn, and Poch6 were heading
  downtown, to reconnoiter the jail.
  After a few minutes Joe Poch6 turned off the car engine and sat there,
  silent, showing as much emotion as he always did, which was none.
  By contrast Simons, sitting next to him, was animated. "This is history
  being made in front of our eyes!" he said. "Very few people get to observe
  firsthand a revolution in progress. "
  He was a history buff, Coburn had gathered, and revolutions were his
  specialty. Coming through the airport, on being asked what was his
  occupation and the purpose of his visit, he said he was a refired fanner
  and this was the only chance he was ever likely to get of seeing a
  revolution. He had been telling the truth.
  Coburn was not thrilled to be in the middle of it. He did not enjoy sitting
  in a little car-they had a Renault 4-surrounded by excitable Muslim
  fanatics. Despite his new-grown beard he did not look Iranian. Nor did
  Pochi. Simons did, however. his hair was longer now, he had olive skin and
  a big nose, and he had grown a white beard. Give him some worry beads and
  stand him
 160        Ken Folleu

 on a corner and nobody would suspect for a minute that he was American.
  But the crowd was not interested in Americans, and eventually Coburn became
  confident enough to get out of the car and go into a baker's shop. He
  bought barbari bread, long, fiat loaves with a delicate crust that were
  baked fresh every day and cost seven rials---ten cents. Like French bread,
  it was delicious when new but went stale very quickly. It was usually eaten
  with butter or cheese. Iran was run on barbari bread and tea.
  They sat watching the demonstration and chewing on the bread until, at
  last, the traffic began to move again. Poch6 followed the route he had
  mapped out the previous evening. Coburn wondered what they would find when
  they reached the jail. On Simons's orders he had kept away from downtown
  until now. It was too much to hope that the jail would be exactly as he had
  described it eleven days ago at LAke Grapevine: the team had based a very
  precise attack plan on quite imprecise intelligence. Just how imprecise,
  they would soon find out.
  They reached the Ministry of Justice and drove around to Khayyam Street,
  the side of the block on which the jail entrance was located.
 PocM drove slowly, but not too slowly, past the jail.
 Simons said, "Oh, shit."
 Coburn's heart sank.
  'Me jail was radically different from the mental picture he had built up.
  71be entrance consisted of two steel doors fourteen feet high. On one side
  was a single-story building with barbed wire along its roof. On the other
  side was a taller building of gray stone, five stories high.
 There were no iron railings. There was no courtyard.
 Simons said: "So where's the fucking exercise yard?"
  Poch6 drove on, made a few turns, and came back along Khayyam Street in the
  opposite direction.
  This time Coburn did see a little courtyard with grass and trees, separated
  from the street by a fence of iron railings twelve feet high; but it
  plainly had nothing to do with the jail, which was farther up the street.
  Somehow, in that telephone conversation with Majid, the exercise yard of
  the jail had got mixed up with this little garden.
 Pochd made one more pass around the block.
 Simons was thinking ahead. "We can get in there," he said.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   161

 "But we have to know what we'll be up against once we're over the wall.
 Someone will have to go in and reconnoiter."
 "Who?" said Coburn.
 "You," said Simons.

 Coburn walked up to the jail entrance with Rich Gallagher and Majid. Majid
 pressed the bell and they waited.
  Coburn had become the "outside man" of the rescue team. He had already been
  seen at Bucharest by Iranian-employees, so his presence in Tehran could not
  be kept secret. Simons and Poch6 would stay indoors as much as possible and
  keep away from EDS premises: nobody need know they were here. It would be
  Coburn who would go to the Hyatt to see Taylor and switch cars. And it was
  Coburn who went inside the jail.
  As he waited he ran over in his mind all the points Simons had told him to
  watch out for--security, numbers of guards, weaponry, layout of the place,
  cover, high ground ... it was a long list, and Simons had a way of making
  you anxious to remember every detail of his instructions.
 A peephole in the door opened. Majid said something in Farsi.
 The door was opened and the three of them went in.
  Straight ahead of him Coburn saw a courtyard with a grassed traffic circle
  and cars parked on the far side. Beyond the cars a building rose five
  stories high over the courtyard. To his left was the one-story building he
  had seen from the street, with the barbed wire on its roof. To his right
  was another steel door.
  Coburn was wearing a long, bulky down coat-Taylor had dubbed it the
  Michelin Man coat-under which he could easily have concealed a shotgun, but
  he was not searched by the guard at the gate. I could have had eight
  weapons on me, he thought. That was encouraging: security was slack.
 He noted that the gate guard was armed with a small pistol.
  The three visitors were led into the low building on the left. The colonel
  in charge of the jail was in the visiting room, along with another Iranian.
  'Me second man, Gallagher had warned Coburn, was always present during
  visits, and spoke perfect English: presumably he was there to eavesdrop.
  Coburn had told Majid he did not want to be overheard while talking to
  Paul, and Majid agreed to engage the eavesdropper in conversation.
  Coburn was introduced to the colonel. In broken English the man said he was
  sorry for Paul and Bill, and he hoped they
 162        Ken Folleu

 would be released soon. He seemed sincere. Coburn noted that neither the
 colonel nor the eavesdropper was armed.
 The door opened, and Paul and Bill walked in.
  They both stared at Coburn in surprise-neither of them had been forewarned
  that he was in town, and the beard was an additional shock.
  "What the hell are you doing here?" Bill said, and smiled broadly.
  Coburn shook hands warmly with both of them. Paul said: "Boy, I can't
  believe you're here.
 "How's my wife?" Bill said.
 "Emily's fine, so is Ruthie," Coburn told them.
  MaJid started talking loudly in Farsi to the colonel and the eavesdropper.
  He seemed to be telling them a complicated story with many gestures. Rich
  Gallagher began to speak to Bill, and Coburn sat Paul down.
  Simons had decided that Coburn should question Paul about routines at the
  jail, and level with him about the rescue plan. Paul was picked rather than
  Bill because, in Coburn's opinion, Paul was likely to be the leader of the
  two.
  "If you haven't guessed it already," Coburn began, .4we're going to get
  y'all out of here by force if necessary."
  "I guessed it already," Paul said. "I'm not sure it's a good idea. ' 9
 :'What?"
 'People might get hurt."
  "Listen, Ross has retained just about the best man in the whole world for
  this kind of operation, and we have carte blancho-"
 "I'm not sure I want it."
 "You ain't being asked for your permission, Paul."
 Paid smiled. "Okay."
 "Now I need some information. Where do you exercise?"
 ::Right there in the courtyard." 10*7hen?"
 6671bursdays."
  Today was Monday. The next exercise period would be January 18. "How long
  do you spend out there?"
 "About an hour."
 64,VVIM time Of day?91
 44it varies."
 "Shit." Coburn made an effort to look relaxed, to avoid
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   163

 lowering his voice conspicuously or glancing over his shoulder to see
 whether anyone might be listening: This had to look like a normal friendly
 visit. "How many guards are there in this jail?"
 "Around twenty."
 "All uniformed, all armed?"
 "All uniformed, some armed with handguns."
 "No rifles?"
 "Well ... none of the regular guards have rifles, but
 See, our cell is just across the courtyard and has a window. Well, in the
 morning there's a group of about twenty different guards, like an elite
 corps, you might say. They have rifles and wear kind of shiny helinets. They
 have reveille right here, then I never see them for the rest of the day-I
 don't know where they go. 11

 I 'Try and find out. 91
 "I'll try."
 -%ich is your cell?"
  "When you go out of here, the window is more or less opposite you. If you
  start in the right-hand comer of the courtyard and count toward the left,
  it's the third window. But they close the shutters when there are
  visitom-so we can't see women coming in, they say."
  Coburn nodded, trying to memorize it all. "You need to do two things," he
  said. "One: a survey of the inside of the jail, with measurements as
  accurate as possible. I'll come back and get the details from you so we can
  draw a plan. Two: get in shape. Exercise daily. You'll need to be fit."
 "Okay. -
 "Now, tell. me your daily routine."
 "They wake us up at six o'clock," Paul began.
  Coburn concentrated, knowing he would have to repeat all this to Simons.
  Nevertheless, at the back of his mind one thought nagged: If we don't know
  what time of day they exercise, how the hell do we know when to go over the
  wall?

 "Visiting time is the answer," Simons said.
 "How so?" Coburn asked.
  "It's the one situation when we can predict they will be out of the actual
  jail and vulnerable to a snatch, at a definite moment in time. I I
  Coburn nodded. The three of them were sitting in the living room of Keane
  Taylor's house. It was a big room with a Persian
 164       Ken Follett

 carpet. They had drawn three chairs into the middle, around a coffee table.
 Beside Simons's chair, a small mountain of cigar ash was growing on the
 carpet. Taylor would be furious.
  Coburn felt drained. Being debriefed by Simons was even more harrowing than
  he had anticipated. When he was sure he had told everything, Simons thought
  of more questions. When Coburn could not quite remember something, Simons
  made him think hard until he did remember. Simons drew from him information
  he had not consciously registered, just by asking the right questions.
  46 The van and the ladder--4hat scenario is out," Simons said. "Their weak
  point now is their loose routine. We can get two men in there as visitors,
  with shotguns or Walthers under their coats. Paul and Bill would be brought
  to that visiting area. Our two men should be able to overpower the colonel
  and the eavesdropper without any trouble-and without making enough noise to
  alarin anyone else in the vicinity - Then
 :.Then what?"
  'That's the problem. The four men would have to come out of the building,
  cross the courtyard, reach the gate, either open it or climb it, reach the
  street, and get in a car . . . "
  "It sounds possible," Coburn said. "There's just one guard at the gate . .
  ."
 "A number of things about this scenario bother me," Simons
  . " - the windows in the high building that overlooks the
 said One, courtyard. While our men are in the courtyard, anyone looking out
 of any one of those windows will see them. Two: the elite guard with shiny
 helmets and rifles. Whatever happens, our people have to slow down at the
 gate. If there's just one guard with a rifle looking out of one of those
 high windows, he could pick off the four of them like shooting fish in a
 barrel."
 :*We don't know the guards are in the high building."'
 'We don't know they're not. -
 "It seems like a small risk-"
  "We're not going to take any risks we don't have to. Three: the traffic in
  this goddam city is a bastard. You just can't talk about jumping in a car
  and getting away. We could run into a demonstration fifty yards down the
  street. No. This snatch has got to be quiet. We must have time. What is
  that colonel like, the one in charge of the place?"
  "He was quite friendly," Coburn said. "He seemed genuinely sorry for Paul
  and Bill. -
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   165

  "I wonder whether we can get to him. Do we know anything at all about
  him?"
  'No."
 "Let's find out."
 "I'll put Majid on it."
  ,,The colonel would have to make sure there were no guards around at
  visiting time. We could make it look good by tying him up, or even
  knocking him out.... If he can be bribed, we can still bring this thing
  off."
 "I'll get on it right away," said Coburn.

   4

 On January 13 Ross Perot took off from Amman, Jordan, in a Lear jet of Arab
 Wings, the charter operation of Royal Jordanian Airlines. The plane headed
 for Tehran. In the baggage hold was a net bag containing half a dozen
 professional-sized videotapes, the kind used by television crews: this was
 Perot's 46 cover. I I
  As the little jet flew east, the British pilot pointed out the junction of
  the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. A few minutes later the plane developed
  hydraulic trouble and had to turn back.
 It had been that kind of journey.
  in London he had caught up with lawyer John Howell and EDS manager Bob
  Young, both of whom had been trying for days to get a flight into Tehran.
  Eventually Young discovered that Arab Wings was flying in, and the three
  men had gone to Animan. Arriving there in the middle of the night had been
  an experience all on its own: it looked to Perot as if all the bad guys of
  Jordan were sleeping at the airport. They found a taxicab to take them to
  a hotel. John Howell's room had no bathroom: the facilitm were right there
  beside the bed. In Perot's room the toilet was so close to the bath that he
  had to put his feet in the tub when he sat on the john. And like that ...
  Bob Young had thought of the videotapes "cover. " Arab Wings regularly flew
  tapes into and out of Tehran for NBC-TV News. Sometimes NBC would have its
  own man carry the tapes; other times the pilot would take diem. Today,
  although NBC did not know it, Perot would be their bagman. He was wearing
  a sports jacket, a little plaid hat, and no tie. Anyone watching for
 166        Ken Follen

 Ross Perot might not look twice at the regular NBC messenger with his
 regular net bag.
  Arab Wings had agreed to this ruse. They had also confirmed that they could
  take Perot out again on this NBC tape run.
  Back in Amman, Perot, Howell, and Young and the pilot boarded a replacement
  jet and took off again. As they climbed high over the desert Perot wondered
  whether he was the craziest man in the world or the sanest.
  There were powerful reasons why he should not go to Tehran. For one thing,
  the mobs might consider him the ultimate symbol of bloodsucking American
  capitalism and string him up on the spot. More likely, Dadgar might get to
  know that he was in town and try to arrest him. Perot was not sure he
  understood Dadgar's motives in jailing Paul and Bill, but the man's
  mysterious purposes would surely be even better served by having Perot
  behind bars. Why, Dadgar could set bail at a hundred million dollars and
  feel confident of getting it, if the money was what he was after.
  But negotiations for the release of Paul and Bill were stalled, and Perot
  wanted to go to Tehran to kick ass in one last attempt at a legitimate
  solution before Simons and the team risked their lives in an assault on the
  prison.
  There had been times, in business, when EDS had been ready to admit defeat
  but had gone on to victory because Perot himself had insisted on going one
  more mile: this was what leadership was all about.
  That was what he told himself, and it was all true, but there was another
  reason for his trip. He simply could not sit in Dallas, comfortable and
  safe, while other people risked their lives on his instructions.
  He knew only too well that if he were jailed in Iran, he, and his
  colleagues, and his company, would be in much worse trouble than they were
  now. Should he do the prudent thing, and stay, he had wondered-or should he
  follow his deepest instincts, and go? It was a moral dilemma. He had
  discussed it with his mother.
  She knew she was dying. And she knew that, even if Perot should come back
  alive and well after a few days, she might no longer be there. Cancer was
  rapidly destroying her body, but there was nothing wrong with her mind, and
  her sense of right and wrong was as clear as ever. "You don't have a
  choice, Ross," she had said. "They're your men. You sent them over
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   167

 there. They didn't do anything wrong. Our government won't help them. You
 are responsible for diem. It's up to you to get them out. You have to go."
  So here he was, feeling that he was doing the right thing, if not the smart
  thing.
  The Lew jet left the desert behind and climbed over the mountains of
  western Iran. Unlike Simons and Coburn and Poch6, Perot was a stranger to
  physical danger. He had been too young for World War R and too old for
  Vietnam, and the Korean War had finished while Ensign Perot was on his way
  there aboard the destroyer USS Sigourney. He had been shot at just once,
  during the prisoners-of-war campaign, landing in a jungle in Laos aboard an
  ancient DC3: he had heard pinging noises but had not realized the aircraft
  had been hit until after it landed. His most hightening experience, since
  the days of the Texarkana paper-route thieves, had been in another plane
  over Laos, when a door right next to his seat fell off. He had been asleep.
  When he woke up he looked for a light for a second, before realizing he was
  leaning out of the aircraft. Fortunately he had been strapped in.
 He was not sitting next to a door today.
  He looked through the window and saw, in a bowl-shaped depression in the
  mountains, the city of Tehran, a mud-colored sprawl dotted with white
  skyscrapers. The plane began to lose height.
  Okay, he thought, now we're coming down. It's time to start thinking and
  using your head, Perot.
  As the plane landed he felt tense, wired, alert: he was pumping adrenaline.
  The plane taxied to a halt. Several soldiers with machine guns slung over
  their shoulders ambled casually across the tarmac.
  Perot got out. The pilot opened the baggage hold and handed him the net bag
  of tapes.
  Perot and the pilot walked across the tarmac. Howell and Young followed,
  carrying their suitcases.
  Perot felt grateful for his inconspicuous appearance. He thought of a
  Norwegian friend, a tall, blond Adonis who complained of looking too
  impressive. "You're lucky, Ross," he would say. "When you walk into a room
  no one notices you. When people see me, they expect too much-1 can't live
  up to their expectations." No one would ever take him for a messenger boy.
  But
 168        Ken Folleu

 Perot, with his short stature and homely face and off-the-rack clothes,
 could be convincing in the part.
  They entered the terminal. Perot told himself that the military, which was
  running the airport, and the Ministry of Justice, for which Dadgar worked,
  were two separate government bureaucracies; and if one of them knew what
  the other was doing, or whom it was seeking, why, this would have to be the
  most efficient operation in the history of government.
 He walked up to the desk and showed his passport.
 It was stamped and handed back to him.
 He walked on.
 He was not stopped by customs.
  The pilot showed him where to leave the bag of television tapes. Perot put
  them down, then said goodbye to the pilot.
  He turned around and saw another tall, distinguished-looking friend: Keane
  Taylor. Perot liked Taylor.
 "Hi, Ross, how did it go?" Taylor said.
  "Great," Perot said with a smile. "They weren't looking for the ugly
  American."
  They walked out of the airport. Perot said: "Are you satisfied that I
  didn't send you back here for any administrative b.s.?"
 1.1 sure am," Taylor said.
 They got into Taylor's car. Howell and Young got in the back.
  As they pulled away, Taylor said: "I'm going to take an indirect route. to
  avoid the worst of the riots."
 Perot did not find this reassuring.
  The road was lined with tall, half-finished concrete buildings with cranes
  on top. Work seemed to have stopped. Looking closely, Perot saw that people
  were living in the shells. It seemed an apt symbol of the way the Shah had
  tried to modernize Iran too quickly.
  Taylor was m1king about cars. He had stashed all EDS's cars in a school
  playground and hired some Iranians to guard them, but he had discovered
  that the Iranians were busy running a used car lot, selling the damn
  things.
  There were long lines at every gas station, Perot noticed. He found that
  ironic in a country rich in oil. As well as cars, there were people in the
  queues, holding cans. "What are they doing?" Perot asked. "If they don't
  have cars, why do they need gas?"
  "They sell it to the highest bidder," Taylor explained. "Or you can rent an
  Iranian to stand in line for you."
 They were stopped briefly at a roadblock. Driving on, they
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   169

 passed several burning cars. A lot of civilians were standing around with
 machine guns. The scene was peaceful for a mile or two, then Perot saw more
 burning cars more machine guns, another roadblock. Such sights ought to
 liave been frightening, but somehow they were not. It seemed to Perot that
 the people were just enjoying letting loose for a change, now that the
 Shah's iron grip was at last being relaxed. Certainly the military was doing
 nothing to maintain order, as far as he could see.
  There was always something weird about seeing violence as a tourist. He
  recalled flying over Laos in a light plane and watching people fighting on
  the ground: he had felt tranquil, detached. He supposed that battle was
  like that: it might be fierce if you were in the middle of it, but five
  minutes away nothing was happening.
  They drove into a huge circle with a monument in its center that looked
  like a spaceship of the far future, towering over the traffic on four
  gigantic splayed legs. "What is that?" said Perot.
  "The Shahyad Monument," Taylor said. "There's a museum in the top."
  A few minutes later they pulled into the forecourt of the Hyatt Crown
  Regency. "This is a new hotel," Taylor said. "They just opened it, poor
  bastards. It's good for us, though-wonderful food, wine, music in the
  restaurant in the evenings ... We're living like kings in a city that's
  falling apart."
  They went into the lobby and took the elevator. "You don't have to check
  in," Taylor told Perot. "Your suite is in my name. No sense in having your
  name written down anywhere."
 "Right."
  They got out, at the eleventh floor. "We've all got rooms along this hall,"
  Taylor said. He unlocked a door at the far end of the corridor.
  Perot walked in, glanced around, and smiled. "Would you look at this?" The
  sitting room was vast. Next to,it was a large bedroom. He looked into the
  bathroom: it was big enough for a cocktail party.
 "Is it all right?" Taylor said with a grin.
  "If you'd seen the room I had last night in Amman, you wouldn't bother to
  ask. "
 Taylor left him to settle in.
  Perot went to the window and looked out. His suite was at the front of the
  hotel, so he could look down and see the forecourt. I
 170       Ken Follett

 might hope to have warning, he thought, if a squad of soldiers or a
 revolutionary mob comes for me.
 But what would I do?
  He decided to map an emergency escape route. He left his suite and walked
  up and down the corridor. There were several empty rooms with unlocked
  doors. At either end was an exit to a staircase. He went down the stairs to
  the floor below. There were more empty rooms, some without furniture or
  decoration: the hotel was unfinished, like so many buildings in this town.
  I could take this staircase down, he thought, and if I heard them coming up
  I could duck back into one of the corridors and hide in an empty room. That
  way I could get to ground level.
  He walked all the way down the stairs and explored the ground floor.
  He wandered through several banqueting rooms that he supposed were unused
  most, if not all, of the time. There was a labyrinth of kitchens with a
  thousand hiding places: he particularly noted some empty food containers
  big enough for a small man to climb into. From the banqueting area he could
  reach the health club at the back of the hotel. It was pretty fancy, with
  a sauna and a pool. He opened a door at the rear and found himself outside,
  in the hotel parking lot. Here he could take an EDS car and disappear into
  the city, or walk to the next hotel, the Evin, or just run into the forest
  of unfinished skyscrapers that began on the far side of the parking lot.
  He reentered the hotel and took the elevator. As he rode up, he resolved
  always to dress casually in Tehran. He had brought with him khaki pants and
  some checkered flannel shirts, and he also had a jogging outfit. He could
  not help looking American, with his pale, clean-shaven face and blue eyes
  and ultra-short crewcut; but, if he should find himself on the run, he
  could at least make sure he did not look like an important American, much
  less the multimillionaire owner of Electronic Data Systems Corporation.
  He went to find Taylor's room and get a briefing. He wanted to go to the
  American Embassy and talk to Ambassador Sullivan; he wanted to go to the
  headquarters of MAAG, the U.S. Military Assistance and Advisory Group, and
  see General Huyser and General Gast; he wanted to get Taylor and John
  Howell hyped up to put a bomb under Dadgar's tail; he wanted to move, to
  go, to get this problem solved, to get Paul and Bill out, andfast.
  He banged on Taylor's door and walked in. "Okay, Keane," he said. "Bring me
  up to speed."
              S LX

 John Howell was born in the ninth minute of the ninth hour of the ninth day
 of the ninth month of 1946, his mother often said.
  He was a short, small man with a bouncy walk. His fine light brown hair was
  receding early, he had a slight squint, and his voice was faintly hoarse,
  as if he had a permanent cold. He spoke very slowly and blinked a lot.
  Thirty-two years old, he was an associate in Tom Luce's Dallas law firm.
  Like so many of the people around Ross Perot, Howell had achieved a
  responsible position at a young age. His greatest asset as a lawyer was
  stamina-"John wins by outworking the opposition," Luce would say. Most
  weekends Howell would spend either Saturday or Sunday at the office,
  tidying up loose ends, finishing tasks that had been interrupted by the
  phone, and preparing for the week ahead. He would get frustrated when
  family activities deprived him of that sixth working day. In addition, he
  often worked late into the evening and missed dinner at home, which
  sometimes made his wife, Angela, unhappy.
  Like Perot, Howell was born in Texarkana. Like Perot, he was short in
  stature and long on guts. Nevertheless, at midday on January 14 he was
  scared. He was about to meet Dadgar.
  The previous afternoon, immediately after arriving in Tehran, Howell had
  met with Ahmad Houman, EDS's new local attorney. Dr. Houman had advised him
  not to meet Dadgar, at least not yet: it was perfectly possible that Dadgar
  intended to arrest all the EDS Americans he could find, and that might
  include lawyers.
  Howell had found Hournan impressive. A big, rotund man in his sixties, well
  dressed by Iranian standards, he was a former president of the Iran Bar
  Association. Although his English was
               171
 172       Ken Follett

 not good-French was his second language-he seemed confident and
 knowledgeable.
  Hournan's advice jelled with Howell's instinct. He always liked to prepare
  very thoroughly for any kind of confrontation. He believed in the old maxim
  of trial lawyers: never ask a question unless you already know the answer.
  Houman's advice was reinforced by Bunny Fleischaker. An American girl with
  Iranian friends in the Ministry of Justice, Bunny had warned Jay Coburn,
  back in December, that Paul and Bill were going to be arrested, but at the
  time no one had believed her. Events had given her retrospective
  credibility, and she was taken seriously when, early in January, she called
  Rich Gallagher's home at eleven o'clock one evening.
  The conversation had reminded Gallagher of the phone calls in the movie All
  the President's Men, in which nervous informants talked to the newspaper
  reporters in improvised code. Bunny began by saying: "D'you know who this
  is?"
 "I think so," Gallagher said.
 "You've been told about me."
 "Yes. I I
  EDS's phones were bugged and the conversations were being taped, she
  explained. The reason she had called was to say that there was a strong
  chance Dadgar would arrest more EDS executives. She recommended they either
  leave the country or move into a hotel where there were lots of newspaper
  reporters. Lloyd Briggs, who as Paul's deputy seemed the likeliest target
  for Dadgar, had left the country-he needed to return to the States to brief
  EDS's lawyers anyway. The others, Gallagher and Keane Taylor, had moved
  into the Hyatt.
 Dadgar had not arrested any more EDS people-yet.
  Howell needed no more convincing. He was going to stay out of Dadgar's way
  until he was sure of the ground rules.
 Then, at eight-thirty this morning, Dadgar had raided Bucharest.
  He had turned up with half a dozen investigators and demanded to see EDS's
  files. Howell, hiding in an office on another floor, had called Houman.
  After a quick discussion he had advised all EDS personnel to cooperate with
  Dadgar.
  Dadgar had wanted to see Paul Chiapparone's files. The filing cabinet in
  Paul's secretary's office was locked and nobody could find the key. Of
  course that made Dadgar all the more keen to see the files. Keane Taylor
  had solved the problem in characteristi-
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   173

 cally direct fashion: he had got a crowbar and broken the cabinet open.
  Meanwhile, Howell snuck out of the building, met Dr. Hournan, and went to
  the Ministry of Justice.
  That, too, had been scary, for he had been obliged to fight his way through
  an unnily crowd that was demonstrating, outside the Ministry, against the
  holding of political prisoners.
  Howell and Hournan had an appointment with Dr. Kian, Dadgar's superior.
  Howell told Kian that EDS was a reputable company that had done nothing
  wrong, and it was eager to cooperate in any investigation in order to clear
  its name, but it wanted to get its employees out of jail.
  Kian said he had asked one of his assistants to ask Dadgar to review the
  case.
 That sounded to Howell like nothing at all.
 He told Kian he wanted to talk about a reduction in the bail.
  The conversation took place in Farsi, with Hournan translating. Houman said
  that Kian was not inflexibly opposed to a reduction in the bail. In
  Houman's opinion they might expect it to be halved.
  Kian gave Howell a note authorizing him to visit Paul and Bill in jail.
  The meeting had been just about fruitless, Howell thought afterward, but at
  least Kian had not arrested him.
  When he returned to Bucharest he found that Dadgar had not arrested anyone
  either.
  His lawyer's instinct still told him not to see Dadgar; but now that
  instinct struggled with another side of his personality: impatience. There
  were times when Howell wearied of research, preparation, foresight,
  planning---times when he wanted to move on a problem instead of thinking
  about it. He liked to take the initiative, to have the opposition reacting
  to him rather than the other way around. This inclination was reinforced by
  the presence in Tehran of Ross Perot, always up first in the morning,
  asking people what they had achieved yesterday and what tasks they intended
  to accomplish today, always on everyone's back. So impatience got the
  better of caution, and Howell decided to confront Dadgar.
 This was why he was scared.
 If he was unhappy, his wife was more so.
 Angela Howell had not seen much of her husband in the last
 174        Ken Folleu

 two months. He had spent most of November and December in Tehran, tying to
 persuade the Ministry to pay EDS's bill. Since getting back to the States he
 had been staying at EDS headquarters until all hours of the night, working
 on the Paul and Bill problem, when he was not dashing off to New York for
 meetings with Iranian lawyers there. On December 31 Howell had arrived home
 at breakfast time, after working all night at EDS, to find Angela and baby
 Michael, nine months old, huddled in front of a wood fire in a cold, dark
 house: the ice storm had caused a power failure. He had moved them into his
 sister's apartment and gone off to New York again.
  Angela had had about as much as she could take, and when he announced he
  was going to Tehran again she had been upset. "You know what's going on
  over there," she had said. "Why do you have to go back?"
  The trouble was, he did not have a simple answer to that question. It was
  not clear just what he was going to do in Tehran. He was going to work on
  the problem, but he did not know how. If he had been able to say, "Look,
  this is what has to be done, and it's my responsibility, and I'm the only
  one who can do it," she might have understood.
  "John, we're a family. I need your help to take care of all this," she had
  said, meaning the ice storm, the blackouts, and the baby.
  "I'm sorry. Just do the best you can. I'll try to stay in touch," Howell
  had said.
  They were not the kind of married couple to express their feelings by
  yelling at each other. On the frequent occasions when he upset her by
  working late, leaving her to sit alone and eat the dinner she bad fixed for
  him, a certain coolness was the closest they came to fighting. But this was
  worse than missing supper. he was abandoning her and the baby just when
  they needed him.
  They had a long talk that evening. At the end of it Angela was no happier,
  but she was at least resigned.
  He had called her several times since, from London and from Tehran. She was
  watching the nots on the TV news and worrying about him. She would have
  been even more worried if she had known what he was about to do now.
  He pushed domestic concerns to the back of his mind and went to find
  Abolhasan.
  Abolhasan was EDS's senior Iranian employee. When Lloyd Briggs had left for
  New York, Abolhasan had been in charge of
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   175

 EDS in Iran. (Rich Gallagher, the only American still there, was not a
 manager.) Then Keane Taylor had returned and assumed overall charge, and
 Abolhasan had been offended. Taylor was no diplomat. (Bill Gayden, the
 genial president of EDS World, had coined the sarcastic phrase "Keane's
 Marine Corps sensitivity training.") There had been friction. But Howell got
 on fine with Abolhasan, who could translate not just the Farsi language but
 also Persian customs and methods for his American employers.
  Dadgar knew Abolhasan's father, a distinguished lawyer, and had met
  Abolhasan lumself at the interrogation of Paul and Bill; so this morning
  Abolhasan had been appointed liaison man with Dadgar's investigators, and
  had been instructed to make sure they had everything they asked for.
  Howell said to Abolhasan: "I've decided I should meet with Dadgar. What do
  you think?"
  "Sure," Abolhasan said. He had an American wffe and spoke English with an
  American accent. "I don't think that'll be a problem."
  Okay. Let's go."
  Abolhasan led Howell to Paul Chiapparone's conference room. Dadgar and his
  assistants were sitting around the big table, going throtigh EDS's
  financial records. Abolhasan asked Dadgar to step into the adjoining room,
  Paul's office; then he introduced Howell.
 Dadgar gave a businesslike handshake.
  They sat around the table in the comer of the office. Dadgar did not look
  to Howell like a monster: just a rather weary middle-aged man who was
  losing his hair.
  Howell began by repeating to Dadgar what he had said to Dr. Kian: "EDS is
  a reputable company that has done nothing wrong, and we are willing to
  cooperate with your investigation. However, we cannot tolerate having two
  senior executives in jail."
  Dadgar's answer--traiislated by Abolhasan---surprised him. "If you have
  done nothing wrong, why have you not paid the bail?"
  "There's no connection between the two," Howell said. "Bail is a guarantee
  that someone will appear for trial, not a sum to be forfeited if he is
  guilty. Bail is repaid as soon as the accused
 appears in court, regardless of the verdict." While Abolhasan translated,
 Howell wondered whether "bail" was the correct English translation of
 whatever Farsi word Dadgar was using to
 176       Ken Follett

 describe the $12,750,000 he was demanding. And now Howell recalled something
 else that might be significant. On the day Paul and Bill were arrested, he
 had talked on the phone with Abolhasan, who reported that the $12,750,000
 was, according to Dadgar, the total amount EDS had been paid to date by the
 Ministry of Health; and Dadgar's argument had been that if the contract had
 been cormptly awarded, then EDS was not entitled to that money. (Abolhasan
 had not translated this remark to Paul and Bill at the time.)
  In fact, EDS had been paid a good deal more than thirteen million dollm, so
  the remark had not made much sense, and Howell had discounted it. Perhaps
  that had been a mistake: it might just be that Dadgar's arithmetic was
  wrong.
  Abolhasan was translating Dadgar's reply. "If the men are innocent, there
  is no reason why they should not appear for trial, so you would risk
  nothing by paying the bail. "
  "An American corporation can't do that," Howell said. He was not lying, but
  he was being deliberately deceitfid. "EDS is a publicly traded company, and
  under American securities laws it can only use its money for the benefit of
  its sharehoMm. Paul and Bill are free individuals: the company cannot
  guarantee that they will show up fbr trial. Consequently we cannot spend
  the company's money this way. 11
  This was the initial negotiating position Howell had previously formulated,
  but, as Abolhasan translated, he could see it was making little impression
  on Dadgar.
  "T'heir families have to put up the bail," he went on. "Right now they are
  raising money in the States, but thirteen million dollars is out of the
  question. Now, if the bail were lowered to a more reasonable figure, they
  might be able to pay it." Tlus was all lies, of course: Ross Perot was
  going to pay the bail, if he had to, and if Tom Walter could find a way to
  get the money into Iran.
  It was Dadgar's turn to be surprised. "Is it true that you could not force
  your men to appear for trial?"
  "Sure it's true," Howell said. "What are we going to do, lock them in
  chains? We're not a police force. You see, you're holding individuals in
  jail for alleged crimes of a corporation."
  Dadgar's reply was: "No, they are in jail for what they have done pemnally.
 "Which is?"
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   177

  "They obtained money from the Ministry of Health by means of false progress
  reports."
  "This obviously cannot apply to Bill Gaylord, because the Ministry has paid
  none of the bills presented since he arrived in Tehran-6o what is he
  accused of?"
  -He falsified reports, and I will not be cross-examined by you, Mr.
  Howell."
  Howell suddenly remembered that Dadgar could put lurn in jail.
  Dadgar went on: "I am conducting an investigation. When it is complete, I
  will either release your clients or prosecute them. "
  Howell said: "We're willing to cooperate with your investigation. In the
  nomfime, what can we do to get Paul and Bill released?"
 "Pay the bail."
  "And if they am released on bail, will they be pertnitted to leave Iran?"
 "No. 11

   2

 jay Coburn walked through the double sliding glass doors into the lobby of
 the Sheraton. On his right was the long registration desk. To his left were
 the hotel shops. In the center of the lobby was a couch.
  In accordance with his instructions, he bought a copy of Newsweek magazine
  at the newsstand. He sat on the couch, facing the doors so that he could
  see everyone who came in, and pretended to read the magazine.
 He felt like a character in a spy movie.
  The rescue plan was in a holding pattern while Majid researched the colonel
  in charge of the jail. Meanwhile, Coburn was doing a job for Perot.
  He had an assignation with a man nicknamed Deep Tbroat (after the secretive
  chamter who gave "deep hwicground" to reporter Bob Woodward in AU the
  President's Men. ) This Deep 17hroat was an American management consultarat
  who gave seminars to foreign corporate executives on how to do business
  with the Iranians. Before Paul and Bill were arrested, Lloyd Briggs
 178         Ken FolkU

 had engaged Deep Throat to help EDS get the Ministry to pay its bills. He
 had advised Briggs that EDS was in bad trouble, but for a payment of two and
 a half million dollars they could get the slate wiped clean. At the time EDS
 had scorned this advice: the govermnent owed money to EDS, not vice versa;
 it was the Iranians who needed to get the slate wiped clean.
  The arrest had given credibility to Deep Throat (as it had to Bunny
  Fleischaker) and Briggs had contacted him again. "Well, they're mad at you
  now," he had said. "It's going to be harder than ever, but I'll see what I
  can do."
  He had called back yesterday. He could solve the problem, he said. He
  demanded a face-to-face meeting with Ross Perot.
  Taylor, Howell, Young, and Gallagher all agreed there was no way Perot was
  going to expose himself to such a meeting-they were horrified that Deep
  Throat even knew Perot was in town. So Perot asked Simons if he could send
  Coburn instead, and Simons consented.
  Coburn had called Deep Throat and said he would be representing Perot.
  'No, no," said Deep Throat, "it has to be Perot himself."
 "Then all deals am off," Coburn had replied.
  Okay, okay." Deep Throat had backed down and given Coburn instructions.
  Coburn had to go to a certain phone booth in the Vanak area, not far from
  Keane Taylor's house, at eight P.m.
  At exactly eight o'clock the phone in the booth rang. Deep Throat told
  Coburn to go to the Sheraton, which was nearby, and sit in the lobby
  reading Newsweek. They would meet there and Identify one another by a code.
  Deep Throat would say: "Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?" It was a
  block away, but Coburn was to reply: "No, I don't, I'm new in town."
 That was why he felt like a spy in a movie.
  On Simm's advice he was wearing his long, bulky down coat, the one Taylor
  called his Michelin Man coat. The object was to find out whether Deep
  Throat would frisk him. If not, he would be able, at any future meetings,
  to wear a recording device under the coat and tape the conversation.
 He flicked through the pages of Newsweek.
 "Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?"
  Coburn looked up to see a man of about his own height and weight, in his
  early forties, with dark, slicked-down hair and glasses. "No, I don't, I'm
  new in town."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   179

  Deep Throat looked around nervously. "Let's go," he said. "Over there."
  Coburn got up and followed him to the back of the hotel. They stopped in a
  dark passage. "I'll have to frisk you," said Deep Throat.
 Coburn raised his arms. "What are you afraid of?"
  Deep Throat gave a scornful laugh. "You can't trust anyone. There are no
  rules anymore in this town." He finished his search.
 "Do we go back in the lobby now?"
  "No. I could be under surveillance-I can't risk being seen with you."
 "Okay. What are you offering?"
  Deep Throat gave the same scornful laugh. "You guys are in trouble, - he
  said. "You've already messed up once, by refusing to listen to people who
  know this country."
 "How did we mess up?"
 "You think this is Texas. It's not."
 "But how did we mess up?"
  "You could have got out of this for two and a half million dollars. Now
  it'll cost you six."
 "What's the deal?"
  "Just a minute. You let me down last time. This is going to be your last
  chance. This time, there's no backing out at the last minute."
  Coburn was beginning to dislike Deep Throat. The man was a wise guy. His
  whole manner said: You're such fools, and I know so much more than you,
  it's hard for me to descend to your level.
 "Whom do we pay the money to?" Coburn asked.
 "A numbered account in Switzerland."
 "And how do we know we'll get what we're paying for?"
  Deep Throat laughed. "Listen, the way things work in this country, you
  don't let go of your money until the goods are delivered. That's the way to
  get things done here."
 "Okay, so what's the arrangement?"
  "Lloyd Briggs meets me in Switzerland and we open an escrow account and
  sign a letter of agreement that is lodged with the bank. The money is
  released from the account when Chiapparone and Gaylord get out-which will
  be immediately, if you'll just let me handle this.
 "Who gets the money?"
 180        Ken Folkit

 Deep Throat just shook his head contemptuously.
  Coburn said: "Well, how do we know you really have a deal ivivired?"
  "L,ook, I'm just passing on information fiorn people close to the person
  who's causing you a problem."
 41you mean Dadgar?"
 "You'll never learn, will you?"
  As well as finding out what Deep Throat's proposal was, Coburn had to make
  a personal evaluation of the man. Well, he had made it now: Deep Throat was
  full of shit.
 "Okay," Coburn said. "We'll be in touch."

 Keane Taylor poured a little nun into a big glass, added ice, and filled the
 glass with Coke. This was his regular drink.
  Taylor was a big man, six foot two, 210 pounds, with a chest like a barrel.
  He had played football in the marines. He took care with his clothes,
  favoring suits with deep-plunging vests and shirts with button-down
  collars. He wore large gold-rimmed glasses. He was thirty-nine, and losing
  his hair.
  The young Taylor had been a hell-raiser--a dropout from college, busted
  down from sergeant in the marines for discipfinary offenses--aiid he still
  disliked close supervision. He pref6rred working in the World subsidiary of
  EDS because the head office was so far away.
  He was under close supervision now. After four days in Tehran, Ross Perot
  was savage.
  Taylor dreaded the evening debriefing sessions with his boss. After he and
  Howell had spent the day dashing wound the city, fighting the traffic, the
  demonstrations, and the intransigence of Iranian officialdom, they would
  then have to explain to Perot why they had achieved precisely nothing.
  To make matters worse, Perot was confined to the hotel most of the time. He
  had gone out only twice: once to the U.S. Embassy and once to U.S. Military
  Headquarters. Taylor had made sure no one offered him the keys to a car or
  any local currency, to discourage any impulse Perot nught have had to take
  a walk. But the result was that Perot was like a caged bear, and being
  debriefed by him was like getting into the cage with the bear.
  At least Taylor no longer had to pretend that he did not know about the
  rescue team. Coburn had taken him to meet Simons, and they had talked for
  three hour&--or rather, Taylor had
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   181

 talked: Simons just asked questions. They had sat in the living room of
 Taylor's house, with Simons dropping cigar ash on Taylor's carpet, and
 Taylor had told him that Iran was like an annual with its head cut off- the
 head-the ministers and officialswere still trying to give orders, but the
 body-the Iranian peoplewere off doing their own thing. Consequently,
 political pressure would not free Paul and Bill: they would have to be
 bailed out or rescued. For three hours Simons had never changed the tone of.
 his voice, never offered an opinion, never even moved from his chair.
  But the Simons ice was easier to deal with than the Perot fire. Each
  morning Perot would knock on the door while Taylor was shaving. Taylor got
  up a little earlier each day, in order to be ready when Perot came, but
  Perot got up earlier each day, too, until Taylor began to fantasize that
  Perot listened outside the door all night, waiting to catch him shaving.
  Perot would be fun of ideas that had come to him during the night: new
  arguments for Paul and Bill's innocence, new schemes for persuading the
  Iranians to release diem. Taylor and John Howell---the tall and the short,
  like Batman and Robui-would head off in the Batmobile to the Ministry of
  Justice or the Ministry of Health, where officials would demolish Perot's
  ideas in seconds. Perot was still using a legalistic, rational, American
  approach, and, in Taylor's opinion, had yet to realize that the Iranians
  were not playing according to those rules.
  This was not all Taylor had on his mind. His wife, Mary, and the children,
  Mike and Dawn, were staying with his parents in Pittsburgh. Taylor's mother
  and father were both over eighty, both in failing health. His mother had a
  heart condition. Mary was having to deal with that on her own. She had not
  complained, but he could tell, when he talked to her on the phone, that she
  was not happy.
  Taylor sighed. He could not cope with all the world's problems at one time.
  He topped up his drink; then, carrying the glass, left his room and went to
  Perot's suite for the evening bloodbath.

 Perot paced up and down the sitting room of his suite, waiting for the
 negotiating team to gather. He was doing no good here in Tehran and he knew
 it.
  He had suffered a chilly reception at the U.S. Embassy. He had been shown
  into the office of Charles Naas, the Ambassador's
 182         Ken Folku

 deputy. Naas had been gracious, but had given Perot the same old story about
 how EDS should work through the legal system for the release of Paul and
 Bill. Perot had insisted on seeing the Ambassador. He had come halfway
 around the world to see Sullivan, and he was not going to leave before
 speaking to him. Eventually Sullivan came in, shook Perot's hand, and told
 him he was most unwise to come to Iran. It was clear that Perot was a
 problem and Sullivan did not want any more problems. He talked for a while,
 but did not sit down, and he left as soon as he could. Perot was not used to
 such treatment. He was, after all, an important American, and in nornial
 circumstances a diplomat such as Sullivan would be at least courteous, if
 not deferential.
  Perot also met Lou Goelz, who seemed sincerely concerned about Paul and
  Bill but offered no concrete help.
  Outside Naas's office he ran into a group of military attachA-s who
  recognized him. Since the prisoners-of-war campaign Perot had always been
  able to count on a warm reception from the American military. He sat down
  with the attach6s and told them his problem. They said candidly that they
  could not help. "LoOk, forget what you read in the paper, forget what the
  State Department is saying publicly," one of them told him. "We don't have
  any power here, we don't have any control--you're wasting your time in the
  U.S. Embassy."
  Perot had also wasted his time at U.S. Military Headquarters. Cathy
  Gallagher's boss, Colonel Keith Barlow, Chief of the U.S. Support Activity
  Command in Iran, had sent a bulletproof car to the Hyatt. Perot had got in
  with Rich Gallagher. The driver had been Iranian: Perot wondered which side
  he was on.
  T'hey met with Air Force General Phillip Gast, cluef of the U.S. Military
  Assistance Advisory Group (MAAG) in h-an, and General "Dutch" Huyser. Perot
  knew Huyser slightly, and remembered him as a strong, dynamic man; but now
  he looked drained. Perot knew from the newspapers that Huyser was President
  Carter's emissary, here to persuade the Iranian military to back the doomed
  Bakhtiar government; and Perot guessed that Huyser had no stomach for the
  job.
  Huyser candidly said he would like to help Paul and Bill but at the moment
  he had no leverage with the Iranians: he had nothing to trade. Even if they
  got out of jail, Huyser said, they would be in danger here. Perot told them
  he had that taken care of. Bull Simons was here to look after Paul and Bill
  once they got out. Huyser burst out laughing, and a moment later Gast saw
  the
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   183

 joke. They knew who Simons was, and they knew he would be planning more than
 a baby-sitting job.
  Gast offered to supply fuel to Simons, but that was all. Warm words from
  the military, cold words from the Embassy; little or no real help from
  either. And nothing but excuses from Howell and Taylor.
  Sitting in a hotel room all day was driving Perot crazy. Today Cathy
  Gallagher had asked him to take care of her poodle, Buffy. She made it
  sound like an honor-a measure of her high esteem for Perot-md he had been
  so surprised that he had agreed. Sitting looking at the animal, he had
  realized that this was a funny occupation for the leader of a major
  international business, and he wondered how the hell he had let himself be
  talked into it. He got no sympathy from Keane Taylor, who thought it was
  funny as hell. After a few hours Cathy had come back from the hairdresser's
  or wherever she had been, and had taken the dog back; but Perot's mood
  remained black.
  There was a knock at Perot's door, and Taylor came in, carrying his usual
  drink. He was followed by John Howell, Rich Gallagher, and Bob Young. They
  all sat down.
  "Now," said Perot, "did you tell them that we'd guarantee to produce Paul
  and Bill for questioning anywhere in the U.S. or Europe, on thirty days'
  notice, at any time in the next two years?"
 "They're not interested in that idea," said Howell.
 "What do you mean, they're not interested?"
 I 'I'm just telling you what they said-"
  "But if this is an investigation, rather than a blackmail attempt, all they
  need is to be sure that Paul and Bill will be available for questioning. 11
  "'Ibey're sure already. I guess they see no reason to make changes. "
  It was maddening. There seemed no way to reason with the Iranians, no way
  to reach them. "Did you suggest they release Paul and Bill into the custody
  of the U.S. Embassy?"
 "They turned that down, too."
 I.Why?"
 "They didn't say."
 "Did you ask diem?"
  "Ross, they don't have to give moons. They're in charge here, and they know
  it.9f
 "But they're responsible for the safety of their prisoners."
 184        Ken Folleu

  "It's a responsibility that doesn't seem to weigh too heavily on them. -
  Taylor said: "Ross, they're not playing by our rules. Putting two men in
  jail is not a big deal to them. Paul and Bill's safety is not a big deal--"
 "So what rules are they playing by? Can you tell me that?"
  There was a knock at the door and Coburn walked in, wearing his Michelin
  Man coat and his black knit hat. Perot brightened: perhaps he would have
  good news. "Did you meet with Deep lbroat?"
 "Sure did," said Coburn, taking off his coat.
 "All right, let's have it."
  "He says he can get Paul and Bill released for six million dollars. The
  money would be paid into an escrow account in Switzerland and released when
  Paul and Bill leave Iran."
  "Hell, that ain't bad," said Perot. "We get out with fifty cents on the
  dollar. Under U.S. law it would even be legal-it's a ransom. What kind of
  guy is Deep Throat?"
 "I don't trust the bastard," said Coburn.
 .1)"Y?"
  Coburn shrugged. "I don't know, Ross . He's shifty, flaky ... A bullshitter
  ... I wouldn't give him sixty cents to go to the store and get me a pack of
  cigarettes. That's my gut feeling. "
  "But, listen, what do you expect?" Perot said. "This is bribery-pillars of
  the community don't get involved in this kind of thing."
  Howell said: "You said it. This is bribery." His deliberate, throaty voice
  was unusually passionate. "I don't like this one bit. "
  "I don't like it," Perot said. "But you've all been telling me that the
  Iranians aren't playing by our rules."
  "Yes, but listen," Howell said fervently. "The straw I've been clinging to
  all through this is that we've done nothing wrong-and someday, somehow,
  somewhere, somebody is going to recognize that, and then all this will
  evaporate ... I'd hate to give up that straw."
 :'It hasn't got us far."
  'Ross, I believe that with time and patience we will succeed. But if we get
  involved in bribery we no longer have a case!"
  Perot turned to Coburn. "How do we know Deep Throat has a deal wired with
  Dadgar?9'
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   185

  "We don't know," Coburn said. "His argument is, we don't pay until we get
  results, so what do we have to lose?"
  "Everything," Howell said. "Never mind what is legal in the United States,
  this could seal our fate in Iran. -
 Taylor said: "It stinks. The whole thing stinks."
  Perot was surprised by their reactions. He, too, hated the idea of bribery,
  but he was prepared to compromise his principles to get Paul and Bill out
  of jail. The good name of EDS was precious to him, and he was loath to let
  it be associated with corruption, just as John Howell was; but Perot knew
  something Howell did not know: that Colonel Simons and the rescue team
  faced risks more grave than this.
  Perot said: "Our good name hasn't done Paul and Bill any good so far.' I
  "It's not just out good name," Howell persisted. "Dadgar must be pretty
  sure by now that we aren't guilty of corruptionbut if he could catch us in
  a bribe situation he could still save face. -
 That was a point, Perot thought. "Could this be a trap?"
 -Yes!"
  It made sense. Unable to get any evidence against Paul and Bill, Dadgar
  pretends to Deep Throat that he can be bribed, then-when Perot falls for
  it-announces to the world that EDS is, after all, corrupt. Then they would
  all be put in jail with Paul and Bill. And, being guilty, they would stay
  there.
  "All right," said Perot reluctantly. "Call Deep Throat and tell him no,
  thanks."
 Coburn stood up. "Okay.
  It had been another fruitless day, Perot thought. The Iranians had him all
  ways. Political pressure they ignored. Bribery could make matters worse. If
  EDS paid the bail, Paul and Bill would still be kept in Iran.
 Simons's team still looked like the best bet.
 But he was not going to tell the negotiating team that.
 'All right," he said. "We'll just try again tomorrow."
 186         Ken Folku

   3

 Tall Keane Taylor and short John Howell, like Batman and Robin, tried again
 on January 17. They drove to the Ministry of Health budding on Eisenhower
 Avenue, taking Abolhasan as interpreter, and met Dadgar at ten A.M. With
 Dadgar were officials of the Social Security Organization, the department of
 the Ministry that was ran by EDS's computers.
  Howell had decided to abandon his initial negotiating position, that EDS
  could not pay the bail because of American securities law. It was equally
  useless to demand to know the charges against Paul and Bill and what
  evidence there was: Dadgar could stonewall that approach by saying he was
  still investigating. But Howell did not have a new strategy to replace the
  old. He was playing poker with no cards in his hand. Perhaps Dadgar would
  deal him some today.
  Dadgar began by explaining that the staff of the Social Secutity
  Organization wanted EDS to turn over to them what was known as the 125 Data
  Center.
  This small computer, Howell recalled, ran the payroll and pensions for the
  Social Security Organization staff. What these people wanted was to get
  their own wages, even while Iranians generally were not getting their
  social-security benefits.
  Keane Taylor said: "It's not that simple. Such a turnover would be a very
  complex operation needing many skilled staff Of course they am all back in
  the States."
 Dadgar replied: "Then you should bring them back in."
 "I'm not that stupid," Taylor said.
  Taylor's Marine Corps sensitivity training was operating, Howell thought.
 Dadgar said: "if he speaks like this, he will go to jail.
  "Just as my staff would if I brought them back to Iran," said Taylor.
  Howell broke in: "Would you be able to give a legal guarantee that any
  returning staff would not be arrested or harassed in any wayT I
  .'I could not give a formal guarantee," Dadgar replied. "However, I would
  give my personal word of honor."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   187

  Howell darted an anxious glance at Taylor. Taylor did not speak, but his
  expression said he would not give two cents for Dadgar's word of honor. "We
  could certainly investigate ways of arranging the turnover," Howell said.
  Dadgar had at last given him something to bargain with, even though it was
  not much. "There would have to be safeguards, of course. For example, you
  would have to certify that the machinery was handed over to you in good
  condition-but perhaps we could employ independent experts to do that . . .-
  Howell was shadowboxing. If the data center was handed over, there would be
  a price: the release of Paul and Bill.
  Dadgar demolished that idea with his next sentence. "Every day new
  complaints are being made about your company to my investigators,
  complaints that would justify increases in the bail. However, if you
  cooperate in the winover of the 125 Data Center, I can in return ignore the
  new complaints and refrain from increasing the bail."
 Taylor said: "Goddammit, this is nothing but blackmaill
  Howell realized that the 125 Data Center was a sideshow. Dadgar had raised
  the question, no doubt at the urging of these officials, but he did not
  care about it enough to offer serious concessions. So what did he care
  about?
  Howell thought of Lucio Randone, the former cellmate of Paul and Bill.
  Randone's offer of help had been followed up by EDS manager Paul Bucha, who
  had gone to Italy to talk to Randone's company, Condotti d'Acqua. Bucha
  reported that the company had been building apartment blocks in Tehran when
  their Iranian financiers ran out of money. The company naturally stopped
  building; but many Iramans; had already paid for apartments under
  construction. Given the present atmosphere, it was not surprising that the
  foreigners got blamed, and Randone had been jailed as a scapegoat. The
  company had found a new source of finance and resumed building, and Randone
  had got out of jail at the same time, in a package deal arranged by an
  Iranian lawyer, Ali Azmayesh. Bucha also reported that the Italians kept
  saying: "Remember, Inn will always be Iran, it never changes." He took this
  to be a hint that a bribe was part of the package deal. Howell also knew
  that a traditional channel for paying a bribe was a lawyer's fee: the
  lawyer would do, say, a thousand dollars' worth of work and pay a
  ten-thousand-dollar bribe, then charge his client eleven thousand dollars.
  This hint of corruption in&& Howell nervous, but despite that he had gone
  to see
 188       Ken Follett

 Azmayesh, who had advised him: -EDS does not have a legal problem, it has a
 business problem." If EDS could come to a business arrangement with the
 Ministry of Health, Dadgar would go away. Azmayesh had not mentioned
 bribery.
  All this had started, Howell thought, as a business problem: the customer
  unable to pay, the supplier refusing to go on working. Might a compromise
  be possible, under which EDS would switch on the computers and the Ministry
  would pay at least some money? He decided to ask Dadgar directly.
  "Would it help if EDS were to renegotiate its contract with the Ministry of
  Health?"
  "This might be very helpful," Dadgar answered. "It would not be a legal
  solution to our problem, but it might be a practical solution. Otherwise,
  to waste all the work that has been done in computerizing the Ministry
  would be a pity. "
  Interesting, thought Howell. They want a modem social-security system--or
  their money back. Putting Paul and Bill in jail on thirteen million dollars
  bail was their way of giving EDS those two option&-and no others. We're
  getting straight talk, at last.
  He decided to be blunt. "Of course, it would be out of the question to
  begin negotiations while Chiapparone and Gaylord are still in jail."
  Dadgar replied: "Still, if you commit to good-faith negotiations, the
  Ministry will call me and the charges might be changed, the bad might be
  reduced, and Chiapparone and Gaylord might even be released on their
  personal guarantees."
  Nothing could be plainer than that, Howell thought. EDS had better go see
  the Minister of Health.
  Since the Ministry stopped paying its bills there had been two changes of
  government. Dr. Sheikholeslamizadeh, who was now in jail, had been replaced
  by a general; and then, when Bakhtiar became Prime Munster, the general had
  in turn been replaced by a now Minister of Health. Who, Howell wondered,
  was the new guy; and what was he like?

 "Mr. Young, of the American company EDS, is calling you, Minister," said the
 secretary.
  Dr. Razmara took a deep breath. "Tell hirn that American businessmen may no
  longer pick up the phone and call ministers of the Ionian government and
  expect to talk to us as if we were
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   189

 their employees," he said. He raised his voice. "Those days are over!' 9
 Then he asked for the EDS file.
  Manuchehr Razmara had been in Paris over Christmas. Frencheducated-he was
  a cardiologist-and married to a Frenchwoman, he considered France his
  second home, and spoke fluent French. He was also a member of the Iranian
  National Medical Council and a friend of Shahpour Bakhtiar, and when
  Bakhtiar had become Prime Minister he had called his friend Razmara, in
  Paris and asked him to come home to be Minister of Health.
  The EDS file was handed to him by Dr. Emrani, the Deputy Minister in chap
  of Social Security. Emrani had survived the two changes of government: he
  had been here when the trouble had stated.
  Razmara read the file with mounting anger. The EDS project was insane. The
  basic contract price was forty-eight million dollars, with escalators
  taking it up to a possible ninety million. Razmara recalled that Iran had
  twelve thousand working doctors to serve a population of thirty-two
  million, and that there were sixty-four thousand villages without tap
  water; and he concluded that whoever had signed the deal with EDS were
  fools or traitors, or both. How could they possibly justify spending
  millions on computers when the people lacked the fundamental necessities of
  public health like clean water? There could only be one explanation: they
  had been bribed.
  Well, they would suffer. Emrain had prepared this dossier for the special
  court that prosecuted corrupt civil servants. Three people were in jail:
  former Minister Dr. Sheikholeslan-iizadeh, and two of his Deputy ministers,
  Reza Neghabat and Nih Arame. That was as it should be. The blame for the
  mess they were in should fall primarily on Iranians. However, the Americans
  were also culpable. American businessmen and their government had
  encouraged the Shah in his mad schemes, and had taken their profits: now
  they must suffer. Furthermore, according to the, file, EDS had been
  spectacularly incompetent: the computers were not yet working, after two
  and a half years, yet the automation pvject had so disrupted Emrani's
  department that the old-fashioned systems were not working either, with the
  result that Emrani could not monitor his department's expenditure. This was
  a principal cause of the Ministry's overspending its budget, the file said.
 Razmara noted that the U.S. Embassy was protesting about
 190        Ken Folleu

 the jailing of the two Americans, Chiapparone and Gaylord, because there was
 no evidence against them. That was typical of the Americans. Of course there
 was no proof- bribes were not paid by check. Ile Embassy was also concerned
 for the safety of the two prisoners. Razmara found this ironic. He was
 concerned for his safety. Each day when he went to the offee he wondered
 whether he would come home alive.
  He closed the file. He had no sympathy for EDS or its jailed executives.
  Even if he had wanted to have them released, he would not have been able
  to, he reflected. The anti-American mood of the people was rising to fever
  pitch. The government of which Razmara was a part, the Bakhtiar regime, had
  been installed by the Shah and was therefore widely suspected of being
  pro-American. With the country in such turmoil, any Minister who concerned
  himself with the welfare of a couple of greedy American capitalist lackeys
  would be sacked if not lynched---and quite rightly. Razmara turned his
  attention to more important matters.
  The next day his secretary said: "Mr. Young, of the American company EDS,
  is here asking to see you, Minister."
  The arrogance of the Americans was infuriating. Razmara said: "Repeat to
  him the message I gave you yesterday-then give him five minutes to get off
  the premises."

   14

 For Bill, the big problem was time.
  He was different from Paul. For Paul--restless, aggressive, strong-willed,
  ambitiou"e worst of being in jail was the helplessness. Bill was more
  placid by nature: He accepted that there was nothing to do but pray, so he
  prayed. (He did not wear his religion on his sleeve: he did his praying
  late at night, before going to sleep, or early in the morning before the
  others woke up.) What got to Bill was the excruciating slowness with which
  time passed. A day in the real world-a day of solving problems, making
  decisions, taking phone calls, and attending meetings-was no time at all:
  a day in jail was endless. Bill devised a formula for conversion of real
  time to jail time.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   191

   Real Time     Jail Time
   I second       I minute
   I minute         I hour
   I hour            I day
   1 week          I month
   1 month          I year

 Time took on this new dimension for Bill after two or three weeks in jail,
 when he realized there was going to be no quick solution to the problem.
 Unlike a convicted criniinal, he had not been sentenced to ninety days or
 five years, so he could gain no cowdort from scratching a calendar on the
 wall as a countdown to freedom. It made no difference how many days had
 passed: his remaining time in jail was indefinite, therefore endless.
  Fhs Persian cellmates did not seem to feel this way. It was a revealing
  cultural contrast: the Americans, trained to get fast results, were
  tortured by suspense; the Iranians were content to wait forfardah,
  tomorrow, next week, sometime, eventuallyjust as they had been in business.
  Nevertheless, as the Shah's grip weakened, Bill thought he saw sips of
  desperation in some of them, and he came to mistrust them. He was careful
  not to tell them who was in town from Dallas or what progress was being
  made in the negotiations for his release: he was afraid that, clutching at
  straws, they would have tried to trade information to the guards.
  He was becoming a well-adjusted jailbird. He learned to ignore dirt and
  bugs, and he got used to cold, starchy, unappetizing food. He learned to
  live within a small, clearly defined personal boundary, the prisoner's
  "turf." He stayed active.
  He found ways to fill the endless days. He read books, taught Paul chess,
  exercised in the hall, talked to the Iranians to get every word of the
  radio and TV news, and prayed. He made a minutely detailed survey of the
  jail, measuring the cells and the corridors and drawing plans and sketches.
  He kept a diary, recording every trivial event of jail life, plus
  everything his visitors told him and all the news. He used initials instead
  of names and sometimes put in invented incidents or altered versions of
  real incidents, so that if the diary were confiscated or read by the
  authorities it would confuse them.
  Like prisoners everywhere, he looked forward to visitors as eagerly as a
  child waiting for Christmas. The EDS people brought decent food, warm
  clothing, new books, and letters from home.
 192        Ken Folleu

 One day Keane Taylor brought a picture of Bill's six-year-old son,
 Christopher, standing in front of the Christmas tree. Seeing his little boy,
 even in a photograph, gave Bill strength: a powerful reminder of what he had
 to hope for, it renewed his resolve to hang on and not despair.
  Bill wrote letters to Emily and gave them to Keane, who would read them to
  her over the phone. Bill had known Keane for ten years, and they were quite
  close--they had lived together after the evacuation. Bill knew that Keane
  was not as insensitive as his reputation would indicate-half of that was an
  act-but still it was embarrassing to write "I love you" knowing that Keane
  would be reading it. Bill got over the embarrassment, because he wanted
  very badly to tell Emily and the children how much he loved them, just in
  case he never got another chance to say it in person. The letters were like
  those written by pilots on the eve of a dangerous mission.
  The most important gift brought by the visitors was news. The all-too-brief
  meetings in the low building across the courtyard were spent discussing the
  various efforts being made to get Paul and Bill out. It seemed to Bill that
  time was the key factor. Sooner or later, one approach or another had to
  work. Unfortunately, as time passed, Iran went downhill. The forces of the
  revolution were gaining momentum. Would EDS get Paul and Bill out before
  the whole country exploded?
  It was increasingly dangerous for the EDS people to come to the south of
  the city, where the jail was. Paul and Bill never knew when the next visit
  would come, or whether there would be a next visit. As four days went by,
  then five, Bin would wonder whether all the others had gone back to the
  United States and left him and Paul belund. Considering that the bad was
  impossibly high, and the streets of Tehran impossibly dangerous, might they
  all give up Paul and Bill as a lost cause? They niight be forced, against
  their wills, to leave in order to save their own fives. Bill recalled the
  American withdrawal from Vietnam, with the last Embassy officials being
  lifted off the roofs by helicopter, and he could imagine the scene repeated
  at the U.S. Embassy in Tehran.
  He was occasionally reassured by a visit from an Embassy official. They,
  too, were taking a risk in coming, but they never brought any hard news
  about government efforts to help Paul and Bill, and Bill came to the
  conclusion that the State Department was inept.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   193

  Visits from Dr. Houman, their Iranian attorney, were at first highly
  encouraging; but then Bill realized that in typically Iranian fashion
  Hournan was promising much and producing little. The fiasco of the meeting
  with Dadgar was desperately depressing. It was frightening to see how
  easily Dadgar outmaneuvered Houman, and how determined Dadgar was to keep
  Paul and Bill jailed. Bill had not slept that night.
  When he thought about the bail he found it staggering. No one had ever paid
  that much ransom, anywhere in the world. He recalled news stories about
  American businessmen kidnapped in South America and held for a million or
  two million dollars. (They were usually killed.) Other kidnappings, of
  millionaires, politicians, and celebrities, had involved demands for three
  or four million-never thirteen. No one would pay that much for Paul and
  Bill.
  Besides, even that much money would not buy them the right to leave the
  country. They would probably be kept under house arrest in Tehran-while the
  mobs took over. Bail sometimes seemed more like a trap than a way of
  escape. It was a catch-22.
  The whole experience was a lesson in values. Bill learned that he could do
  without his fine house, his cars, fancy food, and clean clothes. It was no
  big deal to be living in a dirty room with bugs crawling across the walls.
  Everything he had in life had been stripped away, and he discovered that
  the only thing he cared about was his family. When you got right down to
  it, that was all that really counted: Emily, Vicki, Jackie, Jenny, and
  Chris.
  Coburn's visit had cheered him a little. Seeing Jay in that big down coat
  and woolen hat, with a growth of red beard on his chin, Bill had guessed
  that he was not in Tehran to work through legal channels. Coburn had spent
  most of the visit with Paul, and if Paul had learned more, he had not
  passed it on to Bill. Bill was content: he would find out as soon as he
  needed to know.
  But the day after Coburn's visit there was bad news. On January 16 the Shah
  left Iran.
  The television set in the hall of the jail was switched on, exceptionally,
  in the afternoon; and Paul and Bill, with all the other prisoners, watched
  the little ceremony in the Imperial Pavilion at Mehrabad Airport. There was
  the Shah, with his wife, three of his four children, his mother-in-law, and
  a crowd of courtiers. There, to see them off, was Prime Minister Shahpour
 194        Ken Folleu

 Bakhtiar, and a crowd of generals. Bakhtiar kissed the Shah's hand, and the
 royal party went out to the airplane.
  The Ministry people in the jail were gloomy: most of them had been friends,
  of one kind or another, with the royal family or its immediate circle. Now
  their patrons were leaving. It meant, at the very least, that they had to
  resign themselves to a long stay in jail. Bill felt that the Shah had taken
  with him the last chance of a pro-American outcome in Iran. Now there would
  be more chaos and confusion, more danger to all Americans in Tehranand less
  chance of a swift release for Paul and Bill.
  Soon after the television showed the Shah's jet rising into the sky, Bill
  began to hear a background noise, like a distant crowd, from outside the
  jail. The noise quickly grew to a pandemonium of shouting and cheering and
  hooting of homs. The TV showed the source of the noise: a crowd of hundreds
  of thousands of Iranians was surging through the streets, yelling: "Shah
  raft!" The Shah has gone! Paul said it reminded him of the New Year's Day
  parade in Philadelphia. All cars were driving with their headlights on and
  most were hooting continuously. Many drivers pulled their windshield wipers
  forward, attached rags to them, and turned them on, so that they swayed
  from side to side, permanent mechanical flag-wavers. Truckloads of jubilant
  youths careened around the streets celebrating, and all over the city
  crowds were pulling down and smashing statues of the Shah. Bill wondered
  what the mobs would do next. This led hirn to wonder what the guards and
  the other prisoners would do next. In the hysterical release of all this
  pent-up Iranian emotion, would Americans become targets?
  He and Paul stayed in their cell for the rest of the day, trying to be
  inconspicuous. They lay on their bunks, talking desultorily. Paul smoked.
  Bill tried not to think about the terrifying scenes he had watched on TV,
  but the roar of that lawless multitude, the collective shout of
  revolutionary triumph, penetrated the prison walls and filled his ears,
  like the deafening crack and roll of nearby thunder a moment before the
  lightning strikes.

 Two days later, on the moniing of January 18, a guard came to Cell Number 5
 and said something in Farsi to Reza Neghabat, the former Deputy Minister.
 Neghabat translated to Paul and Bill: "You must get your things together.
 They are moving
 YOU. -
 "Where to?" Paul asked.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   195

 "To another jail.-
  Alarm bells rang in Bill's mind. What kind of jail were they going to? The
  kind where people were tortured and killed? Would EDS be told where they
  had gone, or would the two of them simply disappear? This place was not
  wonderful, but it was the devil they knew.
  The guard spoke again, and Neghabat said: "He tells you not to be
  concerned, this is for your own good."
  It was the work of minutes to put together their toothbrushes, their shared
  shaver, and their few spare clothes. Then they sat and waited-for three
  hours.
  It was unnerving. Bill had got used to this jail, and-despite his
  occasional paranoi&--basically he trusted his cellmates. He feared the
  change would be for the worse.
  Paul asked Neghabat to try to get news of the move to EDS, maybe by bribing
  the colonel in charge of the jail.
  1lie cell father, the old man who had been so concerned for their welfare,
  was upset that they were leaving. He watched sadly as Paul took down the
  pictures of Karen and Ann Marie. Irnpulsively Paul gave the photographs to
  the old man, who was visibly moved and thanked him profusely.
  At last they were taken out into the courtyard and herded onto a minibus,
  along with half a dozen other prisoners from different parts of the jail.
  Bill looked around at the others, tying to figure out what they had in
  common. One was a Frenchman. Were all the foreigners being taken to a jail
  of their own, for their safety? But another was the burly Iranian who had
  been boss of the downstairs cell where they had spent their first night--a
  common criminal, Bill assumed.
  As the bus pulled out of the courtyard, Bill spoke to the Frenchman. "Do
  you know where we're going?"
 "I am to be released," the Frenchman said.
  Bill's heart leaped. This was good news! Perhaps they were all to be
  released.
  He turned his attention to the scene in the streets. It was the first time
  for three weeks he had seen the outside world. The government buildings all
  around the Ministry of Justice were damaged: the mobs really had run wild.
  Burned cars and broken windows were everywhere. The streets were full of
  soldiers and tanks, but they were doing nodung--not maintairung order, not
  even controlling the traffic. It seemed to Bill only a matter of time
  before the weak Bakhtiar government would be overthrown.
 196       Ken Follett

  What had happened to the EDS people-Taylor, Howell, Young, Gallagher, and
  Coburn? They had not appeared at the jail since the Shah left. Had they
  been forced to flee, to save their own lives? Somehow Bill was sure they
  were still in town, still trying to get him and Paul out of jail. He began
  to hope that this transfer had been arranged by them. Perhaps, instead of
  taking the prisoners to a different jail, the bus would divert and take
  them to the U.S. air base. The more he thought about it, the more he
  believed that everything had been arranged for their release. No doubt the
  American Embassy had realized, since the departure of the Shah, that Paul
  and Bill were in serious danger, and had at last got on the case with some
  real diplomatic muscle. The bus ride was a ruse, a cover story to get them
  out of the Ministry of Justice jail without arousing the suspicion of
  hostile Iranian officials such as Dadgar.
  The bus was heading north. It passed through districts with which Bill was
  familiar, and he began to feel safer as the turbulent soudi of the city
  receded behind him.
 Also, the air base was to the north.
  The bus entered a wide square dominated by a huge structure like a
  fortress. Bill looked interestedly at the building. Its walls were about
  twenty-five feet high and dotted with guard towers and machine-gun
  emplacements. The square was full of Iranian women in chadors, the
  traditional black robes, all making a heck of a noise. Was this some kind
  of palace, or mosque? Or perhaps a military base?
 The bus approached the fortress and slowed down.
 Oh, no.
  A pair of huge steel doors was set centrally in the front. To Bill's
  horror, the bus drove up and stopped with its nose to the gateway.
 This awesome place was the new prison, the new nightmare.
 The gates opened and the bus entered.
  They were not going to the air base, EDS had not arranged a deal, the
  Embassy had not got moving, they were not going to be released.
  The bus stopped again. The steel doors closed behind it and a second pair
  of doors opened in front. The bus passed through and stopped in a massive
  compound dotted with buildings. A guard said something in Farsi, and all
  the prisoners stood up to get off the bus.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   197

  Bill felt like a disappointed child. Life is rotten, he thought. What did
  I do to deserve this?
 What did I do?

 "Don't drive so fast," said Simons.
 Joe Poch6 said: "Do I drive unsafe?"
 "No, I just don't want you violating the laws."
 "What laws?"
 "Just be careful."
 Coburn interrupted: "We're there."
 Pochd stopped the car.
  They all looked across the heads of the weird women in black and saw the
  vast fortress of the Gasr Prison.
  "Jesus Christ," said Simons. His deep, rough voice was tinged with awe.
  "Just look at that bastard."
  They all stared at the high walls, the enormous gates, the guard towers and
  the machine-gun nests.
 Simons said: "That place is worse than the Alamo."
  It dawned on Coburn that their little rescue team could not attack this
  place, not without the help of the entire U.S. Army. The rescue they had
  planned so carefully and rehearsed so many times was now completely
  irrelevant. There would be no modifications or improvements to the plan, no
  new scenarios; the whole idea was dead.
 They sat in the car for a while, each with his own thoughts.
 "Who are those women?" Coburn wondered aloud.
 -71bey have relatives in the jail," Poch6 explained.
  Coburn could hear a peculiar noise. "Listen, he said. "What is that?"
 "The women," said PocM. "Wailing."

 Colonel Simons had looked up at an impregnable fortress once before.
  He had been Captain Simons then, and his friends had called him Art, not
  Bull.
  It was October 1944. Art Simons, twenty-six years old, was commander of
  Company B, 6th Ranger Infantry Battalion. The Americans were winning the
  war in the Pacific, and were about to attack the Philippine Islands. Ahead
  of the invading U.S. forces, the 6th Rangers were already there, committing
  sabotage and mayhem behind enemy lines.
 Company B landed on Homonhon Island in the Leyte Gulf and
 198        Ken Folleu

 found there were no Japanese on the island. Simons raised the Stars and
 Stripes on a coconut palm in front of two hundred docile natives.
  That day a report came in that the Japanese garrison on nearby Suluan
  Island was massacring civilians. Simons requested permission to take
  Suluan. Permission was refused. A few days later he asked again. He was
  told that no ships could be spared to transport Company B across the water.
  Simons asked permission to use native transportation. This time he got the
  okay.
  Simons commandeered three native sailboats and eleven canoes and appointed
  himself Admiral of the Fleet. He sailed at two A.M. with eighty men. A
  storm blew up, seven of the canoes capsized, and Simons's fleet returned to
  shore with most of the navy swimming.
  They set off aq*n the next day. This time they sailed by daylight,
  and---since Japanese planes still controlled the air-.the men stripped off
  and concealed their uniforms and equipment in the bottoms of the boats, so
  that they would look like native fishermen. The ruse worked, and Company B
  made landfall on Suluan Island. Simons immediately reconnoitered the
  Japanese garrison.
 That was when he looked up at an impregnable fortress.
  The Japanese were garrisoned at the south end of the island, in a
  lighthouse at the top of a three-hundred-foot coral cliff.
  On the west side a trail led halfway up the cliff to a steep flight of
  steps cut into the coral. The entire stairway and most of the trail were in
  full view of the sixty-foot lighthouse tower and du-ee west-facing
  buildings on the lighthouse platform. It was a perfect defensive position:
  two men could have held off five hundred on that flight of coral steps.
 But there was always a way.
 Simons decided to attack from the east, by scaling the cliff.
  The assault began at one A.M. on November 2. Simons and fourteen men
  crouched at the foot of the cliff, directly below the garrison. Their faces
  and hands were blacked: there was a bright moon and the terrain was as open
  as an Iowa prairie. For silence, they communicated by hand signals and wore
  their socks over their boots.
 Simons gave the signal and they began to climb.
  IMe sharp edges of the coral sliced into the flesh of their fingers and the
  palms of their hands. In places, there were no footholds, and they had to
  go up climbing vines hand-over-hand.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   199

 They were completely vulnerable: if one curious sentry should look over the
 platform, down the east side of the cliff, he would see them instantly, and
 could pick them off one by one--easy shooting.
  They were halfway up when the silence was rent by a deafening clang.
  Someone's rifle stock had banged against a coral cone. They all stopped and
  lay still against the face of the cliff. Simons held his breath and waited
  for the rifle shot from above that would begin the massacre. It never came.
 After ten minutes they went on.
 The climb took a full hour.
  Simons was first over the top. He crouched on the platform, feeling naked
  in the bright moonlight. No Japanese were visible, but he could hear voices
  from one of the low buildings. He trained his rifle on the lighthouse.
  The rest of the men began to reach the platform. The attack was to start as
  soon as they got the machine gun set up.
  Just as the gun came over the edge of the cliff, a sleepy Japanese soldier
  wandered into view, heading for the latrine. Simons signaled to his point
  guard, who shot the Japanese; and the firefight began.
  Simons turned immediately to the machine gun. He held one leg and the
  ammunition box while the gunner held down the other leg and fired. The
  astonished Japanese ran out of the buildings straight into the deadly hail
  of bullets.
  Twenty minutes later it was all over. Some fifteen of the enemy had been
  killed. Simons's squad suffered two casualties, neither fatal. And the
  -impregnable- fortress had been taken.
 There was always a way.
            SEVEN

 The American Embassy's Volkswagen minibus threaded its way through the
 streets of Tehran, heading for Gasr Square. Ross Perot sat inside. It was
 January 19, the day after Paul and Bill were moved, and Perot was going to
 visit them in the new jail.
 It was a little crazy.
  Everyone had gone to great lengths to hide Perot in Tehran, for fear that
  Dadgar-seeing a far more valuable hostage than Paul or Bill-would arrest
  him and throw him in jail. Yet here he was, heading for the jail of his own
  ftee will, with his own passport in his pocket for identification.
  His hopes were pinned on the notorious inability of government everywhere
  to let its right hand know what its left was doing. The Ministry of Justice
  might want to arrest him, but it was the military who ran the jails, and
  the military had no interest in him.
  Nevertheless, he was taking precautions. He would go in with a group of
  people-Rich Gallagher and Jay Coburn were on the bus, as well as some
  Embassy people who were going to visit an American woman in the jail--and
  he was wearing casual clothes and carrying a cardboard box containing
  groceries, books, and warm clothing for Paul and Bill.
  Nobody at the prison would know his face. He would have to give his name as
  he went in, but why would a minor clerk or prison guard recognize it? His
  name might be on a list at the airport, at police stations, or at hotels;
  but the prison would surely be the last place Dadgar would expect him to
  turn up.
  Anyway, he was determined to take the risk. He wanted to boost Paul's and
  Bill's morale, and to show them that he was
               200
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   201

 willing to stick out his neck for them. It would be the only achievement of
 his trip: his efforts to get the negotiations moving had come to nothing.
  The bus entered Gasr Square and he got his first sight of the new prison.
  It was formidable. He could not imagine how Simons and his little rescue
  team could possibly break in there.
  In the square were scores of people, mostly women in chadors, making a lot
  of noise. The bus stopped near the huge steel doors. Perot wondered about
  the bus driver he was Iranian, and he knew who Perot was ...
  They all got out. Perot saw a television camera near the prison entrance.
 His heart missed a beat.
 It was an Amefican crew.
 What the hell were they doing there?
  He kept his head down as he pushed his way duough the crowd, carrying his
  cardboard box. A guard looked out of a small window set into the brick wall
  beside the gates. The television crew seemed to be taking no notice of him.
  A minute later a little door in one of the gates swung open, and the
  visitors stepped inside.
 The door clanged shut behind them.
 Perot had passed the point of no return.
  He walked on, through a second pair of steel doors, into the prison
  compound. It was a big place, with streets between the buildings, and
  chickens and turkeys running around loose. He followed the others through
  a doorway into a reception room.
  He showed his passport: The clerk pointed to a register. Perot took out his
  pen and signed -H. R. Perot" more or less legibly.
 The clerk handed back the passport and waved him on.
 He had been right. Nobody hem had heard of Ross Perot.
 He walked on into a waiting room--aiid stopped dead.
  Standing there, talking to an Iranian in general's uniform, was someone who
  knew perfectly well who Ross Perot was.
  It was Ramsey Clark, a Texan who had been U.S. Attorney General under
  President Lyndon B. Johnson. Perot had met him several times and knew
  Clark's sister Mimi very well.
  For a moment Perot froze. That explains the television cameras, he thought.
  He wondered whether he could keep out of Clark's sight. Any moment now, he
  thought, Ramsey will see me and say to the general: "Lord, them's Ross
  Perot of EDS,- and if I look as if I'm trying to hide, it will be even
  worse.
 202       Ken Follett

 He made a snap decision.
  He walked over to Clark, stuck out his hand, and said: "Hello, Ramsey, what
  are you doing in jail?"
 Clark looked down--he was six foot three---and laughed.
 They shook hands.
  "How's Mimi?" Perot asked before Clark had a chance to perform
  introductions.
 The general was saying something in Farsi to an underling.
 Clark said: "Mimi's fine."
 "Well, good to see you," Perot said, and walked on.
  His mouth was dry as he went out of the waiting room and into the prison
  compound with Gallagher, Coburn, and the Embassy people. That had been a
  close shave. An hmm in colonel's uniform joined them: he had been assigned
  to take care of them, Gallagher said. Perot wondered what Clark was saying
  to the general now ...

 Paul was sick. The cold he had caught in the first jail had recurred. He was
 coughing persistently and had pains in his chest. He could not get warm, in
 this jail or in the old one: for three whole weeks he had been cold. He had
 asked his EDS visitors to get him warm underwear, but for some reason they
 had not brought any.
  He was also miserable. He really had expected that Coburn and the rescue
  team would ambush the bus that brought him and Bill here from the Ministry
  of Justice, and when the bus had entered the impregnable Gasr Prison he had
  been bitterly disappointed.
  General Mohari, who ran the prison, had explained to Paul and Bill that he
  was in charge of all the jails in Tehran, and he had arranged for their
  transfer to this one for their own safety. It was small consolation: being
  less vulnerable to the mobs, this place was also more difficult, if not
  impossible, for the rescue team to attack.
  The Gasr Prison was part of a large military complex. On its west side was
  the old Gasr Ghazar Palace, which had been turned into a police academy by
  the Shah's father. The prison compound had once been the palace gardens. To
  the north was a military hospital; to the east an army camp where
  helicopters took off and landed all day.
  The compound itself was bounded by an inner wall twentyfive or thirty feet
  high, and an outer wall twelve feet high. Inside
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   203

 were fifteen or twenty separate buildings, including a bakery, a mosque, and
 six cell blocks, one reserved for women.
  Paul and Bill were in Building Number 8. It was a two-story block in a
  courtyard surrounded by a fence of tall tron bars covered with chicken
  wire. The environment was not bad, for a jail. There was a fountain in the
  middle of the courtyard, rose bushes around the sides, and ten or fifteen
  pme aves. The prisoners were allowed outside during the day, and could play
  volleyball or Ping-Pong in the courtyard. However, they could not pass
  through the courtyard gate, which wag manned by a guard.
  The ground floor of the building was a small hospital with twenty or so
  patients, mostly mental cases. They screamed a lot. Paul and Bill and a
  handful of other prisoners were on the first floor. They had a large cell,
  about twenty feet by thirty, which they shared with only one other
  prisoner, an Iranian lawyer in his fiffies who spoke English and French as
  well as Farsi. He had showed them pictures of his villa in France. There
  was a TV set in the cell.
  Meals were prepared by some of the prisoners-who were paid for this by the
  others-and eaten in a separate dining room. The food here was better than
  at the first jail. Extra privileges could be bought, and one of the other
  inmates, apparently a hugely wealthy man, had a private room and meals
  brought in from outside. The routine was relaxed: there were no set times
  for getting up and going to bed.
  For all that, Paul was thoroughly depressed. A measure of extra comfort
  meant little. What he wanted was freedom.
  He was not much cheered when they were told, on the morning of January 19,
  that they had visitors.
  There was a visiting room on the ground floor of Building Number 8, but
  today, without explanation, they were taken out of the building and along
  the street.
  Paul realized they were headed for a building known as the Officers' Club,
  set in a small tropical garden with ducks and peacocks. As they approached
  the place he glanced around the compound and saw his visitors coming in the
  opposite direction.
 He could not believe his eyes.
 "My God!" he said delightedly. "It's Ross!"
  Forgetting where he was, he turned to ran over to Perot: the guard jerked
  him back.
 "Can you believe this?" he said to Bill. "Perot's herel"
 204        Ken Folktt

  The guard hustled hun through the garden. Paul kept looking back at Perot,
  wondering whether his eyes were deceiving him. He was led into a big
  circular room with banqueting tables around the outside and walls covered
  with small triangles of mirrored glass: it was like a small ballroom. A
  moment later Perot came in with Gallagher, Coburn, and several other
  people.
  Perot was grinning broadly. Paul shook his hand, then embraced him. It was
  an emotional moment. Paul felt the way he did when he listened to "The Star
  Spangled Banner": a kind of shiver went up and down his spine. He was
  loved, he was cared for, he had friends, he belonged. Perot had come
  halfway across the world into the middle of a revolution just to visit him.
  Perot and Bill embraced and shook hands. Bin said: "Ross, what in the world
  are you doing here? Have you come to take us home?"
  'Not quite," Perot said. "Not yet."
  The guards gathered at the far end of the room to drink tea. The Embassy
  staff who had come in with Perot sat around another table, talking to a
  woman prisoner.
  Perot put his box on a table. "There's some long underwear in here for
  you," he said to Paul. "We couldn't buy any, so this is mine, and I want it
  back, you hear?"
 "Sure," Paul grinned.
  "We brought you some books as well, and groceries-peanut butter and tuna
  fish and juice and I don't know what. " He took a stack of envelopes from
  his pocket. "And your mail."
  Paul glanced at his. There was a letter from Ruthie. Another envelope was
  addressed to "Chapanoodle. " Paul smiled: that would be from his friend
  David Behne, whose son Tommy, unable to pronounce "Chiapparone," had dubbed
  Paul "Chapanoodle." He pocketed the letters to read later, and said: "How's
  Ruthie?"
  "She's just fine, I talked to her on the phone," Perot said. "Now, we have
  assigned one man to each of your wives, to make sure everything necessary
  is done to take care of them. Ruthie's in Dallas now, Paul, staying with
  Jun and Cathy Nyfeler. She's buying a house, and Tom Walter is handling all
  the legal details for her."
  He turned to Bill. "Emily has gone to visit her sister Vickie in North
  Carolina. She needed a break. She's been working with Tim Reardon in
  Washington, putting pressure on the State Department. She wrote to Rosalynn
  Carter-you know, as one
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   205

 wife to another-she's trying everything. Matter of fact, we're all trying
 everything . . . "

 As Perot ran down the long list of people who had been asked to help-from
 Texas congressmen all the way up to Henry Kissinger-Bill realized that the
 main purpose of Perot's visit was to boost his and Paul's morale. It was
 something of an anticlimax. For a moment back there, when he had seen Perot
 walking across the compound with the other guys, grinning all over his face,
 Bill had thought: here comes the rescue party-at last they've got this damn
 thing solved, and Perot is coming to tell us personally. He was
 disappointed. But he cheered up as Perot talked. With his letters from home
 and his box of goodies, Perot was like Santa Claus; and his presence here,
 and the big grin on his face, symbolized a tremendous defiance of Dadgar,
 the mobs, and everything that threatened them.
  Bill was worried, now, about Emily's morale. He knew instinctively what was
  going on in his wife's mind. The fact that she had gone to North Carolina
  told him she had given up hope. It had become too much for her to keep up
  a faqade of normality with the children at her parents' house. He knew,
  somehow, that she had started smoking again. That would puzzle little
  Chris. Emily had given up smoking when she went into the hospital to have
  her gall bladder removed, and she had told Chris then that she had had her
  smoker taken out. Now he would wonder how it had got back in.
  "If all this fails," Perot was saying, "we have another team in town who
  will get you out of here by other methods. You'll recognize all the members
  of the team except one, the leader, an older man."
  Paul said: "I have a problem with that, Ross. Why should a bunch of guys
  get cut up for the sake of two?"
  Bill wondered just what was being planned. Would a helicopter fly over the
  compound and pick them up? Would the U.S. Army storm the walls? It was hard
  to imagine-but with Perot, anything could happen.
  Coburn said to Paul: "I want you to observe and memorize all the details
  you can about the compound and the prison routine, just like before."
  Bill was feeling embarrassed about his mustache. He had grown it to make
  him look more Iranian. EDS executives were not allowed to have mustaches or
  beards, but he had not ex-
   206       Ken Follett

 pected to see Perot. It was silly, he knew, but he felt uncomfortable about
 it. "I apologize for this," he said, touching his upper lip. "I'm trying to
 be inconspicuous. I'll shave it off as soon as I get out of here. "
  "Keep it," Perot said with a smile. "Let Emily and the children see it.
  Anyway, we're going to change the dress code. We've had the results of the
  employee attitude survey, and we'll probably permit mustaches, and colored
  shirts, too."
 Bill looked at Coburn. "And beards?"
 "No beards. Coburn has a very special excuse."
 The guards came to break up the party: visiting time was over.
  Perot said: "We don't know whether we'll get you out quickly or slowly.
  Tell yourselves it will be slowly. If you get up each morning thinking
  'Today could be the day,' you may have a lot of disappointments and become
  demoralized. Prepare yourselves for a long stay, and you may be pleasantly
  surprised. But always remember this: we will get you out."
  They all shook hands. Paul said: "I really don't know how to thank you for
  coming, Ross."
 Perot smiled. "Just don't leave without my underwear.
  They all walked out of the building. The EDS men headed across the compound
  toward the prison gate, leaving Paul and Bill and their guards watching. As
  his friends disappeared, Bill was seized by a longing just to go with diem.
 Not today, he told himself; not today.

 Perot wondered whether he would be allowed to leave.
  Rmsey Clark had had a full hour to let the cat out of the bag. What had he
  said to the general? Would there be a reception committee waiting in the
  administration block at the prison entrance?
  His heart beat faster as he entered the waiting room. There was no sign of
  the general or of Clark. He walked through and into the reception area.
  Nobody looked at him.
  With Coburn and Gallagher close behind, he walked through the first set of
  doors.
 Nobody stopped him.
 He was going to get away with it.
 He crossed the littlecourtyard and waited by the big gates.
 The small door set into one of the gates was opened.
 Perot walked out of the prison.
 The TV cameras were still there.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   207

  All I need, he thought, having gotten this far, is to have the U.S.
  networks show my picture ...
  He pushed his way through the crowd to the Embassy minibus and climbed
  aboard.
  Coburn and Gallagher got on with him, but the Embassy people had lagged
  behind.
  Perot sat on the bus, looking out the window. The crowd in the square
  seemed malevolent. They were shouting in Farsi. Perot had no idea what they
  were saying.
 He wished the Embassy people would hurry up.
 "Where are those guys?" he said tetchily.
 I 'T'hey're coming," Coburn said.
  "I thought we'd all just come on out, get in the bus, and leave. "
  A minute later the prison door opened again and the Embassy people came
  out. They got on the bus. The driver started the engine and pulled away
  across Gasr Square.
 Perot relaxed.

 He need not have worried quite so much. Ramsey Clark, who was there at the
 invitation of h-anian human-rights groups, did not have such a good memory.
 He had known that Perot's face was vaguely familiar, but thought he was
 Colonel Frank Borman, the president of Eastern Airlines.

   2

 Emily Gaylord sat down with her needlepoint. She was making a nude for Bill.
  She was back at her parents' house in Washington, and it was another normal
  day of quiet desperation. She had driven Vicki to high school then returned
  and taken Jackie, Jenny, and Chris to elementary school. She had dropped by
  her sister Dorothy's place and talked for a while with her and her husband,
  Tim Reardon. Tim was still working through Senator Kennedy and Congressman
  Tip O'Neill to put pressure on the State Department.
  Emily was becoming obsessed with Dadgar, the mystery man who had the power
  to put her husband in jail and keep him there. She wanted to confront
  Dadgar herself, and ask him personally
 208        Ken Folien

 why he was doing this to her. She had even asked Tim to try to get her a
 diplomatic passport, so she could go to Iran and just knock on Dadgar's
 door. Tim had said it was a pretty crazy idea, and she realized he was
 right; but she was desperate to do so . mething, anything, to get Bill back.
  Now she was waiting for the daily call from Ekdlas. It was usually Ross, T.
  J. Marquez, or Jim Nyfeler who called. After that she would pick up the
  children then help them with their homework for a while. Then there was
  nothing ahead but the lonely night.
  She 1W only recently told Bill's parents that he was in jail. Bill had
  asked her, in a letter read over the phone by Keane Taylor, not to tell
  them until it was absolutely necessary, because Bill's father had a history
  of strokes and the shock might be dangerous. But after three weeks the
  pretense had become impossible, so she had broken the news; and Bill's
  father had been angry at having been kept in the dark so long. Sometimes it
  was hard to know the right thing to do.
 The phone rang, and she snatched it up. "Hello?"
 "Emily? This is Jim Nyfeler."
 "Hi, Jim, what's the news?"
 "Just that they've been moved to another jail.
 Why was there never any good news?
  "It's nothing to worry about," Jim said. "In fact, it's good. The old jail
  was in the south of the city, where the fighting is. This one is further
  north, and more secure---they'll be safer there. "
  Emily lost her cool. "But, Jim," she yelled, "you've been telling me for
  three weeks that they're perfectly safe -in jail, now you say they've been
  moved to a new jail and now they'll be safe! "
 "Emily-
 "Come on, please don't lie to me I"
 "Emily-"
 "Just tell it like it is and be upfront, okay?"
  "Emily, I don't think they have been in danger up till now, but the
  Iranians are taking a sensible precaution , okay?"
  Emily felt ashamed of herself for getting mad at him. "I'm sorry, Jim."
 "That's all right."
  They talked a little longer, then Emily hung up and went back to her
  needlepoint. I'm losing my grip, she thought. I'm going
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   209

 around in a trance, taking the kids to school, talking to Dallas, going to
 bed at night and getting up in the morning ...
  Visiting her sister Vickie for a few days had been a good idea, but she
  didn't really need a change of scene--what she needed was Bill.
  It was hard to keep on hoping. She began to think about how fife might be
  without Bill. She had an aunt who worked at Woody's Department Store in
  Washington: maybe she could get ;t job there. Or she could talk to her
  father about getting secretarial work. She wondered whether she would ever
  fall in love with anyone else, if Bill should die in Tehran. She thought
  not.
  She remembered when they were first married. Bill had been at college, and
  they were short of money; but they had gone Oead and done it because they
  could not bear to be apart any longer. Later, as Bill's career began to
  take off, they prospered, and gradually bought better cars, bigger houses,
  more expensive clothes ... more things. How worthless those things were,
  she thought now; how little it mattered whether she was rich or poor. Bill
  was what she wanted, and he was all she needed. He would always be enough
  for her, enough to make her happy.
 If he ever came back.

 Karen Chiapparone said: "Mommy, why doesn't Daddy call? He always calls when
 he's away."
 "He called today," Ruthie lied. "He's fine."
  "Why did he call when I was at school? I'd like to talk to him. t I
  "Honey, it's so difficult to get through from Tehran, the lines are so
  busy, he just has to call when he can.
 .lob.-
  Karen wandered off to watch TV, and Ruthie sat down. It was getting dark
  outside. She was finding it increasingly difficult to lie to everyone about
  Paul.
  That was why she had left Chicago and come to Dallas. Living with her
  parents and keeping the secret from them had become impossible. Mom would
  say: "Why do Ross and the fellows from EDS keep calling you?"
  "They just want to make sure we're okay, you know, - Ruthie would say with
  a forced smile.
 "That is so nice of Ross to call."
  Here in Dallas she could at least talk openly to other EDS people.
  Moreover, now that the Iran business was certain to be
 210        Ken Follen

 closed down, Paul would be based at EDS headquarters, at least for a while,
 so Dallas would be their home; and Karen and Ann Marie had to go to school -
 
  They were all living with Jim and Cathy Nyfeler. Cathy was especially
  sympathetic, for her husband had been on the original list of four men
  whose passports Dadgar had asked for: if Jim had happened to be in han at
  the time, he would now be in jail with Paul'and Bill. Stay with us, Cathy
  had said; it will only be for maybe a week, then Paul will be back. That
  had been at the beginning of January. Since then Ruthie had proposed
  getting an apartment of her own, but Cathy would not hear of it.
  Right now Cathy was at the hairdresser's, the children were watching TV in
  another room, and Jim was not yet home from work, so Ruthie was alone with
  her thoughts.
  With Cathy's help she was keeping busy and putting on a brave face. She had
  enrolled Karen in school and found a kindergarten for Ann Marie. She went
  out to lunch with Cathy and some of the other EDS wives--Mary Boulware, Liz
  Coburn, Mary Sculley, Marva Davis, and Toni Dvoranchik. She wrote bright,
  optimistic letters to Paul, and listened to his bright, optimistic replies
  read over the phone from Tehran. She shopped and went to dinner parties.
  She had killed a lot of time house-hunting. She did not know Dallas well,
  but she remembered Paul saying that Central Expressway was a nightmare, so
  she looked for houses wen away from it. She had found one she liked and
  decided to buy it, so there would be a real home for Paul to come back to,
  but there were legal problems because he was not here to sip the papers:
  Tom Walter was trying to sort that out.
 Ruthie was making it look good, but inside she was dying.
  She rarely slept more than an hour at night. She kept waking up wondering
  whether she would ever see Paul again. She tried to think about what she
  would do if he did not come back. She supposed she would return to Chicago
  and stay with Mom and Dad for a while, but she would not want to live with
  them permanently. No doubt she could get some kind of a job ... But it was
  not the practical business of living without a man and taking care of
  herself that bothered her. it was the idea of being without Paul, forever.
  She could not imagine what life would be like if he were not there. What
  would she do, what would she care about, what would she want, what could
  possibly make her
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   211

 happy? She was completely dependent on him, she realized. She could not live
 without him.
  She heard a car outside. That would be Jim, home from work: perhaps he
  would have some news.
 A moment later he came in. "Hi, Ruthie. Cathy not home?"
 "She's at the hairdresser's. What happened today?"
 "Well . . ."
  She knew from his expression that he had nothing good to tell her and he
  was trying to find an encouraging way of saying so.
  "Well, they had a meeting scheduled to talk about the bail, but the
  Iranians didn't turn up. Tomorrow--
  "But why?" Ruthie fought to keep calm. "Why don't they turn up when they
  arrange these meetings?"
  "You know, sometimes they're called out on strike, and sometimes people
  just can't move around the city because of ... because of the
  demonstrations, and so on - . . -
  She seemed to have been hearing reports like this for weeks. There were
  always delays, postponements, frustrations. "But, Jim," she began; then the
  tears started and she could not stop them. "Jim . . . - Her throat
  tightened up until she could not speak. She thought: All I want is my
  husband! Jim stood there looking helpless and embarrassed. All the misery
  she had kept locked up for so long suddenly flooded out, and she could not
  control herself any longer. She burst into tears and ran from the room. She
  rushed to her bedroom, threw herself on the bed, and lay there sobbing her
  heart out.

 Liz Coburn sipped her drink. Across the table were Pat Sculley's wife, Mary,
 and another EDS wife who had been evacuated from Tehran, Toni Dvoranchik.
 The three women were at Recipes, a restaurant on Greenville Avenue, Dallas.
 They were drinking strawberry Daiquiris.
  Tony Dvoranchik's husband was here in Dallas. Liz knew that Pat Sculley had
  disappeared, like Jay, in the direction of Europe. Now Mary Sculley was
  talking as if Pat had gone not just to Europe but to Iran.
 "Is Pat in Tehran?" Liz asked.
 "They're all in Tehran, I guess," Mary said.
  Liz was horrified. "Jay in Tehran . - ." She wanted to cry. Jay had told
  her he was in Paris. Why couldn't he tell the truth? Pat Sculley had told
  Mary the truth. But Jay was different. Some men would play poker for a few
  hours, but Jay had to play all
 212        Ken FoUelt

 night and all the next day. Other men would play nine or eighteen holes of
 golf: Jay would play thirty-six. Lots of men had demanding jobs, but Jay had
 to work for EDS. Even in the army, when the two of them had been not much
 more than kids, Jay had to volunteer for one of the most dangerous
 assignments, helicopter pilot. Now he had gone to Tehran in the middle of a
 revolution. Same old thing, she thought: he's gone away, he's lying to me,
 and he's in danger. She suddenly felt cold all over, as if she were in
 shock. He's not coming back, she thought numbly. He's not going to get out
 of them alive.

   3

 Perot's good spirits soon passed. He had got into the prison, defying
 Dadgar, and had chetred up Paul and Bill; but Dadgar so held all the cards.
 After six days in Tehran he understood why the political pressure he had
 been putting on in Washington had been ineffectual: the old regime in Iran
 was struggling for survival and had no control. Even if he posted the
 bail-and a lot of problem had to be solved before that could happen-Paul and
 Bill would stiff be held in I=. And Simons's rescue plan was now in tatters,
 rumed by the move to the new prison. There seemed to be no hope.
 That night Perot went to see Simons.
  He waited until dark, for safety. He wore his jogging suit with tannis
  shoes and a dark businessman's overcoat. Keane Taylor drove him.
  The rescue team had moved out of Taylor's house. Taylor had now met Dadgar
  face-to-face, and Dadgar had started examining EDS's records: it was
  possible, Simons had reasoned, that Dadgar would raid Taylor's house,
  looking for incnnunatmg documents. So Simons, Coburn, and PocM were living
  in the home of Bill and Tom Dvoranchik, who were now back in Dallas. Two
  more of the team had made it to Tehran from Paris: Pat Sculley and Jim
  Schwebach, the short but deadly duo who had been flank guards in the
  original, now useless, rescue scenario.
  In a typical Tehran arrangement, Dvoranchik's home was the ground floor of
  a two-story house, with the landlord living upstairs. Taylor and the rescue
  team left Perot alone with Simons.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   213

 Perot looked around the living room distastefully. No doubt the place had
 been spotless when Toni Dvoranchik lived here, but now, inhabited by five
 men, none of whom was very interested in housekeeping, it was dirty and
 run-down, and it stank of Simons's cigars.
  Simons's huge ftume was slumped in an armchair. His white whiskers were
  bushy and his hair long. He was chain-smoking, as usual; drawing heavily on
  his little cigar and inhaling with relish.
 "You've seen the new prison," Perot said.
 "Yeah," Simons rasped.
 "What do you think?"
  "The idea of taking that place with the kind of frontal attack we had in
  mind just isn't worth talking about."
 "That's what I figured."
 "Which leaves a number of possibilities.
 It does? thought Perot.
  Simons went on: "One: I understand there are cars parked in the prison
  compound. We may find a way to get Paul and Bill driven out of there in the
  trunk of a car. As part of that plan, or as an alternative, we may be able
  to bribe or blackmail this general who is in charge of the place."
 "General Mohari. -
  "Right. One of your Iranian employees is getting -us a rundown on the man."
 'Good. -
  "Two: the negotiating team. If they can get Paul and Bill released under
  house an-est, or something of that kind, we can snatch the two of them. Get
  Taylor and those guys to concentrate on this house-arrest idea. Agree to
  any conditions the hwdans cam to name, but get 'em out of that jail.
  Working on the assumption that they would be confined to their homes and
  kept under surveillance, we're developing a new rescue scenario."
  Perot was beginning to feel better. There was an aura of confidence about
  this massive man. A few minutes ago Perot had felt almost hopeless: now
  Simons was calmly listing fresh approaches to the problem, as if the move
  to the new jail, the bail problems, and the collapse of the legitimate
  government were mmor snags rather than total catastrophe.
  "Three," Simons went on, "there's a revolution going on here. Revolutions
  are predictable. The same things happen every damn time. You can't say when
  they'll occur, only that they
 214       Ken Follett

 will, sooner or later. And one of the things that always happens is, the mob
 storms the prisons and lets everyone out.
 Perot was intrigued. "Is that so?"
  Simons nodded. "Those are the three possibilities. Of course, at this point
  in the game we can't pick one: we have to prepare fbr each of them.
  Whichever of the three happens first, we'll need a plan for getting
  everyone out of this goddam country just as soon as Paul and Bill are in
  our hands."
  "Yes." Perot was worried about his own departure: that of Paul and Bill
  would be a good deal more hazardous. "I've had promises of help from the
  American military-"
  "Sure," Simons said. "I'm not saying they're insincere, but I will say they
  have higher priorities, and I'm not prepared to place a great deal of
  reliance on their promises."
  All right." That was a matter for Simons's judgment, and Perot was content
  to leave it to him. In fact, he was content to leave everything to Simons.
  Simons was probably the bestqualified man in the world to do this job, and
  Perot had complete faith in him. "What can I do?"
  "Get back to the States. For one thing, you're in danger here. For another,
  I need you over there. Chances are, when we eventually come out, it won't
  be on a scheduled flight. We may not fly at all. You'll have to pick us up
  somewhere-4t could be Iraq, Kuwait, Turkey, or Afghanistan-and that will
  take organizing. Go home and stay ready. "
  "Okay." Perot stood up. Simons had done to him what Perot sometimes did to
  his staff. inspired him with the strength to go one more mile when the game
  seemed lost. "I'll leave tomorrow."

 He got a reservation on British Airways flight 200, Tehran to London via
 Kuwait, leaving at 10:20 A.M. on January 20, the next day.
  He called Margot and asked her to meet him in London. He wanted a few days
  alone with her they might not get another chance, once the rescue started
  to unfold.
  They had had good times in London in the past. They would
 stay at the Savoy Hotel. (Margot liked Claridge's, but Perot
 did not --- they turned the heat too lugh, and if he opened the
 windows he was kept awake by the roar of the all-night traffic
 along Brook Suva.) He and Margot would see plays and concerts,
 and go to Margot's favorite London nightclub, Annabel's. For a
 few days they would enjoy life.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   215

 if he got out of Iran.
  In order to minimize the amount of time he would have to spend at the
  airport, he stayed at the hotel until the last minute. He called the
  airport to find out whether the flight would leave on time, and was told
  that it would.
 He checked in a few minutes before ten o'clock.
  Rich Gallagher, who accompanied him to the airport, went off to inquire
  whether the authorities were planning to give Perot a hard time. Gallagher
  had done this before. Together with an Iranian friend who worked for Pan
  Am, he walked through to passport control carrying Perot's passport. The
  Iranian explained that a VIP was coming through, and asked to clear the
  passport in advance. The official at the desk obligingly looked through the
  loose-leaf folder that contained the stop list and said there would be no
  problems for Mr. Perot. Gallagher returned with the good news.
  Perot remained apprehensive. If they wanted to pick him up, they might be
  smart enough to lie to Gallagher.
  Affable Bill Gayden, the president of EDS World, was flying in to take over
  direction of the negotiating team. Gayden had left Dallas for Tehran once
  before, but had turned back in Paris on hearing about Bunny Fleischaker's
  warning of more arrests to come. Now he, like Perot, had decided to risk
  it. By chance, his night came in while Perot was waiting to leave , and
  they had an opportunity to talk.
  in his suitcase Gayden had eight American passports belonging to EDS
  executives who looked vaguely like Paul or Bill.
  Perot said: "I thought we were getting forged passports for them. Couldn't
  you find a way?"
  "Yeah, we found a way," Gayden said. "If you need a passport in a huffy,
  you can take all the documentation down to the courthouse in Dallas, then
  they put everything in an envelope and you carry it to New Orleans, where
  they issue the passport. It's just a plain government envelope sealed with
  Scotch tape, so you could open it on the way to New Orleans, take out the
  photographs, replace them with photographs of Paul and Billwhich we
  have-reseal the envelope, and, bingo, you've got passports for Paul and
  Bill in false names. But it's against the law. "
 "So what did you do instead?"
  "I told all the evacuees that I had to have their passports in Ord" to get
  their belongings shipped over from Tehran. I got a
 216       Ken Follett

 hundred or two hundred passports, and I picked the best eight. I bogused up
 a letter from someone in the States to someone here in Tehran saying: 'Here
 are the passports you asked for us to return so you could deal with the
 immigration authorities,' just so that I've got a piece of paper to show if
 I'm asked why the hell I'm carrying eight passports. -
  -ff Paid and Bill use those passports to cross a frontier, they'll be
  breaking the law anyway."
 "ff we get that far, we'll break the law."
 Perot nodded. "It makes sense."
  His flight was called. He said goodbye to Gayden and to Taylor, who had
  driven him to the airport and would take Gayden to the Hyatt. Then he went
  off to discover the truth about the stop list.
  He went first through a "Passengers Only" gate, where his boarding pass was
  checked. He walked along a corridor to a booth where he paid a small sum as
  airport tax. Then, on Ins right, he saw a series of passport-control desks.
 Here the stop list was kept.
  One of the desks was manned by a girl who was absorbed in a paperback book.
  Perot approached her. He handed over his passport and a yellow exit form.
  The form had his name at the top-
  The girl took the yellow sheet, opened his passport, stamped it, and handed
  it back without looking at him. She returned to her book immediately.
 Perot walked into the departure lounge.
 The flight was delayed.
  He sat down. He was on tenterhooks. At any moment the girl could finish her
  book, or just get bored with it, and start checking the stop list against
  the names on the yellow forms. Then, he imagined, they would come for him,
  the police or the military or Dadgar's investigators, and he would go to
  jail, and Margot would be like Ruthie and Emily, not knowing whether she
  would ever see her husband again.
  He checked the departures board every few seconds: it just said "Delayed. -
  
 He sat on the edge of his chair for the first hour.
  Then he began to feel resigned. If they were going to catch him they would,
  and there was nothing he could do about it. He started to read a magazine.
  Over the next hour he
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   217

 read everything in his briefcase. Then he started talking to the man sitting
 next to him. Perot learned that the man was an English engineer working in
 Iran on a project for a large British company. They chatted for a while,
 then swapped magazines.
  In a few hours, Perot thought, r1l be in a beautiful hotel suite with
  Margot-.or in an Iranian jail. He pushed the thought from his mind.
  Lunchtime went by, and the afternoon wore on. He began to believe they were
  not going to come for him.
 The flight was finally called at six o'clock.
 Perot stood up. If they come for me now ...
  He joined the crowd and approached the departure gate. There was a security
  check. He was frisked, and waved through.
  I've almost made it, he thought as he boarded the plane. He sat between two
  fat people in an economy seat-it was an all-economy flight. I think I've
  made it.
 The doors were closed and the plane began to move.
 It taxied onto the runway and gathered speed.
 The plane took off.
 He had made it.
 He had always been lucky.
  His thoughts turned to Margot. She was handling this crisis the way she had
  handled the prisoners-of-war adventures: she understood her husband's
  concept of duty and she never complained. That was why he could stay
  focused on what he had to do, and block out negative thoughts that would
  excuse inaction. He was lucky to have her. He thought of all the lucky
  things that had happened to him: good parents, getting into the Naval
  Academy, meeting Margot, having such fine children, starting EDS, getting
  good people to work for him, brave people like the volunteers he had left
  behind in Iran ...
  He wondered superstitiously whether an individual had a certain limited
  quantity of luck in his life. He saw his luck as sand in an hourglass,
  slowly but steadily running out. What happens, he thought, when it's all
  gone?
  The plane descended toward Kuwait. He was out of Iranian airspace-he had
  escaped.
  While the plane was refueling he walked to the open door and stood there,
  breathing the fresh air and ignoring the stewardess who kept asking him to
  return to his seat. There was a nice
 218       Ken Follen

 breeze blowing across the tarmac, and it was a relief to get away from the
 fat people sitting on either side of him. The stewardess eventually gave
 up and went to do something else. He watched the sun go down. Luck, he
 thought; I wonder how much I've got left?
            EiGHT

 The rescue team in Tehran now consisted of Simons, Coburn, Pocht, Sculley,
 and Schwebach. Simons decided that Boulware, Davis, and Jackson would not
 come to Tehran. The idea of rescuing Paul and Bill by frontal assault was
 now dead, so he did not need such a big team. He sent Glenn Jackson to
 Kuwait, to investigate that end of the southerly route out of Iran. Boulware
 and Davis went back to the States to await further orders.
  Majid reported to Coburn that General Mohari , the man in charge of the
  Gasr Prison, was not easily corruptible, but had two daughtm at school in
  the United States. The team briefly discussed kidnappirig the girls and
  forcing Mohan to help Paul and Bill escape; but they rejected the idea.
  (Perot hit the roof when he learned they had even discussed it.) The idea
  of sneaking Paul and Bill out in the hunk of a car was put on the back
  burner for a while.
  For two or three days they concentrated on what they would do if Paul and
  Bill were released under house arrest. They went to look at the houses the
  two men had occupied before the arrest. The snatch would be easy unless
  Dadgar put Paul and Bill under surveillance. The team would use two cars,
  they decided. The first car would pick up Paul and Bill. The second,
  following at a distance, would contain Sculley and Schwebach , who would be
  responsible for elimmating anyone who tried to tail the first car. Once
  again, the deadly duo would do the killing.
  The two cars would keep in touch by shortwave radio, they decided. Coburn
  called Merv Stauffer in Dallas and ordered the equipment. Boulware would
  take the radios to London: Schwebach and Sculley went to London to meet him
  and pick them up. While in London, the deadly duo would try to get hold of
  some
               219
 220       Ken Follett

 good maps of Iran, for use during the escape from the country, should the
 team have to leave by road. (No good maps of the Fountry were to be found in
 Tehran, as the Jeep Club had learned in happier days: Gayden said Persian
 maps were at the "Turn left by the dead horse" level.)
  Simons wanted also to prepare for the third possibility--4hat Paul and Bill
  would be released by a mob storming the prison. What should the team do in
  that eventuality? Coburn was continuously monitoring the situation in the
  city, calling his contacts in U.S. military intelligence and several
  trustworthy Iranian employees: if the prison were overrun he would know
  very quickly. What then? Someone would have to look for Paul and Bill and
  bring them to safety. But a bunch of Americans driving into the middle of
  a riot would be asking for trouble: Paul and Bill would be safer mingling
  inconspicuously with the crowd of escaping prisoners. Simons told Coburn to
  speak to Paul about this possibility the next time he visited the jail, and
  instruct Paul to head for the Hyatt Hotel.
  However, an Iranian could go looking for Paul and Bill in the riots. Simons
  asked Coburn to recommend an Iranian employee of EDS who was really
  street-smart.
 Coburn thought immediately of Rashid.
  He was a dark-skinned, rather good-looking twenty-three-yearold from an
  affluent Tehran family. He had completed EDS's training program for systems
  engineers. He was intelligent and resourceful, and he had bags of charm.
  Coburn recalled the last time Rashid had demonstrated his talent
  forimprovisation. Ministry of Health employees who were on partial strike
  had refused to key the data for the payroll system, but Rashid had got all
  the input together, taken it down to Bank Omran, talked someone there into
  keying the data, then run the program on the Ministry computer. The trouble
  with Rashid was that you had to keep an eye on him, because he never
  consulted anyone before implementing his unconventional ideas. Getting the
  data keyed the way he had constituted strikebreaking, and might have got
  EDS into big trouble-indeed, when Bill had heard about it he had been more
  anxious than pleased. Rashid was excitable and impulsive, and his English
  was not so good, so he tended to dash off and do his own crazy thing
  without telling anyone-a tendency that made his managers nervous. But he
  always got away with it. He could talk his way into and out of anything. At
  the airport, meeting people or seeing them off, he always managed
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   221

 to pass through all the "Passengers Only" barriers even though he never had
 a boarding card, ticket, or passport to show. Coburn knew him. well, and
 liked him enough to have brought him home for supper several times. Coburn
 also trusted him completely, especially since the strike, when Rashid had
 been one of Coburn's informants among the hostile Iranian employees.
  However, Simons would not trust Rashid on Coburn's say-so. Just as he had
  insisted on meeting Keane Taylor before letting him in on the secret, so he
  would want to talk to Rashid.
 So Coburn arranged a meeting.

 When Rashid was eight years old he had wanted to be President of the United
 States.
  At twenty-three he knew he could never be President, but he stili wanted to
  go to America, and EDS was going to be his ticket. He knew he had it in him
  to be a great businessman. He was a student of the psychology of the human
  being, and it had not taken him long to understand the mentality of EDS
  people. They wanted results, not excuses. If you were given a task, it was
  always better to do a little more than was expected. If for some reason the
  task was difficult, or even impossible, it was best not to say so: they
  hated to hear people whining about problems. You never said: "I can't do
  that because . You always said: "This is the progress I have made so far,
  and this is the problem I am working on right now . . ." It so happened
  that these attitudes suited Rashid perfectly. He had made himself useful to
  EDS, and he knew the company appreciated iL
  His greatest achievement had been installing computer terimnals in offices
  where the Iranian staff were suspicious and hostile. So great was the
  resistance that Pat Sculley had been able to install no more than two per
  month: Rashid had installed the remaining eighteen in two months. He had
  planned to capitalize on this. He had composed a letter to Ross Perot,
  who--he understood--was the head of EDS, asking to be allowed to complete
  his training in Dallas. He had intended to ask all the EDS managers in
  Tehran to sip the letter. but events had overtaken him, most of the
  managers had been evacuated, and EDS in Iran was falling to pieces; and he
  never mailed the letter. So he would think of something else.
  He could always find a way . Everything was possible for Rashid. He could
  do anything. He had even got out of the army. At a time when thousands of
  young middle-class Iranians were
 222         Ken FolkU

 spending fortunes in bribes to avoid military service, Rashid, after a few
 weeks in uniform, had convinced the doctors that he was incurably ill with
 a twitching disease. His comrades and the officers over him knew that he was
 in perfect health, but every time he saw the doctor he twitched
 uncontrollably. He went before medical boards and twitched for hours-an
 absolutely exhausting business, he discovered. Finally, so many doctors had
 certified him M that he got his discharge papers. It was crazy, ridiculous,
 impossible--but doing the impossible was Rashid's normal practice.
  So he bjew that he would go to America. He did not know how, but careful
  and elaborate planning was not his style anyway. He was a
  spur-of-the-moment man, an unproviser, an opportunist. ths chance would
  come and he would seize it.
  Mr. Simons interested him. He was not like the other EDS managers. They
  were all in their thirties or forties, but Simons was nearer to sixty. His
  long hair and white whiskers and big nose seemed more Iranian than
  American. Finally, he did not come right out with whatever was on his mind.
  People like Sculley and Coburn would say: "This is the situation and this
  is what I want you to do and you need to have it done by tomorrow morning
  . . . " Simons just said: "Let's go for a walk."
  They strolled around the streets of Tehran. Rashid found himself talking
  about his family, his work at EDS, and his views on the psychology of the
  human being. They could hear continual shooting, and the streets were alive
  with people marching and chanting. Everywhere they saw the wreckage of past
  battles, overturned cars and burned-out buildings. "The Marxists smash up
  expensive cars and the Muslims trash the liquor stores,
 Rashid told Simons.
 "Why is this happening?" Simons asked him.
  "This is the time for Iranians to prove themselves, to accomplish tbeir
  ideas, and to gain their freedom."
  They found themselves in Gasr Square, facing the prison. Rashid said:
  "There are many Iranians in these jails simply because they ask for
  freedom. "
  Simons pointed at the crowd of women in chadors. "What are they doing?"
  "Their husbands and sons are unjustly imprisoned, so they gather here,
  wailing and crying to the guards to let the prisoners go. 91
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   223

  Simons said: "Well, I guess I feel the same about Paul and Bill as those
  women do about their men."
 "Yes. I, too, am very concerned about Paul and Bill."
 "But what are you doing about it?" Simons said.
  Rashid was taken aback. "I am doing everything I can to help my American
  friends," he said. He thought of the dogs and cats. One of his tasks at the
  moment was to care for all the pets left behind by EDS evacuees-including
  four dogs and twelve cats. Rashid had never had pets and did not know how
  to deal with large, aggressive dogs. Every time he went to the apartment
  where the dogs were stashed to feed them, he had to hire two or three men
  off the streets to help him restrain the animals. Twice now he had taken
  them all to the airport in cages, having heard that there was a flight out
  that would accept them; and both times the flight had been canceled. He
  thought of telling Simons about this, but somehow he knew that Simons would
  not be impressed.
  Simons was up to something, Rashid thought, and it was not a business
  matter. Simons struck him as an experienced man-you could see that just by
  looking at his face. Rashid did not believe in experience. He believed in
  fast education. Revolution, not evolution. He liked the inside track, short
  cuts, accelerated development, superchargers. Simons was different. He was
  a patient man, and Rashid--analyzing Simons's psychologyguessed that the
  patience came from a strong will. When he is ready, Rashid thought, he will
  let me know what he wants from

 `~-,Do you know anything about the French Revolution?" Simons asked.
 "A little."
  "This place reminds me of the Bastille-a symbol of oppression. 9'
 It was a good comparison, Rashid thought.
  Simons went on: "The French revolutionaries stormed the Bastille and let
  all the prisoners out."
  "I think the same will happen here. It's a possibility, at least."
  Simons nodded. "If it happens, someone ought to be here to take care of
  Paul and Bill."
 "Yes." That will be me, Rashid thought.
  They stood together in Gasr Square, looking at the high walls and huge
  gates, and the wailing women in their black robes. Rashid recalled his
  principle: always do a little more than EDS
 224        Ken FoUelt

 asks of you. What if the mobs ignored Gasr Prison? Maybe he should make
 sure they did not. The mob was nothing but people like Rashid-young,
 discontented Iranian men who wanted to change their lives. He might not
 only join the mob--he might lead it. He might lead an attack on the
 prison. He, Rashid, might rescue Paul and Bill.
 Nothing was impossible.

   2

 Coburn did not know all that was going on in Simons's mind at this point. He
 had not been in on Simons's conversations with Perot and Rashid, and Simons
 did not volunteer much information. From what Coburn did know, the three
 possibilities-4he trunkof-a-car trick, the house-arrest-and-snatch routine,
 and the storming of the Bastille---seemed pretty vague. Furthermore, Simons
 was doing nothing to make it happen, but appeared content to sit around the
 Dvoranchik place discussing ever-more-detailed scenarios. Yet none of this
 made Coburn uneasy. He was an optimist anyway; and he--like Ross
 Perot-figured there was no point in second-guessing the world's greatest
 rescue expert.
  While the dim possibilities were simmering, Simons concentrated on routes
  out of Iran, the problem Coburn thought of as
 Cietting out of Dodge. -
  Coburn looked for ways of flying Paid and Bill out. He poked around
  warehouses at the airport, toying with the idea of shipping Paul and Bill
  as freight. He talked to people at each of the airlines, trying to develop
  contacts. He eventually had several meetings with the chief of security at
  Pan Am, telling turn everything except the names of Paul and Bill. They
  talked about getting the two fugitives on a scheduled flight wearing Pan Am
  cabin crew uniforms. The security chief wanted to help, but the affline's
  liability proved in the end to be an insuperable problem. Coburn then
  considered stealing a helicopter. He scouted a chopper base in the south of
  the city, and decided the theft was feasible. But, given the chaos of the
  hunian military, he suspected the aircraft were not being properly
  maintained and he knew they were short of spare parts. 'Men again, some of
  them might have contaminaW fuel.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   225

  He reported all this to Simons. Simons was already uneasy about airports,
  and the snags uncovered by Coburn reinforced his prejudice. There were
  always police and military around airports; if something went wrong there
  was no escape. airports were designed to prevent people wandering where
  they should not go; at an airport you always had to put yourself in the
  hands of others. Furthermore, in that situation your worst enemy could be
  the people escaping: they needed to be very cool. Coburn thought Paul and
  Bill had the nerves to go through something like that, but there was no
  point telling Simons so: Simons always. had to make his own assessment of
  a man's character, and he had never met Paul or Bill.
 So in the end the team focused on getting out by road.
 There were six ways.
  To the north was the USSR, not a hospitable country. To the east were
  Afghanistan, equally inhospitable, and Pakistan, whose border was too far
  away-almost a thousand miles, mostly across desert. To the south was the
  Persian Gulf, with friendly Kuwait just fifty or a hundred miles across the
  water. That was Promising. To the west was unfriendly Iraq; to the
  northwest, friendly Turkey.
 Kuwait and Turkey were the destinations they favored.
  Simons asked Coburn to have a trustworthy Iranian employee drive south all
  the way to the Persian Gulf, to firid out whether the road was passable and
  the countryside Peaceful. Coburn asked the cycle man, so called because he
  zipped around Tehran on a motorcycle. A trainee systems engineer like
  Rashid, the Cycle Man was about twenty-five, short, and street-smart. He
  had learned English at school in California, and could talk with any
  regional American accent--southem, Puerto Rican, anything. EDs had hired
  him despite his lack of a college degree because he scored remarkably high
  marks on aptitude tests. When EDS's Iranian employees had joined the
  general strike, and Paul and Coburn had called a mass meeting to discuss it
  with them, the Cycle Man had astonished everyone by speaking out vehemently
  against his colleagues and in favor of the management. He made no secret of
  his pro-American feelings, yet Coburn was quite me the Cycle Man was
  involved with the revolutionaries. One day he had asked Keane Taylor for a
  car. Taylor had given him one. The next day he asked for mother. Taylor
  obliged. The Cycle Man always used his motorcycle anyway: Taylor and Coburn
  were pretty sure the cars were for the revolutionaries.
 226         Ken FoIku

 They did not care: it was more important that the Cycle Man become obligated
 to diem.
  So, in return for past favors, the Cycle Man drove to the Persian Gulf.
  He came back a few days later and reported that anything was possible if
  you had enough money. You could get to the Gulf and you could buy or rent
  a boat.
  He had no idea what would happen when you disembarked in Kuwait.
 That question was answered by Glenn Jackson.

 As well as being a hunter and a Baptist, Glenn Jackson was a Rocket Man. His
 combination of a first-class mathematical brain and the ability to stay calm
 under stress had got him into Mission Control at NASA's Manned Spacecraft
 Center in Houston as a flight controller. His job had been to design and
 operate the computer programs that calculated trajectories for in-flight
 maneuvering.
  Jackson's unflappability had been severely tested on Christmas Day 1968,
  during the last mission he worked on, the lunar flyby. When the spacecraft
  came out from behind the moon, astronaut Jim Lovell had read down the list
  of numbers, called residuals, which told Jackson how close the craft was to
  its planned course. Jackson had got a ftight: The numbers were way outside
  the acceptable limits of error. Jackson asked CAPCOM to have the astronaut
  read them down again, to double-check. Then he told the flight director
  that if those numbers were correct, the three astronauts were as good as
  dead: there was not enough fuel to correct such a huge divergence.
  Jackson asked for Lovell to read the numbers a third time, extra carefully.
  They were the same. Then Lovell said: "Oh, wait a minute, I'm reading these
  wrong . . . "
  When the real numbers came through, it turned out that the maneuver had
  been almost perfect.
 All that was a long way from busting into a prison.
  Still, it was beginning to look like Jackson would never get the chance to
  perpetrate a jailbreak. He had been cooling his heels in Pans for a week
  when he got instructions from Simons, via Dallas, to go to Kuwait.
  He flew to Kuwait and moved into Bob Young's house. Young had gone to
  Tehran to help the negotiating team, and his wife, Kris, and her new baby
  were in the States on vacation.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   227

 Jackson told Malloy Jones, who was Acting Country Manager in Young's
 absence, that he had come to help with the preliminary study EDS was doing
 for Kuwait's central bank. He did a little work for the benefit of his cover
 story, then started looking around.
  He spent some time at the airport, watching the immigration officers. They
  were being very tough, he soon learned. Hundreds of Iranians without
  passports were flying into Kuwait: they were being handcuffed and put on
  the next flight back. Jackson concluded that Paul and Bill could not
  possibly fly into Kuwait.
  Assuming they could get in by boat, would they later be allowed to kave
  without passports? Jackson went to see the American Consul, saying that one
  of his children seemed to have lost a passport, and asking what was the
  procedure for replacing it. In the course of a long and rambling discussion
  the Consul revealed that the Kuwaitis had a way of checking, when they
  issued an exit visa, whether the person had entered the country legally.
  That was a problem, but perhaps not an insoluble one: once inside Kuwait,
  Paul and Bill would be safe from Dadgar, and surely the U.S. Embassy would
  then give them back their passports. The main question was: assuming the
  fugitives could reach the south of Iran and embark on a small boat, would
  they be able to land unnoticed in Kuwait? Jackson traveled the sixtymile
  length of the Kuwait coast, from the Iraqi border in the north to the
  Saudi-Arabian border in the south. He spent many hours on the beaches,
  collecting seashells in winter. Normally, he had been told, coastal patrols
  were very light. But the exodus from Iran had changed everything. There
  were thousands of Iranians who wanted to leave the country almost as badly
  as Paul and Bill did; and those Iranians, like Simons, could look at a map
  and see the Persian Gulf to the south with friendly Kuwait just across the
  water. The Kuwait Coast Guard was wise to all this. Everywhere Jackson
  looked, he saw, out at sea, at least one patrol boat; and they appeared to
  be stopping all small craft.
  The prognosis was gloomy. Jackson called Merv Stauffer in Dallas and
  reported that the Kuwait exit was a no-no.

 That left Turkey.
  Simons had favored Turkey all along. It involved a shorter drive than
  Kuwait. Furthermore, Simons knew Turkey. He had served there in the Mes as
  part of the American military aid
 228         Ken FoUeu

 program, training the Turkish Army. He even spoke a little of the language.
 So he sent Ralph Boulware to Istanbul.

 Ralph Boulware grew up in bars. His father, Benjamin Russell Boulware, was
 a tough and independent black man who had a series of small businesses: a
 grocery store, real-estate rentals, bootlegging, but mostly bars. Ben
 Boulware's theory of childraising was that if he knew where they were, he
 knew what they were doing, so he kept his boys mostly within his sight,
 which meant mostly in the bar. It was not much of a childhood, and it left
 Ralph feeling that he had been an adult all Ins fife.
  He had realized he was different from other boys Ins age when he went to
  college and found his contemporaries getting an excited about gambling,
  drinking, and going with women. He knew all about gamblers, drunks, and
  whores already: he dropped out of college and joined the air force.
  In nine years in the air force he had never seen action, and while he was
  on the whole glad about that, it had left him wondering whether he had what
  it took to fight in a shooting war. The rescue of Paul and Bill might give
  him the chance to find out, he had thought; but Simons had sent him from
  Paris back to Dallas. It looked as though he was going to be ground crew
  again. Then new orders came.
  They came via Merv Stauffer, Perot's right-hand man, who was now Simons's
  link with the scattered rescue team. Stauffer went to Radio Shack and
  bought six five-channel two-way radios, ten rechargers, a supply of
  batteries, and a device for running the radios off a dashboard cigar
  lighter. He gave the equipment to Boulware and told him to meet Sculley and
  Schwebach in London before going on to Istanbul.
  Stauffer also gave him forty thousand dollars in cash, for expenses,
  bribes, and general purposes.
  The night before Boulware left, his wife started giving him a hard time
  about money. He had taken a thousand dollars out of the bank, without
  telling her, before he went to Pan"e believed in carrying cash money--and
  she had subsequently discovered how little was left in their account.
  Boulware did not want to explain to her why he had taken the money and how
  he had spent it. Mary insisted that she needed money. Boulware was not too
  concerned about that: she was staying with good friends and he knew she
  would be looked after. But she didn't buy his
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   229

 brush-off, and-as often happened when she was really determined-he decided
 to make her happy. He went into the bedroom, where he had left the box
 containing the radios and the forty thousand dollars, and counted out five
 hundred. Mary came in while he was doing it, and saw what was in the box.
  Boulware gave her the five hundred and said: "Will that hold YOUT'
 "Yes," she said.
  She looked at the box, then at her husband. "I'm not even going to ask,"
  she said; and she went out.
  Boulware left the next day. He met Schwebach and Sculley in London, gave
  them five of the six radio sets, kept one for himself, and flew on to
  Istanbul.
  He went from the airport straight to the office of Mr. Fish, the travel
  agent.
  Mr. Fish met him in an open-plan office with three or four other people
  sitting around.
  "My name is Ralph Boulware, and I work for EDS," Boulware began. "I think
  you know my daughters, Stacy Elaine and Kecia Nicole." The girls had played
  with Mr. Fish's daughters during the evacuees' stopover in Istanbul.
 Mr. Fish was not very warm.
 "I need to talk to you," Boulware said.
 "Fine, talk to me."
  Boulware looked around the room. "I want to talk to you in private. "
 "Why?99
 "You'll understand when I talk to you."
 "These are all my partners. There are no secrets here."
  Mr. Fish was giving Boulware a hard time. Boulware could guess why. There
  were two reasons. First, after all that Mr. Fish had done during the
  evacuation, Don Norsworthy had tipped him $150, which was derisory, in
  Boulware's opinion.'(1 didn't know what to do!" Norsworthy had said. "The
  man's bill was twenty-six thousand dollars. What should I have tipped
  him---ten percent?")
  Secondly, Pat Sculley had approached Mr. Fish with a transparent tale about
  smuggling computer tapes into Iran. Mr. Fish was neither a fool nor a
  criminal, Boulware guessed; and of course he had refused to have anything
  to do with Sculley's scheme.
 230       Ken Follett

  Now Mr. Fish thought EDS people were (a) cheapskates and (b) dangerously
  amateurish lawbreakers.
  But Mr. Fish was a small businessman. Boulware understood small
  businessme"is father had been one. They spoke two languages: straight talk,
  and cash money. Cash money would solve problem (a), and straight talk,
  problem (b).
  "Okay, let's start again," Boulware said. "When EDS was here you really
  helped those people, treated the children nice, and did a great deal for
  us. When they left there was a mix-up about showing you our appreciation.
  We're embarrassed that this was not handled properly and I need to settle
  that score."
 -It's no big deal-"
  "We're sorry," Boulware said, and he gave Mr. Fish a thousand dollars in
  hundred-dollar bills.
 The room went very quiet.
  "Well, I'm going to check in to the Sheraton," Boulware said. "Maybe we can
  talk later."
 "I'll come with you," said Mr. Fish.
  He personally checked Boulware into the hotel, and ensured that he got a
  good room, then agreed to meet turn for dinner that night in the hotel
  coffee shop.
  Mr. Fish was a high-class hustler, Boulware thought as he unpacked. The man
  had to be smart to have what appeared to be a very prosperous business in
  this dirt-poor country. The evacuees' experience showed that he had the
  enterprise to do more than issue plane tickets and make hotel bookings. He
  had the right contacts to oil the wheels of bureaucracy, judging by the way
  he had got everyone's baggage through customs. He had also helped solve the
  problem of the adopted Iranian baby with no passport. EDS's mistake had
  been to see that he was a hustler and overlook the fact that he was high
  clas"eceived, perhaps, by his unimpressive appearance: he was rather fat
  and dressed in drab clothes. Boulware, learning from past mistakes, thought
  he could handle Mr. Fish.
  That night over dinner Boulware told him he wanted to go to the Iran-Turkey
  border to meet some people coming out.
  Mr. Fish was horrified. "You don't understand," he said. "That is a
  terrible place. The people are Kurds and Azerbaij*aiu*s-wild mountain men,
  they don't obey any government. You know how they live up there? By
  smuggling, robbery, and murder. I personally would not dam to go there. If
  you, an American, go there, you will never come back. Never."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   231

  Boulware thought he was probably exaggerating. "I have to go there, even if
  it's dangerous," he said. "Now, can I buy a light plane?"
  Mr. Fish shook his head. "It is illegal in Turkey for individuals to own
  airplanes."
 "A helicopter?"
 "Same thing."
 "AD right, can I charter a plane?"
  "It is possible. Where there is no scheduled flight, you can charter. It
 "Are there scheduled flights to the border area?" No."
 "All right."
  "However, chartering is so unusual that you will surely attract the
  attention of the authorities . . ."
  "We have no plans to do anything illegal. AD the same, we don't need the
  hassle of being investigated. So let's set up the option of chartering.
  Find out about price and availability, but hold off from making any kind of
  booking. Meanwhile, I want to know more about getting there by land. If you
  don't want to escort me, fine; but maybe you can find somebody who will.
 "I'll see what I can do."
  They met several times over the next few days. Mr. Fish's initial coolness
  totally disappeared, and Boulware felt they were becoming friends. Mr. Fish
  was alert and articulate. Although he was no criminal, he would break the
  law if the risks and rewards were proportionate, Boulware guessed. Boulware
  had some sympathy with that attitude-he, too, would break the law under the
  right circumstances. Mr. Fish was also a shrewd interrogator, and bit by
  bit Boulware told him the full story. Paul and Bill would probably have no
  passports, he admitted; but once in Turkey they would get new ones at the
  nearest American Consulate. Paul and Bill might have some trouble getting
  out of Iran, he said, and he wanted to be prepared to cross the border
  himself, perhaps in a light airrraft, to bring them out. None of this fazed
  Mr. Fish as much as the idea of traveling in bandit country.
  However, a few days later he introduced Boulware to a who had relatives
  among the mountain bandits. Mr. Fish whispered that the man was a criminal,
  and he certainly looked the part: he had a scar on his face and little
  beady eyes. He said he could guarantee Boulware safe passage to the border
  and back,
 232       Ken Follett

 and his relatives could even take Boulware across the border into Iran, if
 necessary.
  Boulware called Dallas and told Merv Stauffer about the plan. Stauffer
  relayed the news to Coburn, in code; and Coburn told Simons. Simons vetoed
  it. If the man is a criminal, Simons pointed out, we can't trust him.
  Boulware was annoyed. He had gone to some trouble to set it up--did Simons
  imagine it was easy to get these people? And if you wanted to travel in
  bandit country, who else but a bandit would escort you? But Simons was the
  boss, and Boulware had no option but to ask Mr. Fish to start all over
  again.
 Meanwhile, Sculley and Schwebach flew into Istanbul.
  The deadly duo had been on a flight from London to Tehran via Copenhagen
  when the Iranians had closed their airport again, so Sculley and Schwebach
  joined Boulware in Istanbul. Cooped up in the hotel, waiting for something
  to happen, the three of them got cabin fever. Schwebach reverted to his
  Green Beret role and tried to make them all keep fit by running up and down
  the hotel stairs. Boulware did it once and then gave up. They became
  impatient with Simons. Coburn, and Poch6, who seemed to be sitting in
  Tehran doing nothing: why didn't those guys make it happen? Then Simons
  sent Sculley and Schwebach back to the States. They left the radios with
  Boulware.
  When Mr. Fish saw the radios he had a fit. It was highly illegal to own a
  radio transmitter in Turkey, he told Boulware. Even ordinary transistor
  radios had to be registered with the government, for fear their parts would
  be used to make transmitters for terrorists. "Don't you understand how
  conspicuous you are?" he said to Boulware. "You're running up a phone bill
  of a couple of thousand dollars a week, and you're paying cash. You don't
  appear to be doing business here. The maids are sure to have seen the
  radios and talked about it. By now you must be under surveillance. Forget
  your friends in Iran--you are going to end up in jail."
  Boulware agreed to get rid of the radios. The snag about Simons's
  apparently endless patience was that further delay caused new problems. Now
  Sculley and Schwebach could not get back into Iran, yet still nobody had
  any radios. Meanwhile, Simons kept saying no to things. Mr. Fish pointed
  out that there were two border crossings from Iran to Turkey, one at Sero
  and the other at Barzagan. Simons had picked Sero. Barzagan was a
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   233

 bigger and more civilized place, Mr. Fish pointed out; everyone would be a
 little safer there. Simons said no.
  A new escort was found to take Boulware to the border. Mr. Fish had a
  business colleague whose brother-in-law was in the Milli Istihbarat
  Teskilati, or MIT, the Turkish equivalent of the CIA. The name of this
  secret policeman was Ilsman. His credentials would secure for Boulware army
  protection in bandit country. Without such credentials, Mr. Fish said, the
  ordinary citizen was in danger not only from bandits but also from the
  Turkish Army.
  Mr. Fish was very jumpy. On the way to meet lisman, he took Boulware
  through a whole cloak-and-dagger routine, changing cars and switching to a
  bus for part of the journey, as if he were trying to shake off a tail.
  Boulware could not see the need for all that if they were really going to
  visit a perfectly upright citizen who just happened to work in the
  intelligence community. But Boulware was a foreigner in a strange country,
  and he just had to go along with Mr. Fish and trust the man.
  They ended up at a big, run-down apartment building in an unfamiliar
  section of the city. The power was off-just like Tehran!--so it took Mr.
  Fish a while to find the right apartment in the dark. At first he could get
  no answer. His attempt to be secretive fell apart at this point, for he had
  to hammer on the door for what seemed like half an hour, and every other
  inhabitant of the building got a good look at the visitors in the meantime.
  Boulware just stood there feeling like a white man in Harlem. At last a
  woman opened up, and they went in.
  It was a small, drab apartment crowded with ancient finmiture and dimly lit
  by a couple of candles. lisman was a short, fat man of about Boulware's
  age, thirty-five. Ilsman had not seen his feet for many years-he was gross.
  He made Boulware think of the stereotyped fat police sergeant in the
  movies, with a suit too small and a sweaty shirt and a wrinkled tie wrapped
  around the place where his neck would have been if he had had a neck.
  They sat down, and the woman-Mrs. Ilsman, Boulware presumed-served
  tea--just like Tehran! Boulware explained his problem, with Mr. Fish
  translating. Ilsman was suspicious. He cross-questioned Boulware about the
  two fugitive Americans. How could Boulware be sure they were innocent? Why
  did they have no passports? What would they bring into Turkey? In the end
  he seemed convinced that Boulware was leveling with him, and he offered to
  get Paul and Bill from the border to Istanbul for eight thousand dollars,
  in all.
 234       Ken Follett

  Boulware wondered whether Usman was for real. Smuggling Americans into the
  country was a funny pastime for an intelligence agent. And if Hsman really
  was MIT, who was it that Mr. Fish thought might have been following him and
  Boulware across town?
  Perhaps Ilsman was free-lancing. Eight thousand dollars was a lot of money
  in Turkey. It was even possible that Ilsman would tell his superiors what
  he was doing. After afl--Usman might figure-if Boulware's story were true
  no harm would be done by helping; and if Boulware were lying, the best way
  to find out what he was really up to might be to accompany him. to the
  border.
  Anyway, at this point Ilsman seemed to be the best Boulware could get.
  Boulware agreed to the price, and Ilsman broke out a bottle of scotch.

 While other members of the rescue team were fretting in various parts of the
 world, Simons and Coburn were driving the road from Tehran to the Turkish
 border.
  Reconnaissance was a watchword with Simons, and he wanted to be familiar
  with every inch of his escape route before he embarked on it with Paul and
  Bill. How much fighting was there in that part of the country? What was the
  police presence? Were the roads passable in winter? Were the filling
  stations open?
  In fact there were two routes to Sero, the border crossing he had chosen.
  (He preferred Sero because it was a little-used frontier post at a tiny
  village, so there would be few people and the border would be lightly
  guarded, whereas Barzagan-&e alternative Mr. Fish kept recommending-would
  be busier.) The nearest large town to Seto was Rezaiyeh. Directly across
  the path from Tehran to Rezaiyeh lay Lake Rezaiyeh, a hundred miles long:
  you had to drive around it, either to the north or to the south. The
  northerly route went through larger towns and would have better roads.
  Simons therefore preferred the south edy route, provided the roads were
  passable. On this reconnaissance trip, he decided, they would check out
  both routes, the northerly going and the southerly on the return.
  He decided that the best kind of car for the trip was a British Range
  Rover, a cross between a jeep and a station wagon. There were no
  dealerships or used car lots open in Tehran now, so Coburn gave the Cycle
  Man the job of getting hold of two Range Rovers. The Cycle Man's solution
  to the problem was character-
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   235

 istically ingenious. He had a notice printed with his telephone number and
 the message: "If you would like to sell your Range Rover, call this number."
 Then he went around on his motorcycle and put a copy under the windshield
 wipers of every Range Rover he saw parked on the streets.
  He got two vehicles for twenty thousand dollars each, and he also bought
  tools and spare parts for all but the most major repairs.
  Simons and Coburn took two Iranians with them- Majid, and a cousin of
  Majid's who was a professor at an agricultural college in Rezaiyeh. The
  professor had come to Tehran to put his American wife and their children on
  a plane to the States: taking him back to Rezaiyeh was Simons's cover story
  for the trip.
  They left Tehran early in the morning, with one of Keane Taylor's
  fifty-five-gallon drums of gasoline in the back. For the first hundred
  miles, as far as Qazvin, there was a modem freeway. After Qazvin the road
  was a two-lane blacktop. The hillsides were covered with snow, but the road
  itself was clear. If it's like this all the way to the border, Coburn
  thought, we could get there in a day.
  They stopped at Zanjan, two hundred miles from Tehran and the same distance
  from Rezaiyeh, and spoke to the local chief of police, who was related to
  the professor. (Coburn could never quite work out the family relationships
  of Iramans: they seemed to use the word "cousin" rather loosely.) This part
  of the country was peaceful, the police chief said; if they were to
  encounter any problems it would happen in the area of Tabriz.
  They drove on through the afternoon, on narrow but good country roads.
  After another hundred miles they entered Tabriz. There was a demonstration
  going on, but it was nothing like the kind of battle they had got used to
  in Tehran, and they even felt secure enough to take a stroll around the
  bazaar.
  Along the way Simons had been talking to Majid and the professor. It seemed
  like casual conversation, but by now Coburn was familiar with Simons's
  technique, and he knew that the colonel was feeling these two out, deciding
  whether he could trust them. So far the proposis seemed good, for Simons
  began to drop hints about the real purpose of the trip.
  The professor said that the countryside around Tabriz was pro-Shah, so
  before they moved on, Simons stuck a photograph of the Shah on the
  windshield.
 The first sip of trouble came a few miles north of Tabriz,
 236        Ken Folleu

 where they were stopped by a roadblock. It was an amateur affair, just two
 tree trunks laid across the road in such a way that cars could maneuver
 around them but could not pass through at speed. It was manned by villagers
 armed with axes and sticks.
  MaJid and the professor talked to the villagers. The professor showed his
  university identity card, and said that the Americans were scientists come
  to help him with a research project. It was clear, Coburn thought, that the
  rescue team would need to bring Iranians when and if they did the trip with
  Paul and Bill, to handle situations like this.
 The villagers let them pass.
  A little later Majid stopped and waved down a car coming in the opposite
  direction. The professor talked to the driver of the other car for a few
  minutes, then reported that the next town, Khoy, was anti-Shah. Simons took
  down the picture of the Shah from the windshield and replaced it with one
  of the Ayatollah Khomeini. From then on they would stop oncoming cars regu-
  larly and change the picture according to local politics.
 On the outskirts of Khoy there was another roadblock.
  Like the first one, it looked unofficial, and was manned by civilians; but
  this time the ragged men and boys standing behind the tree trunks were
  holding guns.
 Majid stopped the car and they all got out.
 To Coburn's horror, a teenage boy pointed a gun at him.
 Coburn froze.
  The gun was a 9min Llama pistol. The boy looked about sixteen. He had
  probably never handled a firearm before today, Cobum thought. Amateurs with
  guns were dangerous. The boy was holding the gun so tightly that his
  knuckles showed white.
  Coburn was scared. He had been shot at many times, in Vietnam, but what
  frightened him now was the possibility that he would be killed by goddam
  accident.
 "RoosUe," the boy said. "Rooskie."
 He thinks I'm a Russian, Coburn realized.
  Perhaps it was because of the busby red beard and the little black wool
  cap.
 "No, American ", Coburn said.
 The boy kept his pistol leveled.
  Coburn stared at those white knuckles and thought: I just hope the punk
  doesn't sneeze.
  7be villagers searched Simons, Majid, and the professor. Coburn, who could
  not take his eyes off the kid, heard MaJid
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   237

 say: "They're looking for weapons." The only weapon they had was a little
 knife that Coburn was wearing in a scabbard behind his back, under his
 shirt.
  A villager began to search Coburn, and at last the lad lowered his pistol.
 Coburn breathed again.
  'Men lie wondered what would happen when they found his knife.
 The search was not thorough, and the knife was not found.
  The vigilantes believed the story about a scientific project. "They
  apologize for searching the old man," Majid said. The "Old man" was Simons,
  who was now looking just like an elderly hwian peasant. "We can go on,"
  Majid added.
 They climbed back into the car.
  Outside Khoy they turned south , looping over the top end of the lake, and
  drove down the western shore to the outskirts Of Rezaiyeh.
  The professor guided them into the town by remote roads, and they saw no
  roadblocks. The journey from Tehran had taken them twelve hours, and they
  were now an hour away from the border crossing at Sero.
  That evening they all had dinner-chella kebab, the h-Anian dish of rice and
  lamb-with the professor's landlord, who haPpened to be a customs official.
  Majid gently pumped the landlord for information , and learned that there
  was very little activity at the Sero frontier station.
  They spent the night at the professor's house, a two-storY villa on the
  outskirts of the town.
  In the morning majid and the professor drove to the border and back. They
  reported that there were no roadblocks and the route was safe. Then Majid
  went into town to seek out a contact from whom he could buy firearms, and
  Simons and Coburn went to the border.
  They found a small frontier post with only two guards. It had a custorns
  warehouse, a weighbridge for trucks, and a guardhouse. mie road was barred
  by a low chain stretched between a post on one side and the wan of the
  guard house on the other. Beyond the chain was about two hundred yards of
  no-man's-land, then anodw, smaller frontier post on the Turkish side.
  They got out of the car to look around. The air was pure and bitingly cold.
  Simons pointed across the hillside. "See the tracks? I
 Coburn followed Simons's finger. In the snow-, close behind
 238       Ken Follett

 the border station, was a trail where a small caravan had crossed the
 border, impudently close to the guards.
  Simons pointed again, this time above their heads. "Easy to cut the guards
  off." Coburn looked up and saw a single telephone wire leading down the
  hill from the station. A quick snip and the guards would be isolated.
  The two of them walked down the hill and took a side road, no more than a
  dirt track, into the hills. After a mile or so they came to a small
  village, just a dozen or so houses made of wood or mud brick. Speaking
  halting Turkish, Simons asked for the chief. A middle-aged man in baggy
  trousers, waistcoat, and headdress appeared. Coburn listened without
  understanding as Simons talked. Finally Simons shook the chief s hand, and
  they left.
  "What was all that about?" Coburn asked as they walked away.
  "I told him I wanted to cross the border on horseback at night with some
  friends. "
 "What did he say?"
 "He said he could arrange it."
  "How did you know the people in that particular village were smugglers?"
 "Look around you," Simons said.
 Coburn looked around at the bare, snow-covered slopes.
 "What do you see?" Simons said.
  'Nothing. "
  "Right. There is no agriculture here, no industry. How do you think these
  people make a living? They're all smugglers. "
  They returned to the Range Rover and drove back into Rezaiyeh. That evening
  Simons explained his plan to Coburn.
  Simons, Coburn, Poch6, Paul, and Bill would drive from Tehran to Rezaiyeh
  in the two Range Rovers. They would bring Majid and the professor with them
  as interpreters. In Rezaiyeh they would stay at the professor's house. The
  villa was ideal: no one else lived there, it was detached from other
  houses, and from there quiet roads led out of the city. Between Tehran and
  Rezaiyeh they would be unarmed: judging by what had happened at the
  roadblocks, guns would get them into trouble. However, at Rezaiyeh they
  would buy guns. Majid had made a contact in the city who would sell them
  Browning 12-gauge shotguns for six thousand dollars apiece. The same man
  could also get Llama pistols.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   239

  Coburn would cross the border legitimately in one of the Range Rovers and
  link up with Boulware, who would also have a car, on the Turkish side.
  Simons, Pbch6, Paul, and Bill would cross on horseback with the smugglers.
  (That was why they needed the guns: in case the smugglers should decide to
  "lose" them in the mountains.) On the other side they would meet Coburn and
  Boulware. They would all drive to the nearest American Consulate and get
  new passports for Paul and Bill. Then they would fly to Dallas.
  it was a good plan, Coburn thought; and he now saw that Simons was right to
  insist on Sero rather than Barzagan, for it would be difficult to sneak
  across the border in a more civilized, heavily populated area.
  They returned to Tehran the next day. They left late and did most of the
  journey by night, so as to be sure to arrive in the morning, after curfew
  was lifted. They took the southerly route, passing through the small town
  of Mahabad. The road was a singk-lane dirt track through the mountains, and
  they had the worst possible weather: snow, ice, and high winds.
  Nevertheless, the road was passable, and Simons determined to use this
  route, rather than the northerly one, for the escape itself.
 If it ever happened.

   3

 One evening Coburn went to the Hyatt and told Keane Taylor he needed
 twenty-five thousand dollars in Iranian rials by the following morning.
 He didn't say why.
  Taylor got twenty-five thousand dollars in hundreds from Gayden, then
  called a carpet dealer he knew in the south of the city and agreed on an
  exchange rate.
  Taylor's driver, Ali, was highly reluctant to take him downtown, especially
  after dark, but after some argument he agreed.
  They went to the shop. Taylor sat down and drank tea with the carpet
  dealer. Two more Iramans came in: one was introduced as the man who would
  exchange Taylor's money; the other was his bodyguard, and looked like a
  hoodlum.
 240       Ken Follett

  Since Taylor's phone call, the carpet dealer said, the exchange rate had
  changed rather dramatically-in the carpet dealer's favor.
  "I'm insulted!" Taylor said angrily. "I'm not going to do business with you
  people!"
  "This is the best exchange rate you can get," said the carpet man.
 "The hell it isl"
  "It's very dangerous for you to be in this part of the city, carrying all
  that money."
  I 'I'm not alone," Taylor said. "I've got six people outside waiting for
  me."
  He finished his tea and stood up. He walked slowly out of the shop and
  jumped into the car. "Ali, let's get out of here, fast."
  They drove north. Taylor directed Ali to another carpet dealer, an Iranian
  Jew with a shop near the palace. The man was just closing up when Taylor
  walked in.
 "I need to change some dollars for rials," Taylor said.
 "Come back tomorrow," said the man.
 "No, I need them tonight."
 "How much?"
 "Twenty-five thousand dollars."
 "I don't have anything like that much."
 "I've really got to have them tonight-,,
 -What's it for?"
 "It's to do with Paul and Bill."
  The carpet dealer nodded. He had done business with several EDS people and
  he knew that Paul and Bill were in jail. "I'll see what I can do. "
  He called his brother from the back of the shop and sent him out. Then he
  opened his safe and took out all his rials. He and Taylor stood there
  counting money: the dealer counted the dollars; and Taylor the rials. A few
  minutes later a kid came in with his hands full of rials and dumped them on
  the counter. He left without speaking. Taylor realized the carpet dealer
  was rounding up all the cash he could lay his hands on.
  A young man came up on a motor scooter, parked outside, and walked in with
  a bag full of rials. While he was in the shop someone stole his motor
  scooter. The young man dropped the bag of money and ran after the thief,
  yelling at the top of his voice.
 Taylor went on counting.
 Just another normal business day in revolutionary Tehran.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   241

 John Howell was changing. With each day that went by he became a little less
 the uptight American lawyer and a little more the devious Persian
 negotiator. In particular, he began to see bribery in a different light.
  Mehdi, an Iranian accountant who had done occasional work fbr EDS, had
  explained things to him like this: "In Iran many things are achieved by
  friendship. There are several ways to become Dadgar's friend. Me, I would
  sit outside his house every day until he talked to me. Another way for me
  to become his friend would be to give him two hundred thousand dollars. If
  you like, I could arrange something like this for you."
  Howell discussed this proposal with the other members of the negotiating
  team. They assumed that Mehdi was offering himself as a bribe intermediary,
  as Deep Throat had. But this time Howell was not so quick to reject the
  idea of a corrupt deal for Paul and Bill's freedom.
  They decided to play along with Mehdi. They might be able to expose the
  deal and discredit Dadgar. Alternatively, they might decide the arrangement
  was solid and pay up. Either way, they wanted a clear sign from Dadgar that
  he was bribable.
  Howell and Keane Taylor had a series of meetings with MehdiThe accountant
  was as jumpy as Deep Throat had been, and would not let the EDS people come
  to his office during normal working hours: he always met them early in the
  morning or late at night, or at his house or down back alleys. Howell kept
  pressing him for an unmistakable signal: Dadgar was to come to a meeting
  wearing odd socks, or with his tie on backward. Mehdi would propose
  ambiguous signals, such as Dadgar giving the Americans a hard time. On one
  occasion Dadgar did give them a hard time, as Mehdi had forecast, but that
  might have happened anyway.
  Dadgar was not the only one giving Howell a hard time. Howell was talking
  to Angela on the phone every four or five days, and she wanted to know when
  he was coming home. He did not know. Paul and Bill were naturally pressing
  him for hard news, but his progress was so slow and indefinite that he
  could not possibly give them deadlines. He found this frustrating, and when
  Angela started questioning him on the same point he had to suppress his
  irritation.
  The Mehdi initiative came to nothing. Mehdi introduced Howell to a lawyer
  who claimed to be close to Dadgar. The lawyer
 242       Ken Follett

 did not want a bribe-just normal legal fees. EDS retained him, but at the
 next meeting Dadgar said: "Nobody has any special relationship with me. If
 anybody tries to tell you differently, don't believe them."
  Howell was not sure what to make of all this. Had there been nothing in it
  right from the start? Or had EDS's caution frightened Dadgar into dropping
  a demand for a bribe? He would never know.
  On January 30 Dadgar told Howell he was interested in Abolfkth Mahvi, EDS's
  h-drdan partner. Howell began to prepare a dossier on EDS's dealings with
  Mahvi.
  Howell now believed that Paul and Bill were straightforward commercial
  hostages. Dadgar's investigation into corruption might be genuine, but he
  knew by now that Paul and Bill were innocent; therefore, he must be holding
  them on orders from above. 'Me Iranians had originally wanted either their
  promised computerized welfare system or their money back. Giving them their
  welfare system meant renegotiating the contract-but the new government was
  not interested in renegotiating and in any case was unlikely to stay in
  power long enough to consummate a deal.
  If Dadgar could not be bribed, convinced of Paul's and Bill's innocence, or
  ordered by his superiors to release them on the basis of a new contract
  between EDS and the Ministry, there remained to Howell only one option: pay
  the bail. Dr. Hournan's efforts to get the amount reduced had come to
  nothing. Howell now concentrated on ways of getting thirteen million
  dollars from Dallas to Tehran.
  He had learned, bit by bit, that there was an EDS rescue team in Tehran. He
  was astonished that the head of an American corporation would set in motion
  something like that. He was also reassured, for if he could only get Paul
  and Bill out of jail, somebody else was standing by to get them out of
  Iran.

 Liz Coburn was frantic with worry.
  She sat in the car with Toni Dvoranchik and Toni's husband, Bill. They were
  heading for the Royal Tokyo restaurant. It was on Greenville Avenue, not
  far from Recipes, the place where Liz and Toni had drunk Daiquiris with
  Mary Sculley and Mary had shattered Liz's world by saying, "They're all in
  Tehran, I guess. I I
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   243

  Since that moment Liz had been living in constant, stark terror.
  Jay was everything to her. He was Captain America, he was Superman, he was
  her whole life. She did not see how she could live without him. The thought
  of losing him. scared her to death.
  She called Tehran constantly but never reached turn. She called Merv
  Stauffer every day, asking, "When is Jay coming home? Is he all right? Will
  he get out alive?" Merv tried to soothe her, but he would not give her any
  information, so she would demand to speak to Ross Perot, and Merv would teR
  her that was not possible. Then she would call her mother and burst into
  tears and pour out all her anxiety and fear and frustration over die phone.
  The Dvoranchiks were kind. They were trying to take her mind off her
  worries.
 "What did you do today?" Toni asked.
 "I went shopping,- Liz said.
 "Did you buy anything?"
  "Yes." Liz started to cry. "I bought a black dress. Because Jay isn't
  coming home."

 During those days of waiting, Jay Coburn learned a good deal about Simons.
  One day Merv Stauffer called from Dallas to say that Simons's son Harry had
  been on the phone, worried. Harry had called his father's house and spoken
  to Paul Walker, who was minding the farm. Walker had said he did not know
  where Simons was, and had advised- Harry to call Merv Stauffer at EDS.
  Harry was naturally worried, Stauffer said. Simons called Harry from Tehran
  and reassured him.
  Simons told Coburn that Harry had had some problems, but he was a good boy
  at heart. He spoke of his son with a kind of resigned affection. (He never
  mentioned Bruce, and it was not until much later that Coburn realized
  Simons had two sons.)
  Simons talked a lot about his late wife, Lucille, and how happy the two of
  them had been after Simons retired. They had been very close during the
  last few years, Coburn gathered, and Simons seemed to regret that it had
  taken him so long to realize how much he loved her. "Hold on to your mate,"
  he advised Coburn. "She's the most important person in your life."
  Paradoxically, Simons's advice had the opposite effect on Coburn. He envied
  the companionship Simons and Lucille had
 244       Ken Follett

 had, and he wanted that for himself, but he was so sure he could never
 achieve it with Liz that he wondered if someone else would be his true soul
 mate.
  One evening Simons laughed and said: "You know, I wouldn't do this for
  anyone else."
  It was a characteristically cryptic Simons remark. Sometimes, Coburn had
  learned, you got an explanation; sometimes you did not. This time Coburn
  got an explanation: Simons told him why he felt indebted to Ross Perot.
  The aftermath of the Son Tay Raid had been a bitter experience for Simons.
  Although the Raiders had not brought back any American POWs, it had been a
  brave try, and Simons expected the American public to see it that way.
  Indeed, he had argued, at a breakfast meeting with Defense Secretary Melvin
  Laird, in favor of releasing the news of the raid to the press. "This is a
  perfectly legitimate operation," he had told Laird. "These are American
  prisoners. This is something Americans traditionally do for Americans. For
  Christ's sake, what is it we're afraid of here?"
  He soon found out. The press and the public saw the raid as a failure and
  yet another intelligence foul-up. The banner headline on the front page of
  the next day's Washington Post read: u.s. RAm To RmcuE Pows FAiLs. When
  Senator Robert Dole introduced a resolution praising the raid and said:
  "Some of these men have been languishing in prison for five years," Senator
  Kennedy replied: "And they're still there!"
  Simons went to the White House to receive the Distinguished Service Cross
  for "extraordinary heroism" from President Nixon. The rest of the Raiders
  were to be decorated by Defense Secretary Laird. Simons was enraged to
  learn that over half of his men were to get nothing more than the Army
  Commendation Ribbon, only slightly better than a Good Conduct Ribbon, and
  known to soldiers as a "Green Weenie." Mad as hell, he picked up the phone
  and asked for the Army Chief of Staff, General Westmoreland. He got the
  Acting Chief, General Palmer. Simons told Palmer about the Green Weenies
  and said: "General, I don't want to embarrass the army, but one of my men
  is just likely to shove an Army Commendation Ribbon up Mr. Laird's ass." He
  got his way: Land awarded four Distinguished Service Crosses, fifty Silver
  Stars, and no Green Weenies.
  The POWs got a huge monde boost from the Son Tay Raid (which they heard
  about from incoming prisoners). An important
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   245

 side effect of the raid was that the POW camps-where many prisoners had been
 kept permanently in solitary confinement-were closed, and all the Americans
 were brought into two large prisons where there was not enough room to keep
 them apart. Nevertheless, the world branded the raid a failure, and Simons
 felt a grave injustice had been done to his men.
  The disappointment rankled with him for years-_itntil, one weekend, Ross
  Perot threw a mammoth party in San Francisco, persuaded the army to round
  up the Son Tay Raiders from all over the world, and introduced them to the
  prisoners they had tried to rescue. That weekend, Simons felt, his Raiders
  had at last got the thanks they deserved. And Ross Perot had been
  responsible.
  "That's why 1, in here," Simons told Coburn. "Sure as hell, I wouldn't do
  this for anyone else."
  Coburn, thinking of his son Scott, knew exactly what Simons meant.

   4-
 On January 22 hundreds of hornafars-young air force officersmutinied at
 bases in Dezful, Hamadan, Isfahan, and Mashad, and declared themselves loyal
 to the Ayatollah Khomeini.
  The significance of the event was not apparent to National Security Advisor
  Zbigniew Brzezinski, who still expected the Iranian military to crush the
  Islamic revolution; nor to Premier Shahpour Bakhtiar, who was talking about
  meeting the revolutionary challenge with a minimum of force; nor to the
  Shah, who instead of going to the United States was hanging on in Egypt,
  waiting to be summoned back to save his country in its hour of need.
  Among the people who did see its significance were Ambassador William
  Sullivan and General Abbas Gharabaghi, the Iranian Chief of Staff.
  Sullivan told Washington that the idea of a pro-Shah countercoup was
  moonshine, the revolution was going to succeed and the U.S. had better
  start thinking about how it would live with the new order. He received a
  harsh reply from the White House suggesting that he was disloyal to the
  President. He decided to
 246        Ken FoUeft

 resign, but his wife talked him out of it: he had a responsibility to the
 thousands of Americans still in Iran, she pointed out, and he could hardly
 walk out on them now.
  General Gharabaghi also contemplated resigning. He was in an impossible
  position. He had sworn his oath of loyalty, not to the parliament or the
  government of Iran, but to the Shah personally; and the Shah was gone. For
  the time being Gharabaghi took the view that the military owed loyalty to
  the Constitution of 1906, but that meant little in practice. Theoretically
  the military ought to support the Bakhtiar government. Gharabaghi had been
  wondering for some weeks whether he could rely on his soldiers to follow
  orders and fight for Bakhtiar against the revolutionary forces. Ile revolt
  of the hornafars showed that he could not. He reWized-as Brzezinski did
  not-that an army was not a machine to be switched on and off at will, but
  a collection of people, sharing the aspirations, the anger, and the
  revivalist religion of the rest of the country. The soldiers wanted a
  revolution as much as the civilians. Gharabaghi concluded that he could no
  longer control his troops, and he decided to resign.
  On the day that he announced his intention to his fellow generals,
  Ambassador William Sullivan was summoned to Prime Minister Bakhtiar's
  office at six o'clock in the evening. Sullivan had heard, from U.S. General
  "Dutch" Huyser, of Gharabaghi's intended resignation, and he assumed that
  this was what Bakhtiar wanted to talk about.
  Bakhtiar waved Sullivan to a seat, Saying with an enigmatic smile. "Nous
  serons trois." There will be three of us. Bakhtiar always spoke French with
  Sullivan.
  A few minutes later General Gharabaghi walked in. Bakhttar spoke of the
  difficulties that would be created if the general were to resign.
  Gharabaghi began to reply in Farsi, but Bakhtiar made him speak French. As
  the general talked, he toyed with what seemed to be an envelope in his
  pocket: Sullivan guessed it was his letter of resignation.
  As the two Iranians argued in French, Bakhtiar kept turning to the American
  Ambassador for support. Sullivan secretly thought Gbarabaghi was absolutely
  right to resign, but his orders from the White House were to encourage the
  military to support Bakhtiar, so he doggedly argued, against his own
  convictions, that Gharabaghi should not resign. After a discussion of half
  an hour, the general left without delivering his letter of resignation.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   247

 Bakhtiar thanked Sullivan profusely for his help. Sullivan knew it would do
 no good.
  On January 24 Bakhtiar closed Tehran's airport to stop Khomeini from
  entering Iran. It was like opening an umbrella against a tidal wave. On
  January 26 soldiers killed fifteen pro-Khomeini protestors in street
  fighting in Tehran. Two days later Bakhtiar offered to go to Paris for
  talks with the Ayatollah. For a ruling Prime Minister to offer to visit an
  exiled rebel was a fantastic admission of weakness, and Khomeini saw it
  that way: he refused to talk unless Bakhtiar first resigned. On January 29,
  thirty-five people died in the fighting in Tehran and another fifty in the
  rest of the country. Gharabaghi, bypassing his Prime Minister, began talks
  with the rebels in Tehran, and gave his consent to the return of the
  Ayatollah. On January 30 Sullivan ordered the evacuation of all
  nonessential Embassy personnel and all dependents. On February I Khomeini
  came home.
  Ifis Air France jumbo jet landed at 9:15 A.m. Two million hinians turned
  out to greet him. At the airport the Ayatollah made his first public
  statement. "I beg God to cut off the hands of all evil foreigners and all
  their helpers."
  Simons saw it all on TV, then he said to Coburn: "That's it. The people are
  going to do it for us. The mob will take that jail. "
             NINE

 At midday on February 5 John Howell was on the point of getting Paul and
 Bill out of jail.
  Dadgar had said that he would accept bail in one of three forms: cash, a
  bank guarantee, or a lien on property. Cash was out of the question. First,
  anyone who flew into the lawless city of Tehran with $12,750,000 in a
  suitcase might never reach Dadgar's office alive. Second, Dadgar might take
  the money and still keep Paul and Bill, either by raising the bail or by
  rean-estmg them on some new pretext. (Tom Walter suggested using
  counterfeit money, but nobody knew where to get it.) There had to be a
  document that gave Dadgar the money and at the same time gave Paul and Bill
  their freedom. In Dallas Tom Walter had at last found a bank willing to
  issue a letter of credit for the bail, but Howell and Taylor were having
  trouble finding an Iranian bank to accept it and issue the guarantee Dadgar
  required. Meanwhile, Howell's boss Tom Luce thought about the third option,
  a lien on property, and came up with a wild and whacky idea that just might
  work: pledging the U.S. Embassy in Tehran as bail for Paul and Bill.
  The State Department was by now loosening up, but was not =rely tog pledge
  its Tehran embassy as bail. However, it to ive the guarantee of the United
  States government. Mat in itself was unique: the U.S.A. standing bad for
  two jailed menl
  First, Torn Walter in Dallas got a bank to issue a letter of credit in
  favor of the State Department for $12,750,000. Because this transaction
  took place entirely within the U.S., it was accomplished in hours rather
  than days. Once the State Department in Washington had the letter, Minister
  Counselor Charles Naas--
               248
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   249

 Ambassador Sullivan's deputy-would deliver a diplomatic note saying that
 Paul and Bill, once released, would make themselves available to Dadgar for
 questioning; otherwise, the bail would be paid by the Embassy.
  Right now Dadgar was in a meeting with Lou Goelz, Consul General at the
  Embassy. Howell had not been invited to attend, but Abolhasan was there for
  EDS.
  Howell had had a preliminary meeting with Goelz yesterday. Together they
  had gone over the terms of the guarantee, with Goelz reading the phrases in
  his quiet, precise voice. Goelz was changing. Two months ago Howell had
  found him maddemngly correct: it was Goelz who had refused to give back
  Paul and Bill's passports without telling the Iranians. Now Goelz seemed
  ready to try the unconventional. Perhaps living in the middle of a
  revolution had made the old boy unbend a little.
  Goeiz had told Howell that the decision to release Paul and Bill would be
  made by Prime Minister Bakhtiar, but it must first be cleared with Dadgar.
  Howell was hoping Dadgar would not make trouble, for Goelz was not the type
  of man to bang the table and force Dadgar to back down.
 lime was a tap at the door and Abolhasan walked in.
 Howell could tell from his face that he brought bad news.
 "What happened?"
 "He turned us down," Abolhasan said.
 "Why?"
  "He won't accept the guarantee of the United States govemment. 9 0
 "Did he give a reason?"
  "There's nothing in the law that says he can accept that as bail. He has to
  have cash, a bank guarantee-"
  "or a lien on property, I know." Howell felt numb. 'Mere had been so many
  disappointments, so many dead ends, he was no longer capable of resentment
  or anger. "Did you say anything about the Prime Minister?"
 "Yes. Goelz told hirn we would take this proposal to Bakhtiar.
 "What did Dadgar say to that?"
  "He said it was typical of the Americans. They try to resolve things by
  bringing influence to bear at high levels, with no concern for what is
  happening at lower levels. He also said that if his superiors did not like
  the way he was handling this case, they could take him off it, and he would
  be very happy, because he was weary Of it.,,
 250        Ken FoUett

  Howell frowned. What did all this mean? He had recently concluded that what
  the Iranians really wanted was the money. Now they had flatly turned it
  down. Was this genuinely because of the technical problem that the law did
  not specify a government guarantee as an acceptable form of bail--or was
  that an excuse? Perhaps it was genuine. The EDS case had always been
  politically sensitive, and now that the Ayatollah had returned, Dadgar
  might well be terrified of doing anything that could be construed as
  pro-American. Bending the rules to accept an unconventional form of bad
  might get him into trouble. What would happen if Howell succeeded in
  putting up bail in the legally required form? Would Dadgar then feel he had
  covered his rear, and release Paul and Bill? Or would he invent another
  excuse?
 There was only one way to find out.

 The week the Ayatollah returned to Iran, Paul and Bill asked for a priest.
  Paul's cold seemed to have turned to bronchitis. He had asked for the
  prison doctor. The doctor did not speak English, but Paul had no trouble
  explaining his problem: he coughed, and the doctor nodded.
  Paul was given some pills that he assumed were penicillin, and a bottle of
  cough medicine. The taste of the medicine was strikingly familiar, and he
  had a sudden, vivid flashback: he saw himself as a little boy, and his
  mother pouring the glutinous syrup from an old-fashioned bottle onto a
  spoon and dosing him with it. This was exactly the same stuff. It eased his
  cough, but he had aheady done some damage to the muscles in his chest, and
  he suffered a sharp pain every time he breathed deeply.
  He had a letter from Ruthie that he read and reread. It was an ordinary,
  newsy kind of letter. Karen was in a new school, and having some trouble
  adjusting. This was normal: every time she changed schools, Karen would be
  sick to her stomach for the first couple of days. Ann Marie, Paul's younger
  daughter, was much more happy-go-lucky. Ruthie was still telling her mother
  that Paul would be home in a couple of weeks, but the story was becoming
  implausible, for that two-week deadline had now been stretched for two
  months. She was buying a house, and Tom Walter was helping her with the
  legal processes. Whatever emotions Ruthie was going through, she did not
  put them in the letter.
 Keane Taylor was the most frequent visitor to the jail. Each
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   251

 time he came, he would hand Paul a pack of cigarettes with fifty or a
 hundred dollars folded inside. Paul and Bin could use the money in jail to
 buy special privileges, such as a bath. During one visit the guard left the
 room for a moment, and Taylor handed over four thousand dollars.
 On another visit Taylor brought Father Williams.
  Williams was pastor of the Catholic Mission where, in happier times, Paul
  and Bill had met with the EDS Tehran Roman Catholic Sunday Brunch Poker
  School. Williams was eighty years old, and his superiors had given him
  permission to leave Tehran, because of the danger. He had preferred to stay
  at his post. This kind of thing was not new to hun, he told Paul and Bill:
  he had been a missionary in China during World War H, when the Japanese had
  invaded, and later, during the revolution that brought Mao Tse-tung to
  power. He himself had been imprisoned, so he understood what Paul and Bin
  were going through-
  Father Williams boosted their morale almost as much as Ross Perot had.
  Bill, who was more devout than Paul, felt deeply strengthened by the visit.
  It gave him the courage to face the unknown future. Father Williams granted
  them absolution for their sins before he left. Bill still did not know
  whether he would get out of the jail alive, but now he felt prepared to
  face death.

 Iran exploded into revolution on Friday, February 9, 1979.
  in just over a week Khomeini had destroyed what was left of legitimate
  government. He had called on the military to mutiny and the members of
  Parliament to resign. He had appointed a "Provisional govemment" despite
  the fact that Bakhtiar was still officially Prime Minister. His supporters,
  organized into revolutionary commiam, had taken over responsibility for law
  and order and garbage collection, and had opened more than a hundred
  Islamic cooperative stores in Tehran. On February 8 a million people or
  more marched through the city in support of the Ayatollah. Street fighting
  went on continually between stray units of loyalist soldiers and gangs of
  Khomeini men.
  On February 9, at two Tehran air bases--Doshen Toppeh and
  Farahabad-formations of hoinafars and cadets gave a salute to Khomeini.
  This infuriated the Javadan Brigade, which had been the Shah's personal
  bodyguard, and they attacked both air bases. The homafars barricaded
  themselves in and repelled the loyalist
 252        Ken Follen

 troops, helped by crowds of armed revolutionaries mining around inside and
 outside the bases.
  Units of both the Marxist Fedayeen and the Muslim MuJahedeen guerrillas
  rushed to Doshen Toppeb. The armory was broken open and weapons were
  distributed indiscriminately to soldiers, guerrillas, revolutionaries,
  demonstrators, and passersby.
  That night at eleven o'clock the Javadan Brigade returned in force.
  Khomeini supporters within the nulitary warned the Doshen Toppeh rebels
  that the Brigade was on its way, and the rebels counterattacked before the
  Brigade reached the base. Several senior officers among the loyalists were
  killed early in the battle. The fighting continued all night, and spread to
  a large area around the base.
  By noon on the following day, the battlefield had widened to include most
  of the city.

 That day John Howell and Keane Taylor went downtown for a meeting.
  Howell was convinced they would get Paul and Bin released within hours.
  They were all set to pay the bail.
  Tom Walter had a Texas bank ready to issue a letter of credit for
  $12,750,000 to the New York branch of Bank Melli. The plan was that the
  Tehran branch of Bank Melli would then issue a bank guarantee to the
  Ministry of Justice, and Paul and Bill would be bailed out. It had not
  worked quite that way. The deputy managing director of Bank Melli,
  Sadr-Hashemi, had recognized-as had all the other banker"at Paul and Bill
  were commercial hostages, and that once they were out of jail EDS could
  argue in an American court that the money had been extorted and should not
  be paid. If that happened, Bank Mefli in New York would not be able to
  collect on the letter of creditbut Bank Melli in Tehran would still have to
  pay the money to the Iranian Ministry of Justice. Sadr-Hashemi said he
  would change his mind only if his New York lawyers told him there was no
  way EDS could block payment on the letter of credit. Howell knew perfectly
  well that no decent American attorney would issue such an opinion.
  Then Keane Taylor thought of Bank Orman. EDS had a contract to install an
  on-line computerized accounting system for Bank Omran, and Taylor's job in
  Tehran had been to supervise this contract, so he knew the bank's
  officials. He met with Farhad Bakhtiar, who was one of the top men there as
  well as
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   253

 being a relative of Prime Minister Shahpour Bakhtiar. It was clear that the
 Prime Minister was going to fall from power any day, and Farhad was planning
 to leave the country. Perhaps that was why he was less concerned than
 Sadr-Hasherrii about the possibility that the $12,750,000 would never be
 paid. Anyway, for whatever reason, he had agreed to help.
  Bank Omran did not have a U.S. branch. How, then, could EDS pay the money?
  It was agreed that the Dallas bank would lodge its letter of credit with
  the Dubai branch of Bank Omran by a system called Tested Telex. Dubai would
  then call Tehran on the phone to confirm that the letter of credit had been
  received, and the Tehran branch of Bank 0mran would issue the guarantee to
  the Ministry of Justice.
  There were delays. Everything had to be approved by the board of directors
  of Bank Omran, and by the bank's lawyers. Everyone who looked at the deal
  suggested small changes in the language. The changes, in English and Farsi,
  had to be communicated to Dubai and to Dallas, then a new telex had to be
  sent from Dallas to Dubai, tested, and approved by phone with Tehran.
  Because the Iranian weekend was Thursday and Friday, there were only three
  days in the week when both banks were open; and because Tehran was nine and
  a half hours ahead of Dallas, there was never a time of day when both banks
  were open. Furthermore, the Iranian banks were on strike a good deal of the
  time. Consequently a two-word change could take a week to arrange.
  The last people who had to approve the deal were the Iranian central bank.
  Getting that approval was the task Howell and Taylor had set themselves for
  Saturday, February 10.
  The city was relatively quiet at eight-thirty in the morning when they
  drove to Bank Orman. They met with Farhad Bakhtiar. To their surprise, he
  said that the request for approval was ah-eady with the central bank.
  Howell was delighted-for once something was happening ahead of time in
  Iran! He left some documents with Farhad-including a signed letter of
  agreementand he and Taylor drove farther downtown to the central bank.
  The city was waking up now, the traffic even more nightmarish than usual,
  but dangerous driving was Taylor's specialty, and he tore through the
  streets, cutting across lanes of traffic, U-tuming in the middle of
  freeways, and generally beating the Iranian drivers at their own game.
 At the central bank they had a long wait to see Mr. Farhang,
 254       Ken Follett

 who would give approval. Eventually he stuck his head out of his office door
 and said the deal had already been approved and the approval notified to
 Bank Omran.
 This was good news!
  They got back into the car and headed for Bank Omran. Now they could tell
  that there was serious fighting in parts of the city. The noise of gunfire
  was continuous, and plumes of smoke rose from burning buildings. Bank Omran
  was opposite a hospital, and the dead and wounded were being brought in
  from the battle zones in cars, pickup trucks, and buses, all the vehicles
  having white cloths tied to their radio antennae to signify emergency, all
  hooting constantly. The street was jammed with people, some coniing to give
  blood, others to visit the sick, still others to identify corpses.
  They had resolved the bail problem not a moment too soon. Not only Paul and
  Bill, but now Howell and Taylor and all of diem, were in grave danger. They
  had to get out of Iran fast.
 Howell and Taylor went into the bank and found Farhad.
 "'Me central bank has approved the deal," Howell told him.
 -1 know."
 "Is the letter of agreement all right?"
 "No problems."
  "Then, if you give us the bank guarantee, we can go to the Ministry of
  Justice with it right away."
 "Not today."
 "Why not?"
  "Our lawyer, Dr. Emami, has reviewed the credit document and wishes to make
  some small changes."
 Taylor muttered: "Jesus Christ."
 Farhad said: "I have to go to Geneva for five days."
 Forever was more likely.
  "My colleagues will look after you, and if you have any problems just call
  me in Switzerland. "
  Howell suppressed his anger. Farhad knew perfectly well that things were
  not that simple: with him away, everything would be more difficult. But
  nothing would be accomplished by an emotional outburst, so Howell just
  said: "What are the changes?"
 Farhad called in Dr. Emami.
  "I also need the signatures of two more directors of the bank," Farhad
  said. "I can get those at the board meeting tomorrow. And I need to check
  the references of the National Bank of Commerce in Dallas."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   255

 "And how long will that take?"
 "Not long. My assistants will deal with it while I am away."
  Dr. Emarni showed Howell the changes he proposed in the language of the
  credit letter. Howell was happy to agree to them, but the rewritten letter
  would, have to go through the timeconsuming process of being transmitted
  from Dallas to Dubai by Tested Telex and from Dubai to Tehran by telephone.
  "Look," said Howell, "let's try to get all this done today., You could
  check the references of the Dallas bank now. We could find those other two
  bank directors, wherever in the city they are, and get their signatures
  this aftemoon. We could call Dallas, give them the language changes, and
  get them to send the telex now. Dubai could confirm to you this aftemoon.
  You could issue the bank guarantee-"
 "There is a holiday in Dubai today," said Farhad.
 "All right, Dubai can confirm tomorrow morning-"
  "There is a strike tomorrow. Nobody will be here at the bank. "
 "Monday, then-"
  The conversation was interrupted by the sound of a siren. A secretary put
  her head around the door and said something in Farsi. "There is an early
  curfew," Farhad translated. "We must all leave now.'
  Howell and Taylor sat there looking at each other. Two minutes later they
  were alone in the office. They had failed yet again.

 T
 Mat evening Simons said to Coburn: "Tomorrow is the day."
 Coburn thought he was full of shit.

   2

 In the morning on Sunday, February 11, the negotiating team went as usual to
 the EDS office they called "Bucharest." John Howell left, taking Abolhasan
 with him, for an eleven o'clock meeting with Dadgar at the Ministry of
 Health. The othersKeane Taylor, Bill Gayden, Bob Young, and Rich Gallagher-
 went up on the roof to watch the city bum.
 Bucharest was not a high building, but it was located on a
 256        Ken Folleu

 slope of the hills that rose to the north of Tehran, so from the roof they
 could see the city laid out like a tableau. To the south and east, where
 modem skyscrapers rose out of the low-rise villas and slums, great palls of
 smoke billowed up into the murky air, while helicopter gunships buzzed
 around the fires like wasps at a barbecue. One of EDS's Iranian drivers
 brought a transistor radio up to the roof and tuned it to a station that had
 been taken over by the revolutionaries. With the help of the radio and the
 driver's translation, they tried to identify the burning buildings.
  Keane Taylor, who had abandoned his elegant vested suits for jeans and
  cowboy boots, went downstairs to take a phone call. It was the Cycle Man.
  "You need to get out of there," the Cycle Man told Taylor. "Get out of the
  country as quickly as you can."
  "You lmow we can't do that," Taylor said. "We can't leave without Paul and
  Bill."
 "It's going to be very dangerous for you."
  Taylor could hear, at the other end of the line, the noise of a terrific
  battle. "Where the hell are you, anyway?"
  "Near the bazaar," said the Cycle Man. "I'm making Molotov cocktails. They
  brought in helicopters this morning and we just figured out how to shoot
  them down. We burned four tanks-"
 The line went dead.
  Incredible, Taylor thought as he cradled the phone. In the middle of a
  battle, he suddenly thinks of his American friends, and calls to warn us.
  Iranians will never cease to surprise me.
 He went back up on the roof.
  "Look at this," Bill Gayden said to him. Gayden, the jovial president of
  EDS World, had also switched to off-duty clothes: nobody was even
  pretending to do business anymore. He pointed to a column of smoke in the
  east. "If that isn't the Gasr Prison burning, it's damn close."
 Taylor peered into the distance. It was hard to tell.
  "Call Dadgar's office at the Ministry of Health," Gayden told Taylor.
  "Howell should be there now. Get him to ask Dadgar to release Paul and Bill
  to the custody of the Embassy, for their own safety. If we don't get them
  out, they're going to burn to death.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   257

 John Howell had hardly expected Dadgar to turn up. The city was a
 battlefield, and an investigation into corruption under the Shah now seemed
 an academic exercise. But Dadgar was there in his office, waiting for
 Howell. Howell wondered what the hell was driving the man. Dedication?
 Hatred of Americans? Fear of the incoming revolutionary government? He would
 probably never know.
  Dadgar had asked Howell about EDS's relationship with Abolfath Mahvi, and
  Howell had promised a complete dossier. It seemed the information was
  important to Dadgar's mysterious purposes, for a few days later he had
  pressed Howell for the dossier, saying: "I can interrogate the people here
  and get the information I need," which Howell took as a threat to arrest
  more EDS executives.
  Howell had prepared a twelve-page dossier in English, with a covering
  letter in Farsi. Dadgar read the covering letter, then spoke. Abolhasan
  translated: "Your company's helpfulness is laying the groundwork for a
  change in my attitude toward Chiapparone and Gaylord. Our legal code
  provides for such leniency toward those who supply information. "
  It was farcical. They could all be killed in the next few hours, and here
  was Dadgar still talking about applicable provisions of the legal code.
  Abolhasan began to translate the dossier aloud into Farsi. Howell knew that
  choosing Mahvi as an Iranian partner had not been the smartest move EDS
  ever made: Mahvi had got the company its first, small contract in Iran, but
  subsequently he had been blacklisted by the Shah and had caused trouble
  over the Ministry of Health contract. However, EDS had nothing to hide.
  Indeed, Howell's boss Tom Luce, in his eagerness to place EDS above
  suspicion, had filed details of the EDS-Mahvi relationship with the
  American Securities Exchange Commission, so that much of what was in the
  dossier was already public knowledge.

 The phone interrupted Abolhasan's translation. Dadgar picked it up, then
 handed it to Abolhasan, who listened for a moment, then said: "It's Keane
 Taylor."
  A minute later he hung up and said to Howell: "Keane has been up on the
  roof at Bucharest. He says there are fires down by Gasr Prison. If the mob
  attacks the prison, Paul and Bill could get hurt. He suggested we ask
  Dadgar to turn them over to the American Embassy."
 258        Ken Follen

 "Okay' " Howell said. "Ask him."
 He waited while Abolhasan and Dadgar conversed in Farsi.
  Finally Abolhasan said: "According to our laws, they have to be kept in an
  lranian prison. He can't consider the U.S. Embassy to be an hanian prison."
  Crazier and crazier. 7tbe whole country was falling apart, and Dadgir was
  still consulting his book of rules. Howell said- "Ask him how he proposes
  to guarantee the safety of two American citizens who have not been charged
  with any crime."
  Dadgar's reply was: "Don't be concerned. The worst that could happen is
  that the prison might be overnin."
 "And what if the mob decides to attack Americans.
 ' 'Chiapparone Will probably be Safe-.he could pass for h7anian.
 "Terrific," said Howell. "And what about Gaylord?"
 Dadgar just shrugged.

 Rashid left his house early that morning.
  His parents, his brother, and his sister planned to stay indoors all day,
  and they had urged him to do the same, but he would not listen. He knew it
  would be dangerous on the streets, but he could not hide at home while his
  countrymen were making history. Besides, he had not forgotten his
  conversation with Simons.
  He was living by impulse. On Friday he had found himself at Farahabad Air
  Base during the clash between the hornafars and the loyalist Javadan
  Brigade. For no particular reason, he had gone into the armory and started
  passing out rifles. After half an hour of that he got bored and left.
  That same day he had seen a dead man for the first time. He had been at the
  mosque when a bus driver who had been shot by soldiers had been brought in.
  On impulse Rashid had uncovered the face of the corpse. A whole section of
  the head was destroyed, a mixture of blood and brains: it had been
  sickening. The incident seemed like a warning, but Rashid was in no mood to
  heed warnings. The streets were where things were happening, and he had to
  be there.
  This morning the atmosphere was electric. Crowds were everywhere. Hundreds
  of men and boys were toting automatic rifles. Rashid, wearing a flat
  English cap and an open-neck shirt, mingled with them, feeling the
  excitement. Anything could happen today.
 He was vaguely heading for Bucharest. He still had duties: he
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   259

 was negotiating with two shipping companies to transport the belongings of
 the EDS evacuees back to the States, and he had to feed the abandoned dogs
 and cats. The scenes on the streets changed his mind. Rumor said that the
 Evin Prison had been stormed last night; today it might be the turn of the
 Gasr Prison, where Paul and Bill were.
 Rashid wished he had an automatic rifle like the others.
  He passed an army building that appeared to have been invaded by the mob.
  It was a six-story block containing an armory and a draft registration
  office. Rashid had a friend who worked there, Malek. It occurred to him
  that Malek might be in trouble. If he had come to work this nionfing, he
  would be wearing his army umform-and that alone might be enough to get him
  killed today. I could lend Malek my shirt, Rashid thought; and impulsively
  he went into the building.
  He pushed his way through the crowd on the ground floor and found the
  staircase. The rest of the building seemed empty. As he climbed, he
  wondered whether soldiers were hiding out on the upper floors: if so, they
  might shoot anyone who came along. He went on regardless. He climbed to the
  top floor. Malek was not there. Nobody was there. The army had abandoned
  the place to the mob.
  Rashid returned to the ground floor. The crowd had gathered around the
  entrance to the basement armory, but no one was going in. Rashid pushed his
  way to the front and said: "Is this door locked?"
 "It might be booby-trapped," someone said.
  Rashid looked at the door. All thoughts of going to Bucharest had now left
  him. He wanted to go to the Gasr Prison, and he wanted to carry a gun.
  "I don't think this armory is booby-trapped," he said, and he opened the
  door.
 He went down the staircase.
  The basement consisted of two rooms divided by an archway. The place was
  dimly lit by narrow strip windows high in the walls, just above street
  level. The floor was of black mosaic tiles. In the first room were open
  boxes of loaded magazines. In the second were G3 machine guns.
  After a minute some of the crowd upstairs followed him down.
  He grabbed three machine guns and a sack of magazines and left. As soon as
  he got outside the building, people jumped all
 260         Ken Folka

 over him, asking for weapons: he gave away two of the guns and some of the
 ammunition.
 Then he walked away, heading for Gasr Square.
 Some of the mob went with him.
  On the way they had to pass a military garrison. A skirmish was going on
  there. A steel door in the high brick wall around the garrison had been
  smashed down, as if a tank had rolled through it, and the brickwork on
  either side of the entrance had crumbled. A burning car stood across the
  way in.
 Rashid went around the car and through the entrance.
  He found himself in a large compound. From where he stood, a bunch of
  people were shooting haphazardly at a building a couple of hundred yards
  away. Rashid took cover behind a wall. The people who had followed him
  joined in the shooting, but he held his fire. Nobody was really aiming.
  They were just tying to scare the soldiers in the building. It was a funny
  kind of battle. Rashid had never imagined the revolution would be like
  this: just a disorganized crowd with guns they hardly knew how to use,
  wandering around on a Sunday morning, firing at walls, encountering
  halfhearted resistance from invisible troops.
 Suddenly a man near him fell dead.
  It happened so quickly: Rashid did not even see him fall. At one moment the
  man was standing four feet away fi-orn Rashid, firing his rifle; the next
  moment he lay on the ground with his forehead blown away.
  They carried the corpse out of the compound. Someone found a jeep. They put
  the body in the jeep and drove off. Rashid reiuried to the skirmish.
  Ten minutes later, for no apparent reason, a piece of wood with a white
  undershirt tied to its end was waved out of one of the windows in the
  building they had been shooting at. The soldiers had surrendered.
 Just like that.
 There was a sense of anticlimax.
 This is my chance, Rashid thought.
  It was easy to manipulate people if you understood the psychology of the
  human being. You just had to study the people, comprehend their situation,
  and figure out their needs. These people, Rashid decided, want excitement
  and adventure. For the first time in their lives they have guns in their
  hands: They need a target, and anything that symbolizes the regime of the
  Shah will do.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   261

  Right now they were standing around wondering where to go next.
 "Listen!" Rashid shouted.
 They all tistened-4hey had nothing better to do.
 "I'm going to the Gasr Prison!"
 Someone cheered.
  "The people in there are prisoners of the regime-4 we are against the
  regime we should let them out!"
 Several people shouted their agreement.
 He started walking.
 They followed him.
  It's the mood they're in, he thought; they'll follow anyone who seems to
  know where to go.
  He started with a band of twelve or fifteen men and boys, but as he walked
  the group grew: everyone with nowhere to go automatically joined in.
 Rashid had become a revolutionary leader.
 Nothing was impossible.
  He stopped just before Gasr Square and addressed his army. "The jails must
  be taken over by the people, just like the police stations and the
  garrisons; this is our responsibility. There are people in Gasr Prison who
  are guilty of nothing. They are just like us--our brothers, our cousins.
  Like us, they only want their freedom. But they were braver than we, for
  they demanded their freedom while the Shah was here, and they were thrown
  in lia-il for it. Now we shall let them out!"
 They all cheered.
  He remembered something Simons had said. "The Gasr Prison is our Bastille!"
 They cheered louder.
 Rashid turned and ran into the square.
  He took cover on the streetcorner opposite the huge steel entrance gates of
  the prison. There was a fair-sized mob in the square already, he realized;
  probably the prison would be stormed today with or without his help. But
  the important thing was to help Paul and Bill.
 He raised his gun and fired into the air.
  The mob in the square scattered, and the shooting began in earnest.
  once again, the resistance was halfhearted. A few guards fired back from
  the gun towers on the walls and from the windows close to the gates. As far
  as Rashid could see, no one on either
 262       Ken Follett

 side was hit. Once again, the battle ended not with a bang but a whimper.
 the guards simply disappeared from the walls and the shooting stopped.
  Rashid waited a couple of minutes, to make sure they had gone, then he ran
  across the square to the prison entrance.
 The gates were locked.
  The mob crowded around. Someone fired a burst at the gates, trying to shoot
  them open. Rashid thought: he's seen too many cowboy movies. Another man
  produced a crowbar from somewhere, but it was impossible to force the gates
  open. We would need dynamite, Rashid thought.
  In the brick wall beside the gates was a little barred window, through
  which a guard could see who was outside. Rashid smashed the glass with his
  gun, then started to attack the brickwork in which the bars were embedded.
  The man with the crowbar helped lum, then three or four others crowded
  around, trying to loosen the bars with their hands, their gun barrels, and
  anything else that came to hand. Soon the bars carne out and fen to the
  ground.
 Rashid wriggled through the window.
 He was inside!
 Anything was possible.
  He found himself in a little guardroom. There were no guards. He put his
  head out of the door. Nobody.
 He wondered where the keys to the cell blocks were kept.
  He went out of the office and past the big gates to another guardroom on
  the far side of the entrance. There he found a big bunch of keys.
  He returned to the gates. Inset into one of them was a small door secured
  by a simple bar.
 Rashid lifted the bar and opened the door.
 The mob poured in.
  Rashid stood back. He handed keys to anyone who would take them, saying,
  "Open every cell--let the people go!"
  They swarmed past him. His career as a revolutionary leader was over. He
  had achieved his objective. He, Rashid, had led the storming of the Gasr
  Prison!
 Once again, Rashid had done the impossible.
  Now he had to find Paul and Bill among the eleven thousand eight hundred
  inmates of the jail.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   263

 Bill woke up at six o'clock. All was quiet.
  He had slept well, he realized with some surprise. He had not expected to
  sleep at all. The last thing he remembered was lying on his bunk listening
  to what sounded like a pitched battle outside. If you're tired enough, he
  thought, I suppose you can sleep anywhere. Soldiers sleep in foxholes. You
  become acclimtized. No matter how frightened you may be, in the end your
  body takes control and you nod off.
 He said a rosary.
  He washed, brushed his teeth, shaved, and dressed, then he sat looking out
  the window, waiting for breakfast, wondering what EDS was planning for
  today.
  Paul woke up around seven. He looked at Bill and said: "Couldn't sleep?"
 "Sure I slept," Bill said. "I've been up an hour or so."
  "I didn't sleep well. The shooting was heavy most of the night." Paul got
  out of his bunk and went to the bathroom.
  A few minutes later breakfast came: bread and tea. Bill opened a can of
  orange juice that had been brought in by Keane Taylor.
 The shooting started again around eight o'clock.
  The prisoners speculated about what might be going on outside, but no one
  had any hard information. All they could see was the helicopters darting
  across the skyline, apparently shooting down at rebel positions on the
  ground. Every time a helicopter flew over the prison, Bill watched for a
  ladder to come dropping out of the sky into the courtyard of Building
  Number 8. This was his regular daydream. He also fantasized about a small
  group of EDS people, led by Coburn and an older man, swarming over the
  prison wall with rope ladders; or a large force of American military
  arriving at the last minute, like the cavalry in the western movies,
  blasting a huge gap in the wall with dynamite.
  He had done mote than daydream. In his quiet, apparently casual way, he had
  inspected every inch of the building and courtyard, estimating the fastest
  way out under various imagined circumstances. He knew how many guards there
  were and how many rifles they possessed. Whatever might happen, he was
  ready.
 it began to look as if today would be the day.
  The guards were not following their normal routines. In jail everything was
  done by routine: a prisoner, with little else to do, observed the patterns
  and quickly became familiar with them. Today everything was different. The
  guards appeared nervous,
 264       Ken Follett

 whispering in comers, hurrying everywhere. The sounds of batde outside grew
 louder. With all this going on, was it possible that today would end like
 any other day? We might escape, Bill thought, or we might get killed; but
 surely we won't be turning off the TV and lying down on our bunks as usual
 tonight.
  At about ten-thirty he saw most of the officers crossing the prison
  compound, heading north, as if they were going to a meeting. They hurried
  back half an hour later. The major in charge of Building Number 8 went into
  his office. He emerged a couple of minutes later-in civilian clothes! He
  carried a shapeless parcel-4iis uniform?--out of the building. Looking
  through the window, Bill saw him put the parcel in the trunk of his BMW,
  which was parked outside the courtyard fence, then get in the car and drive
  away.
  What did that mean? Would all the officers leave? Was that how it would
  happen-would Paul and Bill be able just to walk out?
  Lunch came a little before noon. Paul ate but Bill was not hungry. The
  firing seemed very close now, and they could hear shouting and chanting
  from the streets.
  Three of the guards in Building Number 8 suddenly appeared in civilian
  clothes.
 This had to be the end.
  Paul and Bill went downstairs and into the courtyard. The mental patients
  on the ground floor all seemed to be screaming. Now the guards in the gun
  towers were firing into the streets outside: the prison must be under
  attack.
  Was that good news or bad? wondered Bill. Did EDS know this was happening?
  Could it be part of Coburn's rescue? There had been no visitors for two
  days. Had they all gone home? Were they still alive?
  The sentry who normally guarded the courtyard gate had gone, and the gate
  was open.
 The gate was open!
 Did the guards want the prisoners to leave?
  Other cell blocks must have been open, too, for there were now prisoners as
  well as guards running around the compound. Bullets whistled through the
  trees and ricocheted off buildings.
 A slug landed at Paul's feet.
 They both stared at it.
  The guards in the gun towers were now firing into the compound.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   265

 Paul and Bill turned and ran back into Building Number 8.
  They stood at a window, watching the mounting chaos in the compound. It was
  ironic: for weeks they had thought of little else but their fteedorn, yet
  now that they could walk out, they hesitated.
 "What do you think we should do?" said Paul.
 "I don't know. Is it mote dangerous in here or out there?"
 Paul shrugged.
  "Hey, there's the billionaire." They could see the rich prisoner from
  Building Number "e one who had a private room and meals brought in from
  outside-crossing the compound with two of his henchmen. He had shaved off
  his luxuriant handlebar mustache. Instead of his mink-lined camel coat, he
  wore a shirt and pants: he was stripped for action, traveling light, ready
  to move fast. He was heading north, away from the prison gates: did that
  mean there was a back way out?
  The guards ftom Building Number 8, all now in civilian clothes, crossed the
  little courtyard and went out through the gate.
 Everyone was leaving, yet still Paul and Bill hesitated.
 "See that motorcycle?" said Paul.
 ..I see it."
 "We could leave on that. I used to ride a motorcycle."
 "How would we get it over the wall?"
 110h, yeah." Paul laughed at his own foolishness.
  Their cellmate had found a couple of big bags and he began to pack his
  clothes. Bill felt the urge to take off, just to get out of here, whether
  or not that was part of the EDS plan. Freedom was so close. But bullets
  were flying around out there, and the mob attacking die jail might well be
  anti-American. On the other hand, if the authorities were somehow to regain
  control of the prison, Paul and Bill would have lost their last chance of
  escape ...
  "I wonder where Gayden is now, the son of a bitch," said Paul. "The only
  reason I'm here is because he sent me to Iran."
 Bill looked at Paul and realized he was only joking.
  The patients from the ground-floor hospital swarmed out into the courtyard:
  someone must have unlocked their doors. Bill
 could hear a tremendous commotion, like cr g,women's
                     yrin from the oell block on the other side of the
                     street. There were more and more people out in the
                     compound, flocking toward the prison
 266        Ken Folleu

 entrance. Looking that way, Bill saw smoke. Paul saw it at the same moment.
 Bill said: "If they're going to bum the place .
 "We'd better get out."
 The fire tipped the balance: their decision was made.
  Bill looked around the cell. The two of them had few possessions. Bill
  thought of the diary he had kept faithfully for the last forty-three days.
  Paul had written fists of things he would do when he got back to the
  States, and had figured out, on a sheet of paper, the finance on the new
  house Ruthie was buying. They both had precious letters from home that they
  had read over and over again.
  Paul said: "We're probably better off not carrying anything that shows
  we're Americans."
  Bill had picked up his diary. Now he dropped it again. "You're right," he
  said reluctantly.
  They put on their coats: Paul had a blue London Fog raincoat and Bill an
  overcoat with a fur collar.
  They had about two thousand dollars each, money that Keane Taylor had
  brought in. Paul had some cigarettes. They took nothing else.
  They went out of the building and crossed the little courtyard, then
  hesitated at the gate. The street was now a sea of people, like the crowd
  leaving a sports stadium, walking and running in one mass toward the prison
  gates.
 Paul stuck out his hand. "Hey, good luck, Bill."
 Bill shook his hand. "Good luck to you."
  Probably we'll both die in the next few minutes, Bill thought, most likely
  from a stray bullet. I'll never see the kids grow up, he realized sadly.
  The thought that Emily would have to manage on her own made him angry.
 Amazingly enough, he felt no fear.
  They stepped through the little gate, and then there was no more time for
  reflection.
  They were swept into the throng, like twigs dropped into a fast-flowing
  stream. Bill concentrated on sticking close to Paul and staying upright,
  not to get trampled. There was stiff a lot of shooting. One lone guard had
  stayed at his post and seemed to be firing into the crowd from his gan
  tower. Two or three people fell_one of them was the American woman they had
  seen before--but it was not clear whether they had been shot or had merely
  stumbled. I don't want to die yet, Bill thought; I've got
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   267

 plans, things I want to do with my family, in my career, this is not the
 time, not the place, for me to die; what a rotten hand of cards I've been
 dealt ...
  They passed the Officers' Club where they had met with Perot just three
  weeks ago--it seemed like years. Vengeful prisoners were smashing up the
  club and wrecking the officers' cars outside. Where was the sense in that?
  For a moment the whole scene seemed unreal, like a dream, or a nightmare.
  The chaos around the main prison entrance was worse. Paul and Bill held
  back, and managed to detach themselves from the crowd, for fear of being
  crushed. Bill recalled that some of the prisoners had been here fbr
  twenty-five years: it was no wonder, after that length of time, that when
  they smelled freedom they went berserk.
  It seemed that the prison gates must still be shut, for scores of people
  were trying to climb the immense exterior wall. Some were standing on cars
  and trucks that had been pushed up against the wall. Others were climbing
  trees and crawling precariously along overhanging branches. Still more had
  leaned planks against the brickwork and were trying to scramble up those.
  A few people had reached the top of the wall by one means or another and
  were letting down ropes and sheets to those below, but the ropes were not
  long enough.
  Paul and Bill stood watching, wondering what to do. They were joined by
  some of the other foreign prisoners from Building Number 8. One of them, a
  New Zealander charged with drug smuggling, had a big grin all over his face
  as if he were enjoying the whole thing hugely. There was a kind of
  hysterical elation in the air, and Bill began to catch it. Somehow, he
  thought, we're going to get out of this mess alive.
  He looked around. To the right of the gates the buildings were burning. To
  the left, some distance away, he saw an h-dWan prisoner waving as if to
  say: This way! There had been some construction work on that section of the
  wall-a building seemed to be going up on the far side-and there was a steel
  door in the wan to allow access to the site. Looking more closely, Bill
  could see that the waving Iranian had got the steel door open.
 "Hey-look over there!" said Bill.
 "Let's go," said Paul.
  They ran over. Several other prisoners followed. They went through the
  door-and found themselves trapped in a kind of cell without doors or
  windows. There was a smell of new cement.
 268       Ken Follett

 Builders' tools lay around. Someone grabbed a pickaxe and swung it at the
 wall. The fresh concrete crumbled quickly. Two or three others joined in,
 hacking away with anything that came to hand. Soon the hole was big enough:
 they dropped their tools and crawled through.
  They were now between the two prison walls. The inner wall, behind them,
  was the high one-twenty-five or thirty feet. The outer wall, which stood
  between them and freedom, was only ten or twelve feet high.
  An athletic prisoner managed to get up onto the top of the wall. Another
  man stood at its foot and beckoned. A third prisoner went forward. The man
  on the ground pushed him up, the one on top pulled, and the prisoner went
  over the wall.
 It happened very quickly then.
 Paul took a run at the wall.
 Bill was right behind him.
  Bill's mind was a blank. He ran. He felt a push, helping him up; then a
  pull; then he was at the top, and he jumped.
 He landed on the pavement.
 He got to his feet.
 Paul was right beside him.
 We're free! thought Bill. We're free!
 He felt like dancing.

 Coburn put down the phone and said: "That was Majid. The mob has overrun the
 prison."
  "Good," said Simons. He had told Coburn, earlier that morning, to send
  Majid down to Gasr Square.
  Simons was very cool, Coburn thought. This was it-this was the big day! Now
  they could get out of the apartment, get on the move, activate their plans
  for "getting out of Dodge. - Yet Simons showed no signs of excitement.
 "What do we do now?" said Coburn.
  "Nothing. Majid is there, Rashid is there. If those two can't take care of
  Paul and Bill, we sure as hell won't be able to. If Paul and Bill don't
  turn up by nightfall, we'll do what we discussed: you and Majid will go out
  on a motorcycle and search. 11
 "And meanwhile?"
 "We stick to the plan. We sit tight. We wait."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   269

 'Mere was a crisis it the U - S . Embassy .
  Ambassador William Sullivan had got an emergency call for help from General
  Gast, head of the Military Assistance Advisory Group. MAAG Headquarters was
  surrounded by a mob. Tanks were drawn up outside the budding and shots were
  being exchanged. Gast and his officers, together with most of the kanian
  general staff, were in a bunker underneath the budding.
  Sullivan had every able-bodied man in the Embassy making phone calls,
  trying to find revolutionary leaders who might have the authority to call
  off the mob. The phone on Sullivan's desk was ringing constantly. In the
  middle of the crisis he got a call from Undersecretary Newsom in
  Washington.
  Newsom was calling from the Situation Room in the White House, where
  Zbigniew Brzezinski was chairing a meeting on Iran. He asked for Sullivan's
  assessment of the current position in Tehran. Sullivan gave it to him in a
  few short phrases, and told him that right at that moment he was
  preoccupied with saving the life of the senior American military officer in
  Iran.
  A few minutes later Sullivan got a call from an Embassy official who had
  succeeded in reaching lbralum Yazdi, a Khornemi sidekick. The official was
  telling Sullivan that Yazdi might help when the call was overridden and
  Newsom came on the line again.
  Newsom said: "The National Security Advisor has asked for your view of the
  possibility of a coup d'6tat by the Iranian military to take over from the
  Bakhtiar goverrunent, winch is clearly faltering."
  The question was so ridiculous that Sullivan blew his cool. "Tell
  Brzezinski to fuck off," he said.
 -That,s m a very helpful comment," said Newsom.
  -You want it translated into Polish?" Sullivan said, and he hung up the
  phone.

 On the roof of Bucharest, the negotiating team could see the fires spreading
 uptown. The noise of shooting was also coming closer to where they stood.
  John Howell and Abolhasan returned from their meeting with Dadgar. "Well?"
  Gayden said to Howell. "What did that bastard say?"
 "He won't let them go."
 "Bastard."
 A few minutes later they all heard a noise that sounded
 270       Ken Folleff

 distinctly like a bullet whistling by. A moment later the noise came again.
 They decided to get off the roof.
  They went down to the offices and watched from the windows. They began to
  see, in the street below, boys and young men with rifies. It seemed the mob
  had broken into a nearby armory. This was too close for comfort: it was
  time to abandon Bucharest and go to the Hyatt, which was farther uptown.
  They went out and jumped into two cars, then headed up the Shahanshahi
  Expressway at top speed. The streets were packed, and there was a carnival
  atmosphere. People were leaning out of their windows yelling "Allahar
  Akbar!" God is great! Most of the traffic was headed downtown, toward the
  fighting. Taylor drove straight through three roadblocks, but nobody mmded:
  they were all dancing.
  They reached the Hyatt and assembled in the sitting room of the
  eleventh-floor comer suite that Gayden had taken over from Perot. They were
  joined by Rich Gallagher's wife, Cathy, and her white poodle, Buffy.
  Gayden had stocked the suite with booze from the abandoned homes of EDS
  evacuees, and he now had the best bar in Tehran; but no one felt much
  likedrinking.
 "What do we do next?" Gayden asked.
 Nobody had any ideas.
  Gayden got on the phone to Dallas, where it was now six A.M. He reached Tom
  Walter and told him about the fires, the fighting, and the kids on the
  streets with their automatic rifles.
 "That's all I got to report," he finished.
  In his slow Alabama drawl, Walter said: "Other than that a quiet day, hub?"
  They discussed what they would do if the phone lines went down. Gayden said
  he would try to get messages through via the U.S. military: Cathy Gallagher
  worked for the army and she thought she could swing it.
  Keane Taylor went into the bedroom and lay down. He thought about his wife,
  Mary. She was in Pittsburgh, staying with his parents. Taylor's mother and
  father were both past eighty and in failing health. Mary had called to tell
  him his mother had been rushed to the hospital: it was her heart. Mary
  wanted Taylor to come home. He had spoken to his father, who had said
  ambiguously: "You know what you have to do." It was true: Taylor knew he
  had to stay here. But it was not easy, not for him or for Mary.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   271

  He was dozing on Gayden's bed when the phone rang. He reached out to the
  bedside table and picked it up. "Hello?" he said sleepily.
 A breathless Iranian voice said: "Are Paul and Bill there?"
 "What?" said Taylor. "Rashid-is that you?"
 "Are Paul and Bill there?" Rashid repeated.
 "No. What do you mean?"
 "Okay, I'm coming, I'm coming."
 Rashid hung up.
  Taylor got off the bed and went into the sitting room. "Rashid just
  called," he told the others. "He asked me if Paul and Bill were here. "
  "What did he mean?" said Gayden. "Where was he calling from? I I
  "I couldn't get anything else out of him. He was all excited, and you know
  how bad his English is when he gets wound up.
 "Didn't he say any more?"
 "He said: 'I'm coming,' then he hung up.
  "Shit." Gayden turned to Howell. "Give me the phone." Howell was sitting
  with the phone to his ear, saying nothing: they were keeping the line to
  Dallas open. At the other end an EDS switchboard operator was listening,
  waiting for someone to speak. Gayden said: "Let me talk to Tom Walter
  again, please."
  As Gayden told Walter about Rashid's call, Taylor wondered what it meant.
  Why would Rashid imagine Paul and Bill might be at the Hyatt? They were in
  jail-weren't they? , ty, smell-
 A few minutes later Rashid burst into the room du
 ing of gunsmoke, with clips of G3 ammunition falling out of his pockets,
 talking a mile a minute so that nobody could understand a word. Taylor
 calmed him down. Eventually he said: "We hit the prison. Paul and Bill were
 gone."

 Paul and Bill stood at the foot of the prison wall and looked around.
  The scene in the street reminded Paul of a New York parade. in the
  apartment buildings across from the jail everyone was at the windows,
  cheering and applauding as they watched the prisoners escape. At the
  streetcorner a vendor was selling fruit from a stall. There was gunfire not
  far away, but in the immediate vicinity nobody was shooting. Then, as if
  ti) remind Paul and Bill that they were not yet out of danger, a car full
  of revolutionaries raced by with guns sticking out of every window.
 272       Ken Follett

 "Let's get out of here," said Paul.
 "Where do we go? The U.S. Embassy? The French Embassy?" 'Me Hyatt. -
  Paul started walking, heading north. Bill walked a little behind him, with
  his coat collar turned up and his head bent to hide his pale American face.
  They came to an intersection. It was deserted: no cars, no people. They
  started across. A shot rang out.
 Both of them ducked and ran back the way they had come.
 It was not going to be easy.
 "How are you doing?" said Paul.
 I'Still alive.It
  They walked back past the prison. The scene was the same: at least the
  authorities had not yet got organized enough to start rounding up the
  escapers.
  Paul headed south and east through the streets, hoping to circle around
  until he could go north again. Everywhere there were boys, some only
  thirteen or fourteen, with automatic rifles. On every comer was a
  sandbagged bunker, as if the streets were divided up into tribal
  territories. Farther on they had to push their way through a crowd of
  yelling, chanting, almost hysterical people: Paul carefully avoided meeting
  people's eyes, for he did not want them to notice him, let alone speak to
  hini-if they were to learn there were two Americans in their midst they
  might turn ugly.
  The rioting was patchy. It was like New York, where you had only to walk a
  few steps and turn a comer to find the character of the district completely
  changed. Paul and Bill went through a quiet area for half a mile, then ran
  into a battle. There was a barricade of overturned cars across the road and
  a bunch of youngsters with rifles shooting across the barricade toward what
  looked like a military installation. Paul turned away quickly, fearful of
  being hit by a stray bullet.
  Each time he tried to turn north he ran into some obstruction. They were
  now farther from the Hyatt than they had been when they started. They were
  moving south, and the fighting was always worse in the south.
  They stopped outside an unfinished building. "We could duck in them and
  hide until nightfall," Paul said. "After dark nobody will notice that
  you're American."
 "We might get shot for being out after curfew."
 "You think there's still a curfew?"
 Bill shrugged.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   273

  "We're doing all right so far," Paul said. "Let's go on a little longer. "
 They went on.
  It was two hours-4wo hours of crowds and street battles and stray sniper
  fire-before at last they could turn north. Then the scene changed. The
  gunfire receded, and they found themselves in a relatively affluent area of
  pleasant villas. They saw a child on a bicycle, wearing a T-shirt that said
  something about southern California.
  Paul was tired. He had been in jail for forty-five days, and during most of
  that time he had been sick: he was no longer strong enough to walk for
  hours. "What do you say we hitchhike?" he asked Bill.
 "Let's give it a try."
  Paul stood at the roadside and waved at the next car that came along. (He
  remembered not to stick out his thumb the American way---this was an
  obscene gesture i Iran.) The car stopped. There were two Iranian men in it.
  Paul and Bill got in the back.
  Paul decided not to mention the name of the hotel. "We're going to TaJrish,
  " he said. That was a bazaar area to the north of the city.
 "We can take you part of the way," said the driver.
  "Thanks." Paul offered them cigarettes, then sat back gratefully and lit
  one for himself.
  The Iranians dropped them off at Kurosh-e-Kabir, several miles south of
  Tajrish, not far from where Paul had lived. They were in a main street,
  with plenty of traffic and a lot more people around. Paul decided not to
  make himself conspicuous by hitchhiking here.
 "We could take refuge in the Catholic Mission," Bill suggested.
  Paul considered. The authorities presumably knew that Father Williams had
  visited them in Gasr Prison just two days ago. "The Mission might be the
  first place Dadgar looks for us."
  Maybe. "
 "We should go to the Hyatt."
 "The guys may not be there any longer."
 "But there'll be phones, some way to get plane tickets .
 "And hot showers."
 'Right. "
 They walked on.
 Suddenly a voice called: "Mr. Paul! Mr. Bill!"
 Paul's heart stopped. He looked around. He saw a car full of
 274        Ken Folleu

 people moving slowly along the road beside him. He recognized one of the
 passengers: it wa's a guard from the Gasr Prison.
  The guard had changed into civilian clothes, and looked as if he had joined
  the revolution. His big smile seemed to say: don't tell who I am, and I
  won't tell who you are.
 He waved, then the car gathered speed and passed on.
 Paul and Bill laughed with a mixture of amusement and relief.
  They turned into a quiet street, and Paul started to hitchhike again. He
  stood in the road waving while Bill stayed on the sidewalk, so that
  motorists might think there was only one man, an Iranian.
  A young couple stopped. Paul got into the car and Bill jumped in after him.
 "We're headed north," Paul said.
 The woman looked at her man.
 The man said: "We could take you to Niavron Palace."
 -Mank YOU. 11
 The car pulled away.
  The scene in the streets changed again. They could hear much more gunfire,
  and the traffic became heavier and more frantic, with all the cars honking
  continually. They saw press cameramen and television crews standing on car
  roofs taking pictures. The mob was burning the police stations near where
  Bill had lived. The Iranian couple looked nervous as the car inched through
  the crowd: having two Americans in their car could get them into trouble in
  this atmosphere.
 ft began to get dark.
  Bill leaned forward. "Boy, it's getting a bit late," he said. "It sure
  would be nice if y'all could take us to the Hyatt Hotel. We'd be happy to,
  you know, thank you and give you something for taking us there."
 "Okay," said the driver.
 He did not ask how much.
  They passed the Niavron Palace, the Shah's winter residence. 17here were
  tanks outside, as always, but now they had white flags attached to their
  antennae: they had surrendered to the revolution.
  The car went on, past wrecked and burning buildings, turned back every now
  and again by street barricades.
 At last they saw the Hyatt.
 "Oh, boy," Paul said feelingly. "An American hotel."
 They drove into the forecourt.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   275

  Paul was so grateful that he gave the Iranian couple two hundred dollars.
  The car drove off. Paul and Bill waved, then walked into the hotel.
  Suddenly Paul wished he were wearing his EDS uniform of business suit and
  white shirt, instead of prison dungarees and a dirty raincoat.
 The magnificent lobby was deserted.
  They walked to the reception desk. After a moment someone came out from an
  office.
 Paul asked for Bill Gayden's room number.
  The clerk checked, then told him there was no one of that name registered.
 "How about Bob Young?"
  'No. -
 "Rich Gallagher?"
 "No. 1~

 "Jay Coburn?"
 "No. 91
  I've got the wrong hotel, Paul thought. How could I have made a mistake
  like that?
 "What about John Howell?" he said, remembering the lawyer.
  "Yes," the clerk said at last, and he gave them a room number on the
  eleventh floor.
 They went up in the elevator.
 They found Howell's mom and knocked. There was no answer.
 "What do you think we ought to do?" Bill said.
  "I'm going to check in," said Paul. "I'm fired. Why don't we check in, have
  a meal. We'll call the States, tell them we're out of jail, everything will
  be fine."
 "Okay. "
 They walked back to the elevator.

 Bit by bit, Keane Taylor got the story out of Rashid.
  He had stood just inside the prison gates for about an hour. The scene was
  a shambles; eleven thousand people were trying to get out through a small
  doorway, and in the panic women and old men were getting trampled. Rashid
  had waited, thinking of what he would say to Paul and Bill when he saw
  them. After an hour the flood of people slowed to a trickle, and he
  concluded that most people were out. He started asking: "Have you seen any
  Americans?" Someone told him that A the foreigners had
 276        Ken Folleu

 been kept in Building Number 8. He went there and found it empty. He
 searched every building in the compound. He then returned to the Hyatt by
 the route Paul and Bill were most likely to take. Walking and hitching
 rides, he had looked for them all the way. At the Hyatt he had been refused
 admission because he was still carrying his rifle. He gave the gun away to
 the nearest youngster and came in.
  While he was telling his story Coburn arrived, all set to go looking for
  Paul and Bill on Majid's motorcycle. He had a crash helmet with a visor
  that would hide his white face.
  Rashid offered to take an EDS car and drive the route between the hotel and
  the prison, making one more sweep there and back before Coburn risked his
  neck in the mobs. Taylor gave him the keys to a car. Gayden got on the
  phone to tell Dallas the latest news. Rashid and Taylor left the suite and
  walked down the corridor.
  Suddenly Rashid yelled: "I thought you were dead!" and broke into a run.
 Then Taylor saw Paul and Bill.
  Rashid was hugging them both, screaming: "I couldn't find you! I couldn't
  find you!"
  Taylor ran up and embraced Paul and Bill. "Thank Godl- he said.
  Rashid ran back into Gayden's suite, yelling: "Paul and Bill are here! Paul
  and Bill are here!"
  An instant later Paul and Bill walked in, and all hell broke loose.
             TEN

 It was an unforgettable moment.
  Everyone was yelling, no one was listening, and they all wanted to hug Paul
  and Bill at the same time.
  Gayden was bellowing into the phone: "We got the guys! We got the guys!
  Fantastic! They just walked in the door! Fantastic! -
 Somebody yelled: "We beat them! We beat those sonsabitches! -
 "We did it!"
 "In your ear, Dadgar!"
 Buffy barked like a mad thing.
  Paul looked around at his friends, and realized that they had stayed here
  in the middle of a revolution to help him, and he found he had difficulty
  speaking.
  Gayden dropped the phone and came over to shake hands. Paul, with tears in
  his eyes, said: "Gayden, I just saved you twelve and a half million
  dollars-I think you ought to buy me a drink. I I
 Gayden fixed him a stiff scotch.
 Paul tasted his first alcoholic drink for six weeks.
  Gayden said into the phone: "I have somebody would like to speak to you."
  He handed the phone to Paul.
 Paul said: "Hello."
 He heard the syrupy voice of Tom Walter. "Hi, there, buddy!"
  "God almighty, - said Paul, out of general exhaustion and relief.
 "We were wondering where you guys were!"
 "So was 1, for the last three hours."
 "How'd you get to the hotel, Paul?"
  Paul did not have the energy to tell Walter the whole story. "Fortunately
  Keane left me a lot of money one day."
               277
 278       Ken Follett

 "Fantastic. Golly, Paul! Is Bill okay?"
 "Yeah, he's a little shook up but he's all right."
  "We're all a little shook up. Oh, boy. Boy, it's good to hear you. 11
  Another voice came on the line. "Paul? This is Mitch." Mitch Hart was a
  former president of EDS. "I figured that Italian street fighter would get
  out of there."
 "How's Ruthie?" said Paul.
  Tom Walter answered. They must be using the telephone conference circuit,
  Paul guessed. "Paul, she's great. I just talked to her a little while ago.
  Jean's calling her right now, she's on the other phone." .
 "Kids doing all right?"
 "Yeah, fine. Boy, she'll be glad to hear!"
  "Okay, I'll let you talk to my other half." Paul handed the phone to Bill.
  While he had been speaking, an Iranian employee, Gholam, had arrived. He
  had heard about the jailbreak and had gone looking for Paul and Bill in the
  streets around the prison.
  Jay Coburn was worried by the arrival of Gholam. For a few minutes there,
  Coburn had been too full of tearful joy to think of anything else, but now
  he reverted to his role as Simons's lieutenant. He quietly left the suite,
  found another open door, went into the room, and called the Dvoranchik
  apartment.
 Simons answered the phone.
 "It's Jay. They got here."
 "Good.-
  "The security is all shot to hell here. They're using the names over the
  phone, everybody's wandering around, we have Iranian employees walking in
  . . .-
  -Get a couple of rooms away from the others. We'll be right there. "
 "Okay." Coburn hung up.
  He went down to the reception desk and asked for a two-bedroom suite on the
  tweft floor. There was no problem: the hotel had hundreds of empty rooms.
  He gave a false name. He was not asked for his passport.
 He returned to Gayden's suite.
  A few minutes later Simons walked in and said: "Hang up the goddam phone."
  Bob Young, who was holding the line open to Dallas, put down the phone.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   279

  Joe Poch6 walked in behind Simons and started closing the curtains.
  It was incredible. Suddenly Simons was in charge. Gayden, the president of
  EDS World, was the senior man there; and an hour ago he had told Tom Walter
  that "The Sunshine Boys" -Simons, Coburn, and Poch6--seemed useless and
  ineffectual; yet now he deferred to Simons without even thinking about it.
  "Take a look around, Joe," Simons said to Poch6. Coburn knew what this
  meant. The team had scouted the hotel and its grounds during their weeks of
  waiting, and Poch6 would now see whether there had been any changes.
  T'he phone rang. John Howell answered it. "It's Abolhasan," he said to the
  others. He listened for a couple of minutes, then said: "Hold on." He
  covered the mouthpiece with his hand and spoke to Simons. "This is an
  Iranian employee who translates for me at meetings with Dadgar. His father
  is a friend of Dadgar's. He's at his father's house, and just got a call
  from Dadgar. 11
 The room went very quiet.
  "Dadgar said: 'Did you know the Americans are out of jail?' Abolhasan said:
  'It's news to me.' Dadgar said: 'Get hold of EDS and tell them that if they
  find Chiapparone and Gaylord they are to turn them in, that I'm now willing
  to renegotiate the bail and it ought to be much more reasonable.'
 Gayden said: "Fuck him."
  "All right," Simons said. "Tell Abolhasan to give Dadgar a message. Say we
  are searching for Paul and Bill, but meanwhile we hold Dadgar personally
  responsible for their safety."
 Howell smiled and nodded, and began speaking to Abolhasan.
  Simons turned to Gayden. "Call the American Embassy. Yell at them a little.
  They got Paul and Bill thrown in jail, now the jail has been stormed and we
  don't know where Paul and Bill are, but we hold the Embassy responsible for
  their safety. Make it convincing. There must be Iranian spies at the
  Embassy-you can bet your ass Dadgar will have the text of the message in
  minutes. -
 Gayden went to find a phone.
  Simons, Coburn, and Pochd, with Paul and Bill, moved to the new suite
  Coburn had taken on the floor above.
  Coburn ordered two steak dinners for Paul and Bill. He told room service to
  send them to Gayden's suite: there was to be no unnecessary traffic in and
  out of the new rooms.
 280       Ken Follett

  Paul took a hot bath. He had been longing for it. He had not had a bath for
  six weeks. He reveled in the clean white bathroom, the piping hot water,
  the fresh cake of soap ... He would never take such things for granted
  again. He washed the Gasr Prison out of his hair. There were clean clothes
  waiting for him: someone had retrieved his suitcase from the Hilton, where
  he had been staying until he was arrested.
  Bill took a shower. His euphoria had gone. He had imagined that the
  nightmare was over when he walked into Gayden's suite, but gradually it had
  dawned on him that he was still in danger, there was no U.S. Air Force jet
  waiting to fly him home at twice the speed of sound. Dadgar's message via
  Abolhasan, the appearance of Simons, and the new security precaution"is
  suite, Poch6 closing the curtains, the shuttling of the food-all made him
  realize that the escape had only just begun.
 All the same, he enjoyed his steak dinner.
  Simons was still uneasy. The Hyatt was near the Evin Hotel where the U.S.
  military stayed, the Evin Prison, and an armory: all these were natural
  targets for the revolutionaries. Dadgar's phone call was also worrying.
  Plenty of Iranians knew that the EDS people were staying at the Hyatt:
  Dadgar could easily find out, and send men to search for Paul and Bill.
  While Simons, Coburn, and Bill were discussing this in the sitting room of
  the suite, the phone rang.
 Simons stared at it.
 It rdng again.
 "Who the fuck knows we're here?" Simons said.
 Coburn shrugged.
 Simons picked up the phone and said: "Hello?"
 There was a pause.
 "Hello?"
 He hung up. "Nobody there."
  At that moment Paul walked in in his pajamas. Simons said: "Change your
  clothes, we're going to leave."
 "Why?" Paul protested.
 Simons repeated: "Change your clothes, we're going to leave.
 Paul shrugged and went back into the bedroom.
  Bill found it hard to believe. On the run again already! Somehow Dadgar was
  staying in authority through all the violence and chaos of the revolution.
  But who was working for him? The guards had fled the jails, the police
  stations had been burned, the army had surrendered--who was left to carry
  out Dadgar's orders?
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   281

 The devil and all his hordes, Bill thought.
  Simons went down to Gayden's suite while Paul was dressing. He got Gayden
  and Taylor in a comer. "Get all these turkeys out of here," he said in a
  low voice. "The story is, Paul and Bill are in bed for the night. You'll
  all come to our place tomorrow morning. Leave at seven o'clock, just as if
  you were going to the office. Don't pack any bags, don't check out, don't
  pay your hotel bill. Joe Poch6 will be waiting for you outside, and he'll
  have figured out a safe route to the house. I'm taking Paul and Bill there
  now-but don't tell the others that until the morning.
 "Okay," &6d Gayden.
  Simons went back upstairs. Paul and Bill were ready. Coburn and PocM were
  waiting. The five of them walked to the elevator.
  As they were going down, Simons said: "Now, let's just walk out of here
  like it was the normal thing to do."
  They reached the ground floor. They walked across the vast lobby and out
  into the forecourt. The two Range Rovers were parked there.
  As they crossed the forecourt a big dark car drew up, and four or five
  ragged men with machine guns jumped out.
 Coburn muttered: "Oh, shit."
 The five Americans kept walking.
 The revolutionaries ran over to the doorman.
  Poch6 threw open the doors of the first Range Rover. Paul and Bill jumped
  in. Pochd started the engine and pulled away fast. Simons and Coburn got
  into the second car and followed.
 The revolutionaries went into the hotel.
  Poch6 headed down the Vanak Highway, which passed both the Hyatt and the
  Hilton. They could hear constant machine-gun fire over the sound of the car
  engines. A mile up the road, at the intersection with Pahlavi Avenue near
  to the Hilton, they ran into a roadblock.
  Poch6 pulled up. Bill looked around. He and Paul had come through this
  intersection a few hours earlier, with the Iranian couple who had brought
  them to the Hyatt; but then there had been no roadblock, just one
  burned-out car. Now there were several burning cars, a barricade, and a
  crowd of revolutionaries armed with an assortment of military firearms.
  One of them approached the Range Rover, and Joe Poch6 rolled down the
  window.
  "Where are you going?" the revolutionary said in perfect English.
 282       Ken Follett

  "I'm going to my mother-in-law's house in Abbas Abad," Poch6 said.
 Bill thought: My God, what an idiotic story to tell.
 Paul was looking away, hiding his face.
  Another revolutionary came up and spoke in Farsi. The first man said: "Do
  you have any cigarettes?"
 "No, I don't smoke," said Poch6.
 "Okay, 90 ahead."
 Pochi drove on down the Shahanshahi Expressway.
  Coburn pulled the second car forward to where the revolutionaries stood.
 "Are you with diem?" he was asked.
 "Yes."
 "Do you have any cigarettes?"
  "Yes." Coburn took a pack out of his pocket and tried to shake out a
  cigarette. His hands were unsteady and he could not get one out.
 Simons said: "Jay."
  Yes. 0 v
 "Give him the fucking pack."
  Coburn gave the revolutionary the whole pack, and he waved them on.

   2

 Ruthie Chiapparone was in bed, but awake, at the Nyfelers' house in Dallas
 when the phone rang.
  She heard footsteps in the hall. The ringing stopped, and Jim Nyfeler's
  voice said: "Hello? ... Well, she's sleeping."
  "I'm awake," Ruthie caed. She got out of bed, slipped on a robe, and went
  into the hall.
  "It's Tom Walter's wife, Jean," said Jim, handing her the phone.
 Ruthic said: "Hi, Jean."
  "Ruth, I have good news for you. The guys are free. IMey got out of
  jail."
 "Oh, thank God!" said Ruthie.
  She had not yet begun to wonder how Paul would get out of Iran.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   283

 When Emily Gaylord got back from church, her mother said: "Tom Walter called
 from Dallas. I said you'd call back."
  Emily snatched up the phone, dialed EDS's number, and asked for Walter.
  "Hi, Em'ly," Walter drawled. "Paul and Bill got out of jail. "
 "Tom, that's wonderful!"
  "There was a jailbreak. They're safe, and they're in good hands. 9 t
 "When are they coming home?"
 "We're not sure yet, but we'll keep you posted."
 "Thank you, Tom," said Emily. "Thank you! I I

 Ross Perot was in bed with Margot. The phone woke them both. Perot reached
 out and picked it up. "Yes."
 "Ross, this is Tom Walter. Paul and Bill got out of jail."
 Suddenly Perot was wide awake. He sat up. "Thatts great!"
 Margot said sleepily: "They're out?"
 "Yes. 91
 She smiled. "Oh, good!"
  Tom Walter was saying: "The jail was overrun by the revolutionaries, and
  Paul and Bill walked out."
 Perot's mind was clicking into gear. "Where are they now?"
 "At the hotel.-
 "That's dangerous, Tom. Is Simons there?"
 "Uh, when I was talking to diem, he was not there."
  "Tell them to call him. Taylor knows the number. And get them out of that
  hotel!"
 "Yes, sir."
  "Call everyone into the office right away. I'll be there in a few minutes."
 ..Yes, Sir. 9,
  Perot hung up. He got out of bed, threw on some clothes, kissed Margot, and
  ran down the stairs. He went through the kitchen and out the back door. A
  security man, surprised to see him up so early, said: "Good morning, Mr.
  Perot."
  "Morning. " Perot decided to take Margo's Jaguar. He jumped in and raced
  down the driveway to the gate.
  For six weeks he had felt as if he were living inside a popcorn popper. He
  had been trying everything, and nothing had worked;
 294        Ken Folleu

 bad news had hit him from every direction, he had made no progress. Now, at
 last, things were moving.
  He tore along Forest Lane, running red lights and breaking the speed limit.
  Getting them out of jad was the easy part, he reflected, now we have to get
  them out of Iran. The hard part hasn't even started.
  In the next few minutes the whole team gathered at EDS headquarters on
  Forest Lane: Tom Walter, T. J. Marquez, Merv Stauffer, Perot's secretary
  Sally Walther, lawyer Tom Luce, and Mitch Hart, wh"ough he no longer worked
  at ED"ad been trying to use his connections in the Democratic party to help
  Paul and Bill.
  Until now, conummications with the negotiating team in Tehran had been
  organized from Bill Gayden's office on the fifth floor, while on the
  seventh floor Merv Stauffer was quietly handling support and communications
  with the illegal rescue team, talking on the phone in code. Now they all
  realized that Simons was the key figure in Tehran, and that whatever hap-
  pened next would probably be illegal; so they moved up to Stauffer's
  office, which was also more private.
  "I'm going to go to Washington right away," Perot told them. "Our best hope
  is still an air force jet out of Tehran. "
  Stauffer said: "I don't know about flights to Washington from DFW on
  Sundays--
 I 'Charter a jet, I I Perot said.
 Stauffer picked up the phone.
  "We're going to need secretaries here twenty-four hours a day for the next
  few days," Perot went on.
 "I'll see to that," said T.J.
  "Now, the military has promised to help us, but we can't rely on
  them.--they may have bigger fish to fry - The likeliest altemative is for
  the team to drive out via Turkey. In that event, the plan is for us to meet
  them at the border or if necessary fly into the northwest of Iran to pull
  them out. We need to assemble the Turkish Rescue Team. Boulware is already
  in Istanbul. Schwebach, Sculley, and Davis are in the States-sornebody call
  them and have the three of them meet me in Washington. We may also need a
  helicopter pilot and another pilot for small fixed-wing aimmd, in case we
  want to sneak into Iran. Sally, call Margot and ask her to pack me a
  case--I'H need casual clothes, a flashlight, all-weather boots, thermal
  underwear, a sleeping bag, and a tent."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   285

 "Yes, sir. - Sally left the room.
  "Ross, I don't think that's a good idea," T.J. said. "Margot might got
  scared."
  Perot suppressed a sigh: it was just like T.J. to argue. But he was right.
  "Okay, I'll go home and do it myself. Come with me so we can talk while I'm
  packing."
 "Sure. t,
  Stauffer put down the phone and said: "There's a Lear jet waiting for you
  at Love Field."
 "Good."
  Perot and T.J. went downstairs and got in their cars. They left EDS and
  turned right on Forest Lane. A few seconds later T.J. looked at his
  speedometer and saw that he was doing eightyand Perot, in Margot's Jaguar,
  was losing him.

 At Page Terminal in Washington, Perot ran into two old friends: Bill
 Clements, Governor of Texas and former Deputy Secretary of Defense; and
 Clements's wife, Rita.
  Clements said: "Hi, Ross! What the hell are you doing in Washington on a
  Sunday afternoon?"
 "I'm up here on business," said Perot.
 "No, what are you doing really?" said Clements with a grin.
 "Have you got a minute?"
  Clements had a minute. The three of them sat down, and Perot told the story
  of Paul and Bill.
  When he had finished, Clements said: "There's a guy you need to talk to.
  I'll write down his name."
 "How am I going to get him on a Sunday afternoon?"
 "Hell, I'll get him."
  The two men walked over to a pay phone. Clements put in a coin, called the
  Pentagon switchboard, and identified himself. He asked to be put through to
  the home of one of the most senior military officers in the country. Then
  he said: "I've got Ross Perot hum Texas with me. He's a friend of mine and
  a good friend to the military, and I want, you to help him." Then he handed
  the phone to Perot and walked away.

 Half an hour later Perot was in an operations room in the Pentagon basement,
 surrounded by computer terminals, talking to half a dozen generals.
 He had never met any of them before, but he felt he was
 286        Ken Folleu

 among friends: they all knew of his campaign for the American prisoners of
 war in North Vietnam.
  "I want to get two men out of Tehran," Perot told them. "Can you fly them
  out?"
  "No," said one of the generals. "We're grounded in Tehran. Our air base,
  Doshen Toppeh, is in the hands of the revolutionaries. General Gast is in
  the bunker beneath MAAG headquarters, surrounded by a mob. And we have no
  communications because the phone fines have been cut, "
  "Okay," said Perot. He had half-expected that answer. "I'm going to have to
  do it myself. "
  "It's on the other side of the world, and there's a revolution going on,"
  said a general. "It won't be easy."
 Perot smiled. "I have Bull Simons over there."
  They broke up. "Dararnit, Perot!" said one of them. "You aren't giving the
  Iranians an even chance!"
  'Ptiglit." Perot grimieA. "I may have to fly in myself. Now, can you give
  me a list of all the airfields between Tehran and the Turkish border?"
 "Sure. 11
  "Could you find out whether any of those airfields are obstructed?"
 "We can just look at the satellite photographs."
  Now, what about radar? Is there a way to fly in there without appearing on
  the Iranians' radar screens?"
 "Sure. We'll get you a radar map at five hundred feet."
 "Goodl"
 -Anything else?"
  Hell, Perot thought, this is just like going into McDonald's! "That'll do
  for now," he said.
 The generals started pushing buttons.

 T. J. Marquez picked up the phone. It was Perot.
  - I got your pilots," T.J. told him. "I called Larry Joseph, who used to be
  head of Continental Air Services in Vientiane, Laos-he's in Washington now.
  He found the guys~-Dick Douglas and Julian Kanauch. They'll be in
  Washington tomorrow."
  "I'liat's great," said Perot. "Now, I've been to the Pentagon and they
  can't fly the guys out--4hey're grounded in Tehran. But I have all kinds of
  maps and stuff so we can fly in ourselves. Now, this is what I need: a jet
  plane, capable of crossing the Atlantic, complete with a crew and equipped
  with a single-
             ON WINGS OF EAGLES   287

 sideband radio, like we used to have in Laos, so we can make phone calls
 from the plane."
 "I'll get right on it," said T.J.
 "I'm at the Madison Hotel."
 ..C
   Tot it.-
  T.J. started calling. He contacted two Texas charter companies: neither of
  them had a transatlantic jet. The second, Jet Fleet, gave him the name of
  Executive Aircraft out of Columbus, Oluo. They could not help, and they did
  not know of anyone who could.
  T.J. thought of Europe. He called Carl Nilsson, an EDS executive who had
  been working on a proposal for Martinair. Nilsson called back and said
  Martinair would not fly into Iran, but had given him the name of a Swiss
  outfit who would. T.J. called Switzerland: that company had stopped flying
  into Iran as oftoday.
  T.J. dialed the number of Harry McKillop, a Braniff vicepresident who lived
  in Paris. McKillop was out.
 T.J. called Perot and confessed failure.
  Perot had an idea. He seemed to remember that Sol Rogers, the president of
  Texas State Optical Company down in Beaumont, had either a BAC I I I or a
  Boeing 727, he was not sure which. Nor did he have the phone number.
  T.J. called information. The number was unlisted. He called Margot. She had
  the number. He called Rogers. He had sold his plane.
  Rogers knew of an outfit called Omni International, in Washington, which
  leased planes. He gave T.J. the home phone numbers of the president and
  vice-president.
 T.J. called the president. He was out.
 He called the vice-president. He was in.
 "Do you have a transatlantic jet?" T.J. asked.
 "Sure. We have two."
 T.J. breathed a sigh of relief.
 "We have a 707 and a 727," the man went on.
 'IgVhere?' '
 "The 707 is at Meachein Field in Forth Worth-"
  "Why, that's right here!" said T.J. "Now tell me, does it have a
  single-sideband radio?"
  Sure does.' 0
 T.J. could hardly believe his luck.
 288        Ken Folleu

  "This plane is rather luxuriously fitted out," the vice-president said. "It
  was done for a Kuwaiti prince who backed out."
  T.J. was not interested in the decor. He asked about the price. The
  vice-president said the president would have to make the final decision. He
  was out for the evening, but T.J. could call him first thing in the
  morning.
  T.J. had the plane checked out by Jeff Heller, an EDS vice-president and
  former Vietnam pilot, and two of Heller's friends, one an American Airlines
  pilot and the other a flight engineer. Heller reported that the plane
  seemed to be in good shape, as far as they could tell without flying it.
  The decor was kind of overripe, he said with a smile.
  At seven-thirty the following morning T.J. called the president of Omni and
  got him out of the shower. The president had talked to his vice-president
  and he was sure they could do business.
  "Good," said T.J. "Now what about crew, ground facilities, insurance---
  "We don't charter planes," said the president. "We lease them. "
 "What's the difference?"
  "It's like the difference between taking a cab and renting a car. Our
  planes are for rent."
  -L,ook, we're in the computer business, we know nothing about airlines,"
  said T.J. "Even though you normally don't do it, will you make a deal with
  us where you supply all the extras, crew and so on? We'll pay you for it."
 "It'll be complicated. The insurance alone .
 'But you'll do it?"
 "Yes, we'll do it."
  It was complicated, T.J. learned during the course of the day. The unusual
  nature of the deal did not appeal to the insurance companies, who also
  hated to be hurried. It was hard to figure out which regulations EDS needed
  to comply with, since they were not an airline. Omni required a deposit of
  sixty thousand dollars in an offshore branch of a U.S. bank. The problems
  were solved by EDS executive Gary Fernandes in Washington and EDS house
  lawyer Claude Chappelear in Dallas: the contract, which was executed at the
  end of the day, was a sales demonstration lease. Omni found a crew in
  California and sent them to Dallas to pick up the plane and fly it on to
  Washington.
 By midnight on Monday the plane, the crew, the extra pilots,
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   289

 and the remnants of the rescue team were all in Washington with Ross
 Perot.
 T.J. had worked a miracle.
 'Mat was why it took so long.

   3

 The negotiating team-Keane Taylor, Bill Gayden, John Howell, Bob Young, and
 Rich Gallagher, augmented now by Rashid, Cathy Gallagher, and the dog,
 Buffy-spent the night of Sunday, February 11, at the Hyatt. They got little
 sleep. Close by, the mob was attacking an armory. It seemed part of the army
 had now joined the revolution, for tanks were used in the attack. Toward
 morning they blew a hole in the wall and got in. From dawn on, a stream of
 orange cabs ferried weapons from the armory downtown to where the fighting
 was still heavy.
  The team kept the line to Dallas open all night: John Howell lay on the
  couch in Gayden's sitting room with the phone to his ear.
  In the morning Rashid left early. He was not told where the others were
  gomg-no Iranians were to know the location of the hideout.
  The others packed their suitcases and left them in their rooms, just in
  case they should get a chance to pick them up later. This was not part of
  Simons's instructions, and he would certainly have disapproved, for the
  packed bags showed that the EDS people were no longer living here-but by
  morning they all felt Simons was overdoing his security precautions. They
  gathered in Gayden's sitting room a few minutes after the seven o'clock
  deadline. The Gallaghers; had several bags, and did not really look as if
  they were going to the office.
  In the foyer they met the hotel manager. "Where are you going?" he asked
  incredulously.
 "To the office," Gayden told him.
  "Don't you know there's a civil war going on out there? All night long
  we've been feeding the revolutionaries out of our kitchen&. They asked if
  there were any Americans hem-1 told them there was nobody here. You must go
  back upstam and stay out of sight. I I
 290        Ken Follen

 "Life must go on," said Gayden, and they all walked out.
  Joe Pochd was waiting in a Range Rover, silently fuming because they were
  fifteen minutes late and he had instructions from Simons to be back at
  seven forty-five, with or without them.
  As they walked to the cars, Keane Taylor saw a hotel clerk drive in and
  park. He went over to speak to the man. "How are the streets?"
  "Roadblocks all over the place," said the clerk. "There's one right here,
  at the end of the hotel driveway. You shouldn't go (mt. 19
 "Thank you," said Taylor.
  They all got into the cars and followed Pochd's Range Rover. The guards at
  the gate were preoccupied, trying to jam a banana clip into a machine
  pistol that did not take that kind of ammunition, and they paid no
  attention to the three cars.
  The scene outside was scary. Many of the weapons from the armory had found
  their way into the hands of teenage boys who had probably never handled
  firearms before, and the kids were running down the hill, yelling and
  waving their guns, and jumping into cars to tear off along the highway,
  shooting into the air.
  Poch6 headed north on Shahanshahi, following a roundabout route to avoid
  roadblocks. At the intersection with Pahlavi there was the remains of a
  barricad"umed cars and tree trunks across the road-but the people manning
  the roadblock were celebrating, chanting and firing into the air, and the
  three cars drove straight through.
  As they approached the hideout they entered a relatively quiet area. They
  turned into a narrow street; then, half a block down, they drove through
  gates into a walled garden with an empty swimming pool. The Dvoranchik
  place was the bottom half of a duplex, with the landlady living upstairs.
  They all went in.

 During Monday, Dadgar continued to search for Paul and Bill.
  Bill Gayden called Bucharest, where a skeleton staff of loyal Iranians
  continued to man the phones. Gayden learned that Dadgar's men had called
  twice, speaking to two different secretaries, and asked where they could
  find Mr. Chiapparone and Mr. Gaylord. The first secretary had said she did
  not know the names of any of the Americans, which was a brave lie-she had
  been working for EDS for four years and knew everyone.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   291

 The second secretary had said: "You will have to speak to Mr. Lloyd Briggs,
 who is in charge of the office."
 61"ere is he?"
 "Out of the country."
 "Well, who is in charge of the office in his absence?"
 "Mr. Keane Taylor."
 "Let me speak to him."
 "He's not here right now."
 7Ibe girls, bless them, had given Dadgar's men the runaround.
  Rich Gallagher was keeping in touch with his friends in the military (Cathy
  had a job as secretary to a colonel). He called the Evin Hotel, where most
  of the military were staying, and learned that "revolutionaries" had gone
  to both the Evin and the Hyatt showing photographs of two Americans for
  whom they were looking.
 Dadgar's tenacity was almost incredible.
  Simons decided they could not stay at the Dvoranchik house more than
  forty-eight hours.
  The escape plan had been devised for five men. Now there were ten men, a
  woman, and a dog.
  They had only two Range Rovers. An ordinary car would never take those
  mountain roads, especially in snow. They needed another Range Rover. Coburn
  called Majid and asked him to try to get one.
  The dog worried Simons. Rich Gallagher was planning to carry Buffy in a
  knapsack. If they had to walk or ride horseback through the mountains to
  cross the border, a single yap could get them all killed-wd Buffy barked at
  everything. Simons said to Coburn and Taylor: "I want you two to lose that
  fucking dog."
  "Okay," Coburn said. "Maybe I'll offer to walk it, then just let it go. 09
 "No," said Simons. "When I say lose it, I mean pernmerItly-11
  Cathy was the biggest problem. That evening she felt ill-"Feminine
  problems," Rich said. He was hoping that a day in bed would leave her
  feeling stronger; but Simons was not optimistic. He fumed at the Embassy.
  "There are so many ways the State Department could get someone out of the
  country and prow them if they wanted to," he said. "Put them in a case,
  ship them out as cargo ... if they were interested, it would be a snap-19
  Bill began to feel like the cause of all the trouble. "I think it's inswe
  for nine people to risk their lives for the sake of two," he
 292         Ken FoIku

 said. "If Paul and I weren't here, none of you would be in any danger-you
 could just wait here until flights out resume. Maybe Paul and I should throw
 ourselves on the mercy of the U. S. Embassy. I I
  Simons said: "And what if you two get out, then Dadgar decides to take
  other hostages?"
  Anyway, Coburn thought, Simons won't let these two out of his sight now,
  not until they're back in the U.S.A.
 The bell at the street gate rang, and everybody froze.
 "Move into the bedrooms, but quietly," Simons said.
  Coburn went to the window. The landlady still thought there were only two
  people living here, Coburn and Poch6---she had never seen Simons--and
  neither she nor anyone else was supposed to know that there were now eleven
  people in the house.
  As Coburn watched, she walked across the courtyard and opened the gate. She
  stood there for a few minutes, talking to someone Cobum could not see, then
  closed the gate and carne back alone.
  When he heard her door slam shut upstairs, he called: "False alarm. I I
  They all prepared for the journey by looting the Dvoranchik place for warm
  clothes. Paul thought: Toni Dvoranchik would die of ernbarTassment if she
  knew about all these men going through her drawers. They ended up with a
  peculiar assortment of ifl-fitting hats, coats, and sweaters.
  After that they had nothing to do but wait: wait for Majid to find another
  Range Rover, wait for Cathy to get better, and wait for Perot to get the
  Turkish Rescue Team organized.
  They watched some old football games on a Betamax video. Paul played gin
  with Gayden. The dog got on everyone's nerves, but Cobum decided not to
  slit its throat until the last minute, in cast there was a change of plan
  and it could be saved. John Howell read The Deep by Peter Benchley: he had
  seen part of the movie on the flight over and had missed the ending because
  the
 pi                               Ibe orevie finished, and he had never
 figured
       f
 otn= I gCZ Z
       d e ys and who were the bad guys. Simons said: "Those who wish to
       drink can do so, but if we have to move fast we'll be much better
       without any alcohol in our systems," but despite the waniing both
       Gayden and Gallagher surreptitiously mixed Drambuie with their coffee.
       The bell rang once more, and they all went through the same routine,
       but again it was for the landlady.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   293

  They were all remarkably good-tempered, considering how many of them were
  crammed into the living room and three bedrooms of the place. The only one
  to get imtable was-predictably-Keane Taylor. He and Paul cooked a big
  dinner for everyone, almost emptying the freezer; but by the time Taylor
  came in from the kitchen, the others had eaten every scrap and there was
  nothing for him. He cursed them all roundly for a bunch of greedy hogs, and
  they all laughed, the way they always did when Taylor got mad.
  During the night he got mad again. He was sleeping on the floor next to
  Coburn, and Coburn snored. The noise was so awful that Taylor could not get
  to sleep. He could not even wake Coburn to tell him to stop snoring, and
  that made him even madder.

 It was snowing in Washington that night. Ross Perot was tired and tense.
  With Mitch Hart, he had spent most of the day in a last-ditch effort to
  persuade the governinent to fly his people out of Tehran. He had seen
  Undersecretary David Newsom at the State Department, Thomas V. Beard at the
  White House, and Mark Ginsberg, a young Carter aide whose job was liaison
  between the White House and the State Department. They were doing their
  best to arrange to fly the remaining one thousand Americans out of Tehran,
  and they were not about to make special plans fbr Ross Perot.
  Resigned to going to Turkey, Perot went to a sporting-goods store and
  bought himself cold-weather clothes. The leased 707 arrived from Dallas,
  and Pat Sculley called from Dulles Airport to say that some mechanical
  problems had surfaced dunng the flight: the transponder and the inertial
  navigation system did not work properly, the Number I engine was using oil
  at twice the normal rate, there was insufficient oxygen aboard for cabin
  use, there were no spare tires, and the water-tank valves were ftozen
  solid.
  While mechanics worked on the plane, Perot sat in the Madison Hotel with
  Mort Meyerson, a vice-president of EDS.
  At EDS there was a special group of Perot associates, men such as T. J.
  Marquez and Merv Stauffer, to whom he turned for help with matters that
  were not part of the day-to-day business of computer software: schemes like
  the prisoners-of-war campaign, the Texas War on Drugs, and the rescue of
  Paul and Bill.
 294        Ken Folleu

 Although Meyerson did not get involved in Perot,s special projects, he was
 fully informed about the rescue plan and had given it his blessing: he knew
 Paul and Bill well, having worked alongside them in earlier years as a
 systems engineer. For business matters he was Perot's top man, and he would
 soon become president of EDS. (Perot would continue to be chairman of the
 board.)
  Now Perot and Meyerson talked business, reviewing each of EDS's current
  projects and problems. Both knew, though neither said, that the reason for
  the conference was that Perot might never come back from Turkey.
  In some ways the two men were as different as chalk and cheese. Meyerson's
  grandfather was a Russian Jew who had saved for two years to buy his rail
  ticket from New York to Texas. Meyerson's interests ranged from athletics
  to the arts: he played handball, was involved with the Dallas Symphony
  Orchestra and was himself a good pianist. Making fun of Perot and his
  "eagles, " Meyerson called hisown close colleagues "Meyerson's toads. " But
  in many ways he was like Perot, a creative and daring businessman whose
  bold ideas often scared more conventional executives in EDS. Perot had
  given instructions that, if something were to happen to him during the
  rescue, all his stock would be voted by Meyerson. EDS would continue to be
  run by a leader, not a bureaucrat.
  While Perot discussed business and worried about the plane and fumed
  against the State Department, his deepest concern was for his mother. Lulu
  May Perot was sinking fast, and Perot wanted to be with her. If she were to
  die while he was in Turkey, he would never see her again, and that would
  break his heart.
  Meyerson knew what was on his mind. He broke off the business talk to say:
  "Ross, why don't I go?"
 "What do you mean?"
  "Why don't I go to Turkey instead of you? You've done your share.-you went
  to Iran. There's nothing you can do that I can't do in Turkey. And you want
  to stay with your mother."
  Perot was touched. Mort didn't have to say that, he thought. "If you're
  willing. . . " He was tempted. "That's something I'd sure want to think
  about. Let me think about it. "
  He was not sure he had the right to let Meyerson do this instead of him.
  "Let's see what the others think." He picked up the phone, called Dallas,
  and reached T. J. Marquez. "Mort's
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   295

 offered to- go to Turkey instead of me," he told T.J. "'Arhatt 8 your
 reaction to that?"
  "It's the worst idea in the world," T.J. said. "You've been close to this
  project from the start, and you couldn't possibly tell Mort everything he
  needs to know in a few hours. You know Simons, you know how his mind
  works-Mort doesn't. Plus, Simons doesn't know Mort--and you're aware of how
  Simons feels about trusting people he doesn't know. Well, he won't trust
  diem, that's how he feels."
 "You're right," Perot said. "It's not for consideration."
  He hung up. "Mort, I sure appreciate your offer, but I'm going to Turkey."
 "Whatever you say."
  A few minutes later Meyerson left, to return to Dallas in the chartered
  Lear jet. Perot called EDS again and spoke to Merv Stauffer. "Now, I want
  you guys to work in shifts and get some sleep," Perot said. "I don't want
  to be talking to a bunch of zombies back there.
 "Yes, sir!"
 Perot took his own advice and got some sleep.
  The phone woke him at two A.M. It was Pat Sculley, calling from the
  airport: the plane's mechanical problems were fixed.
  Perot got a cab to Dulles Airport. It was a hair-raising thirtymile ride on
  icy roads.
  The Turkish Rescue Team was now together: Perot; Pat Sculley and Jim
  Schwebac"e deadly duo; young Ron Davis; the crew of the 707; and the two
  extra pilots, Dick Douglas and Julian "Scratch" Kanauch. But the plane was
  not mended. It needed a spare part that was not available in Washington.
  Gary Femandes-the EDS manager who had worked on the leasing contract for
  the plan"ad a friend who was in charge of ground support for one of the
  airlines at New York's LaGuardia Airport: he called the friend, and the
  friend got out of bed, found the part, and put it on a plane for
  Washington. Meanwhile, Perot lay down on a bench in the terminal and slept
  for a couple mom hours.
  They boarded at Six A.M. Perot looked around the interior of the aircraft
  in amazement. It had a bedroom with a king-size bed, three bars, a
  sophisticated hi-fi system, a television, and an office with a phone. Them
  were plush carpets, suede upholstery, and velvet walls. "It looks like a
  Persian whorchouse," said Perot, although he had never seen a Persian
  whorehouse.
 296        Ken FoUett

  The plane took off. Dick Douglas and Scratch Kanauch immediately curled up
  and went to sleep. Perot tried to follow their example: he had sixteen
  hours of nothing to do in front of him. As the plane headed out across the
  Atlantic Ocean, he wondered again whether he was doing the right thing.
  He might, after all, have left Paul and Bill to take their chances in
  Tehran. Nobody would have blamed him: it was the government's job to rescue
  diem. Indeed, the Embassy might even now be able to get them out unharmed.
  On the other hand, Dadgar might pick them up and throw them in jail for
  twenty years-and the Embassy, on past performance, might not protect them.
  And what would the revolutionaries do if they got hold of Paul and Bill?
  Lynch them?
  No, Perot could not leave his men to take their chance"t was not his way.
  Paul and Bill were his responsibility-he did not need his mother to tell
  him that. The trouble was that he was now putting more men at risk. Instead
  of having two people hiding in Tehran, he would now have eleven employees
  on the run in the wilds of northwest Iran, and another four, plus two
  pilots, searching for diem. If things went wrong-ff someone got kdkd-the
  world would see this whole thing as a foolhardy adventure by a man who
  thought he was still living in the Wild West. He could imagine the
  newspaper headlines: NmuoNAIRE TEXWS HLAN RESCUE BID 13NDS IN DEATH ...
  Suppose we lose Coburn, he thought; what would I tell his wife? Liz might
  find it hard to understand why I staked the lives of seventeen men to gain
  the freedom of two.
  He had never broken the law in his life, and now he was involved in so many
  major illegal activities he could not count diem.
  He put all that out of his mind. The decision was made. If you go through
  fife thinking about all the bad things that can happen, you soon talk
  yourself into doing nothing at all. Concentrate on the problems that can be
  solved. The chips are on the table and the wheel is in spin. The last game
  has begun.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   297

 On Tuesday the U.S. Embassy announced that evacuation flights fbr all
 Americans in Tehran would leave during the coming weekend.
  Simons got Coburn and Pochd in one of the bedrooms of the Dvoranchik place
  and closed the door. "This solves some of our problems," he said. "I want
  to split them up at this point in the game. Some can take the Embassy
  evacuation flight, leaving a manageable group for the overland trip."
 Coburn and Pochd agreed.
  "Obviously, Paul and Bill have to go overland," Simons said. "Two of us
  three have to go with them: one to escort them across the mountains and the
  other to cross the border legitimately and meet up with Boulware. We'll
  need an Iranian driver for each of the two Range Rovers. That leaves us two
  spare seats. Who takes them? Not Cathy--she'll be much better off on the
  Embassy flight."
 "Rich will want to go with her," said Coburn.
 "And that fucking dog," Simons added.
 Bufly's life is saved, Coburn thought. He was rather glad.
  Simons said: "There's Keane Taylor, John Howell , Bob Yourig, and Bill
  Gayden. Here's the problem: Dadgar might pick people up at the airport, and
  we'll end up back where we started--with EDS men in jail. Who is at most
  risk?"
  "Gayden," said Cobm. "He's president of EDS World. As a hostage, he'd be
  better than Paul and Bill. In fact, when Dadgar arrested Bill Gaylord, we
  wondered whether it was a mistake, and he really wanted Bill Gayden, but
  got confused becaose of the similarity of the names."
 "Gayden comes out overland with Paul and Bill, then."
  "John Howell is not even employed by EDS. And he's a lawyer. He should be
  all right."
 "Howell goes out by air."
  "Bob Young is employed by EDS in Kuwait, not Iran. If Dadgar has a list of
  EDS names, Young won't be on it."
  "Young flies. Taylor drives. Now, one of us has to go on the evacuation
  flight with the Clean Tearn. Joe, that's you. You've
 298        Ken Folleu

 kept a lower profile, than Jay. He's been on the streets, at meetings at the
 Hyatt-whereas nobody knows you're here."
  'Okay," said Poch6.
  "So the Clean Team is the Gallaghers, Bob Young, and John Howell, led by
  Joe. The Dirty Team is me, Jay, Keane Taylor, Bill Gayden, Paul, Bill, and
  two Iranian drivers. Let's go tell em. I I
  They went into the living room and everyone sat down. As Simons talked,
  Coburn admired how he announced his decision in such a way that they all
  thought they were being asked for their opinions rather than being told
  what to do.
  There was some discussion of who should be in which teamboth John Howell
  and Bob Young would have preferred to be in the Dirty Team, feeling
  themselves vulnerable to arrest by Dadgar--but in the end they all reached
  the decision Simons had already made.
  The Clean Team might as well move into the Embassy compound as soon as
  possible, Simons said. Gayden and Joe Poch6 went off to find Lou Goelz, the
  Consul General, and talk to him about it.
 The Dirty Team would leave tomorrow morning.
  Coburn had to organize the Iranian drivers. These were to have been Majid
  and his cousin the professor, but the professor was in Rezaiyeh and could
  not get to Tehran, so Coburn had to find a replacement.
  He had already decided on Seyyed. Seyyed was a youtig Iranian systems.
  engineer like Rashid and the Cycle Man, but from a much wealthier family:
  relatives of his had been high in politics and the army under the Shah.
  Seyyed had been educated in England and spoke with a British accent. His
  great asset, from Coburn's point of view, was that he came from the
  northwest, so he knew the territory and he spoke Turkish.
  Coburn called Seyyed and they met at Seyyed's house. Coburn told him lies.
  "I need to gather intelligence on the roads between here and Khoy," Coburn
  said. "I'll need someone to drive me. Will you do it?"
 "Sure," said Seyyed.
 "Meet me at ten forty-five tonight at Argentine Square."
 Seyyed agreed.
  Simons had instructed Coburn to go through all this. Coburn trusted Seyyed,
  but of course Simons did not; so Seyyed would not know where the team was
  staying until he got there, and he
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   299

 would not know about Paul and Bill until he saw them; and from that moment
 on he would not be out of Simons's sight.
  When Coburn returned to the Dvoranchik place, Gayden. and Poch6 were back
  from seeing Lou Goelz. They had told Goelz that a few EDS men were staying
  in Tehran to look for Paul and Bill, but the others wanted to leave on the
  first evacuation flight, and stay at the Embassy in the meantime. Goelz had
  said that the Embassy was full, but they could stay at his house.
  They all thought that was pretty damn good of Goelz. Most of them had got
  mad at him once or twice over the last two months, and had made it pretty
  clear that they blamed him and his colleagues for the arrest of Paul and
  Bill: it was big of him to open his house to them after all that. As
  everything came unglued in Iran, Goelz was becoming less of a bureaucrat
  and showing that his heart was in the right place.
  The Clean Team and the Dirty Team shook hands and wished each other luck,
  not knowing who needed it most; then the Clean Team left for Goelz's house.
  It was now evening. Coburn and Keane Taylor went to Majid's house to pick
  him up: he would spend the night at the Dvoranchik place like Seyyed.
  Coburn and Taylor also had to get a fifty-fivegallon drum of fuel that
  Majid had been keeping for them.
 When they got to the house Majid was out.
  They waited, fretting. At last Majid came in. He greeted them, welcomed
  them to his home, called for tea, the whole nine yards. Eventually Coburn
  said: "We're leaving tomorrow morning. We want you to come with us now - "
  Majid asked Coburn to step into another room with him, then he said: "I
  can't go with you."
 "Why not?"
 "I have to kill Hoveyda."
 "What?" said Coburn incredulously. "Who?"
 "Amir Abbas Hoveyda, who used to be Prime Minister."
 "Why do you have to kill him?"
  "It's a long story. The Shah had a land-reform program, and Hoveyda tried
  to take away my family's tribal lands, and we rebelled, and Hoveyda put me
  in jail ... I have been waiting all these years for my revenge."
 "You have to kill him right away?" said Coburn, astonished.
  "I have the weapons and the opportunity. In two days' time all may be
  different."
 300       Ken Follett

  Coburn was nonplussed. He did not know what to say. It was clear Majid
  could not be talked around.
  Coburn and Taylor manhandled the fuel drum into the back of the Range
  Rover, then took their leave. Majid wished them luck.
  Back at the Dvoranchik place, Coburn started trying to reach the Cycle Man,
  hoping he would replace Majid as driver. The Cycle Man was as elusive as
  Coburn himself. He could normally be reached at a certain phone number-some
  kind of revolutionary headquarters, Coburn suspected-just once a day. The
  regular time for him to drop by this place was now past--it was late in the
  evening--but Coburn tried anyway. The Cycle Man was not there. He tried a
  few more phone numbers without success.
 At least they had Seyyed.
  At ten-thirty Coburn went out to meet Seyyed. He walked through the
  darkened streets to Argentine Square, a mile from the Dvoranchik place,
  then picked his way across a construction site and into an empty building
  to wait.
 At eleven o'clock Seyyed had not arrived.
  Simons had told Coburn to wait fifteen minutes, no longer; but Coburn
  decided to give Seyyed a little more time.
 He waited until eleven-thirty.
 Seyyed was not coming.
  Coburn wondered what had happened: given Seyyed's family connections, it
  was quite possible he had fallen victim to the revolutionaries.
  For the Dirty Team this was a disaster. Now they had no Iranians to go with
  them. How the hell will we get through all those roadblocks? wondered
  Coburn. What a shitty break: the professor drops out, Majid drops out, the
  Cycle Man can't be found, then Seyyed drops out. Shit.
  He left the construction site and walked away. Suddenly he heard a car. He
  looked back, and saw a jeep full of armed revolutionaries swinging around
  the square. He ducked behind a convenient bush. They went by.
  He went on, hurrying now, wondering whether the curfew was in force
  tonight. He was almost home when the jeep came roaring back toward him.
  They saw me last time, he thought, and they've come back to pick me up.
  It was very dark. They might not have spotted him yet. He turned and ran
  back. There was no cover on this street. The noise of the jeep became
  louder. At last Coburn saw some
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   301

 shrubbery and flung himself into it. He lay there listening to his heartbeat
 as the jeep came closer. Were they looking for him? Had they picked up
 Seyyed and tortured him, and made him confess that he had an appointment
 with a capitalist American pig at Argentine Square at ten forty-five ... ?
 The jeep went by without stopping.
 Coburn picked himself up.
 He ran all the way to the Dvoranchik place.
 He told Simons they now had no Iranian drivers.
 Simons cursed. "Is there another Iranian we can call?"
 "Only one. Rashid."
  Simons did not want to use Rashid, Coburn knew, because Rashid had led the
  jailbreak, and if someone who remembered him from that should see him
  driving a carload of Americans, there might be trouble. But Coburn could
  not think of anyone else.
 "Okay," said Simons. "Call him."
 Coburn dialed Rashid's number.
 He was at home!
 "This is Jay Coburn. I need your help."
 "Sure. 11
  Coburn did not want to give the address of the hideout over the phone, in
  case the line was wiretapped. He recalled that Bill Dvoranchik had a slight
  squint. He said: "You remember the guy with the funny eye?"
 "With a funny eye? Oh, yeah-"
 "Don't say his name. Remember where he used to live?"
 "Sure.-"
 "Don't say it. That's where I am. I need you here."
  "Jay, I live miles from there and I don't know how I'm going to get across
  the city-"
  "Just try," Coburn said. He knew how resourceful Rashid was. Give him a
  task and he just hated to fad. "You'll get here.11
 - 'Okay.
 "Thanks." Coburn hung up.
 It was midnight.
  Paul and Bill had each picked a passport from the ones Gayden had brought
  from the States, and Simons had made them learn the names, dates of birth,
  personal details, and all the visas and country stamps. The photograph in
  Paul's passport looked more or less like Paul, but Bill's was a problem.
  None of them
 302       Ken Follett

 was right, and he ended up with the passport of Larry Humphreys, a blond,
 rather Nordic type who really did not look like Bill.
  The tension mounted as the six men discussed details of the journey they
  would begin within the next few hours. There was fighting in Tabriz,
  according to Rich Gallagher's military contacts; so they would stick to the
  plan of taking the low road, south of Lake Rezaiyeh, passing through
  Mahabad. The story they would tell, if questioned, would be as close to the
  truth as possible,always Simons's preference when lying. They would say
  they were businessmen who wanted to get home to their families, the airport
  was closed, and they were driving to Turkey.
  In support of that story, they would carry no weapons. It was a difficult
  decision-they knew they might regret being unarmed and helpless in the
  middle of a revolution-but Simons and Coburn had found, on the
  reconnaissance trip, that the revolutionaries at the roadblocks always
  searched for weapons. Simons's instinct told him they would be better off
  talking their way out of trouble than trying to shoot their way out.
  They also decided to leave behind the fifty-five-gallon fuel drums, on the
  grounds that they made the team look too professional, too organized, for
  businessmen quietly driving home.
  They would, however, take a lot of money. Joe Poch6 and the Clean Team had
  gone off with fifty thousand dollars, but Simons's crew still had around a
  quarter of a million dollars, some of it in Iranian rials, deutschmarks,
  sterling, and gold. They packed fifty thousand dollars into kitchen
  baggies, weighted the bags with shot, and put them in a gas can. They hid
  some in a Kleenex box and more in the battery hold of a flashlight. They
  passed the rest out for each to conceal about his person.
  At one o'clock Rashid still had not arrived. Simons sent Coburn to stand at
  the street gate and watch for him.
  Coburn stood in the darkness, shivering, hoping Rashid would show up. They
  would leave tomorrow, with or without him, but without him they might not
  get far. The villagers in the countryside would probably detain Americans
  just on general principles. Rashid would be the ideal guide, despite
  Simons's worries: the kid had a silver tongue.
  Coburn's thoughts turned to home. Liz was mad at him, that he knew.'She had
  been giving Merv Stauffer a hard time, calling every day and asking where
  her husband was and what he was doing and when he was coming home.
 Coburn knew he would have to make some decisions when he
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   303

 got home. He was not sure that he was going to spend the rest of his life
 with Liz; and after this episode, maybe she would begin to feel the same
 way. I suppose we were in love, once upon a time, he thought. Where did all
 that go?
  He heard footsteps. A short, curly-headed figure was walking along the
  sidewalk toward him, shoulders hunched against the cold.
 "Rashid!" hissed Coburn.
 .1 JayT I
  "Boy, am I glad to see you."' Coburn took Rashid's arm. "Let's go inside."
  They went into the living room. Rashid said hello to everyone, smiling and
  blinking: he blinked a lot, especially in moments of excitement, and he had
  a nervous cough. Simons sat him down and explained the plan to him. Rashid
  blinked faster.
  When he understood what was being asked of him, he became a little
  self-important. "I will help you on one condition," he said, and coughed.
  "I know this country and I know this culture. You are all important people
  in EDS, but this is not EDS. If I lead you to the border, you must agree
  always to do everything I say, without question. "
 Coburn held his breath. Nobody talked like this to Simons.
 But Simons grinned. "Anything you say, Rashid."
  A few minutes later Coburn got Simons in a corner and said quietly:
  "Colonel, did you mean that about Rashid being in charge?"
  "Sure," said Simons. "He's in charge as long as he's doing what I want."
  Coburn knew, better than Simons, how hard it was to control Rashid even
  when Rashid was supposed to be obeying orders. On the other hand, Simons
  was the most skilled leader of small groups Coburn had ever met. Then
  again, this was Rashid's country, and Simons did not speak Farsi.... The
  last thing they needed on this trip was a power struggle between Simons and
  Rashid.
  Coburn got on the phone to Dallas and spoke to Merv Stauffer. Paul had
  encoded a description of the Dirty Team's proposed route to the border, and
  Coburn now gave Stauffer the coded message.
  Then they discussed how they would communicate en route. It would probably
  be impossible to call Dallas from countryside pay phones, so they decided
  they would pass messages through
 304        Ken Folleu

 an EDS employee in Tehran, Gholam. Gholam was not to know he was being used
 this way. Coburn would call Gholarn once a day. If all was well he would
 say: "I have a message for Jim Nyfeler: We are okay." Once the team reached
 Rezaiyeh he would add: "We are at the staging area." Stauffer, in his turn,
 would simply call Gholam and ask whether there were any messages. So long as
 all went well, Gholam would be kept in the dark. If things went wrong, the
 pretense would be abandoned: Coburn would level with Gholam, tell him what
 the trouble was, and ask him to call Dallas.
  Stauffer and Coburn had become so familiar with the code that they could
  hold a discussion, using mostly ordinary English mixed with a few letter
  groups and key code words, and be sure that anyone listening in on a
  wiretap would be unable to figure out what they meant.
  Merv explained that Perot had contingency plans to fly into northwest Iran
  from Turkey to pick up the Dirty Team if necessary. Perot wanted the Range
  Rovers to be clearly identifiable from the air, so he proposed that each of
  them should have a large -X- on its roof, either painted or made of black
  electrician's tape. If a vehicle had to be abandoned-because it broke down,
  or ran out of gas, or for any other reason-4he "X" should be changed to an
  "A."
  There was another message from Perot. He had talked with Admiral Moorer,
  who had said that things were going to get worse and the team should get
  out of there. Coburn told Simons this. Simons said: "Tell Admiral Moorer
  that the only water here is in the kitchen sink-I look out the window and
  I see no ships." Coburn laughed, and told Stauffer: "We understand the
  message. "
  It was almost five A.m. There was no more time to talk. Stauffer said:
  "Take care of yourself, Jay." He sounded choked up. "Keep your head down,
  y'hear?"
 "I sure will."
 "Good luck."
 "Bye, Merv."
 Coburn hung up-
  As dawn broke, Rashid went out in one of the Range Rovers to reconnoiter
  the streets. He was to find a route out of the city avoiding roadblocks. If
  the fighting was heavy, the tem would consider postponing their departure
  another twenty-four hours.
 At the same time, Coburn left in the second Range Rover to
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   305

 meet with Gholam. He gave Gholarn cash to cover the next payday at
 Bucharest, and said nothing about using Gholarn to pass messages to Dallas.
 The object of the exercise was a pretense of normality, so that it would be
 a few days before the remaining Iranian employees began to suspect that
 their American bosses had left town.
  When he got back to the Dvoranchik place, the team discussed who should go
  in which car. Rashid should drive the lead car, obviously. His passengers
  would be Simons, Bill, and Keane Taylor. In the second car would be Coburn,
  Paul, and Gayden.
  Simons said: "Coburn, you're not to let Paul out of your sight until you're
  in Dallas. Taylor, the same goes for you and Bill."
 Rashid came back and said the streets were remarkably quiet.
 "All right," said Simons. "Let's get this show on the road."
  Keane Taylor and Bill went out to fill the gas tanks of the Range Rovers
  from the fifty-five-gallon drum. The fuel had to be siphoned into the cars,
  and the only way to start the flow was to suck the fuel through: Taylor
  swallowed so much gasoline that he went back into the house and vomited,
  and for once nobody laughed at him.
  Coburn had some pep pills that he had bought, on Simons's instructions, at
  a Tehran drugstore. He and Simons had had no sleep for twenty-four hours
  straight, and now they each took a pill to keep them awake.
  Paul emptied the kitchen of every kind of food that would keep: crackers,
  cupcakes, canned puddings, and cheese. It was not very nutritious, but it
  would fill them.
  Coburn whispered to Paul: "Make sure we get the cassette tapes, so we can
  have some music in our car."
 Bill loaded the cars with blankets, flashlights, and can openers.
 They were ready.
 They all went outside.
  As they were getting into the cars, Rashid said: "Paul, you drive the
  second car, please. You are dark enough to pass for Iranian if you don't
  speak."
  Paul glanced at Simons. Simons gave a slight nod. Paul got behind the
  wheel.
 They drove out of the courtyard and into the street.
           ELEvEN

 As the Dirty Team drove out of the Dvoranchik place, Ralph Boulware was at
 Istanbul Airport, waiting for Ross Perot.
  Boulware had mixed feelings about Perot. Boulware had been a technician
  when he joined EDS. Now he was a manager. He had a fine big house in a
  white Dallas suburb, and an income few black Americans could ever hope for.
  He owed it all to EDS, and to Perot's policy of promoting talent. They
  didn't give you all this stuff for nothing, of course: they gave it for
  brains and hard work and good business judgment. But what they did give you
  for nothing was the chance to show your stuff.
  On the other hand, Boulware suspected Perot wanted to own his men body and
  soul. That was why ex-military people got on well at EDS: they were
  comfortable with discipline and used to a twenty-four-hour-a-day job.
  Boulware was afraid that one day he might have to decide whether he was his
  own man or Perot's.
  He admired Perot for going to Iran. For a man as rich and comfortable and
  protected as that to put his ass on the line the way he had ... that took
  some balls. Ilere was probably not one other chairman of the board of an
  American corporation who would conceive the rescue plan, let alone
  participate in it.
  And then again, Boulware wondered-all his life he would wonder-whether he
  could ever really trust a white man.
  Perot's leased 707 touched down at Six A.M. Boulware went on board. He took
  in the lush decor at a glance and then forgot about it: he was in a hurry.
  He sat down with Perot. "I'm catching a plane at six-thirty so I got to
  make this fast," he said. "You can't buy a helicopter and you can't buy a
  light plane."
 "Why not?"
               306
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   307

  "It's against the law. You can charter a plane, but it won't take you just
  anywhere you want to go-you charter for a specified trip."
     saysT
  "The law. Also, chartering is so unusual that you'll have the government
  all over you asking questions, and you might not want that. Now-"
  "Just a minute, Ralph, not so fast," said Perot. He had that I'm-the-boss
  look in his eye. "What if we get a helicopter from another country and
  bring it in?"
  "I have been here a month and I have looked into all this thoroughly, and
  you can't rent a helicopter and you can't rent a plane, and I have to leave
  now to meet Simons at the border."
 Perot backed off. "Okay. How are you going to get there?"
  "Mr. Fish got us a bus to go to the border. It's on its way already-1 was
  going with it, then I had to stay behind to brief you. I'm going to fly to
  Adan"at's about halfway--and catch up with the bus there. I got lisman with
  me, he's the secret service guy, and another guy to translate. What time do
  the fellows expect to reach the border?"
 "Two o'clock tomorrow afternoon," said Perot.
 "It's going to be tight. I'll see you guys later."
 He ran back to the terminal building and just made his flight.
  Ilsman, the fat secret policeman, and the interpreter-Boulware did not know
  his name so he called him Charlie Brown-were on board. They took off at
  six-thirty.
  They flew east to Ankara, where they waited several hours for their
  connection. At midday they reached Adana, near the biblical city of Tarsus
  in south central Turkey.
 The bus was not there.
 They waited an hour.
 Boulware decided the bus was not going to come.
  With Dsman and Charlie Brown, he went to the information desk and asked
  about flights from Adana to Van, a town about a hundred miles from the
  border crossing.
 There were no flights to Van from anywhere.
 "Ask where we can charter a plane," Boulware told Charlie.
 Charlie asked.
 "There are no planes for charter here."
 "Can we buy a car?"
 "Cars are very scarce in this part of the country."
 "Are there no car dealers in town?"
 308        Ken Folleu

 "If there are, they won't have any cars to sell."
 "Is there any way to get to Van from here?"
 "No. "
  It was like the joke about the tourist who asks a fanner for directions to
  London, and the fanner replies: "if I was going to London, I wouldn't start
  from here."
  They wandered out of the terminal and stood beside the dusty road. There
  was no sidewalk: this was really the sticks. Boulware was frustrated. So
  far he had had it easier than most of the rescue tearn-he had not even been
  to Tehran. Now that it was his turn to achieve something, it looked as
  though he would fad. Boulware hated to fail.
  He saw a car approaching with some kind of markings in Turkish on its side.
  "Hey," he said, "is that a cab?"
 "Yes," said Charlie.
 "Hell, let's get a cab!"
  Charlie hailed the cab and they got in. Boulware said: "Tell him we want to
  go to Van."
 Charlie translated.
 The driver pulled away.
  After a few seconds the dnver asked a question. Charlie translated: "Van,
  where?"
 "Tell him Van, Turkey."
 The driver stopped the car.
 Charlie said: "He says: 'Do you know how far it isT
  Boulware was not sure, but he knew it was halfway across Turkey. "Tell him
  yes."
 After another exchange Charlie said: "He won't take us."
 "Does he know anyone who will?"
  'Me driver shrugged elaborately as he replied. Charlie said: "He's going to
  take us to the cabstand so we can ask around." Good. "
  They drove into the town. The cabstand was just another dusty piece of road
  with a few cars parked, none of them new. Ilsman started talking to the
  drivers. Boulware and Charlie found a little shop and bought a bag of
  hard-boiled eggs.
  When they came out, Ilsman had found a driver and negotiated a price. The
  driver proudly pointed out his car. Boulware looked at it in dismay. It was
  a Chevrolet, around fifteen years old, and it looked as if it still had the
  original tim.
 'He says we'll need some food," Charlie said.
 "I got some eggs."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   309

 "Maybe we'll need more."
  Boulware went back into the shop and bought three dozen oranges.
  They got into the Chevrolet and drove to a filling station. The driver
  bought a spare tank of fuel and put it in the trunk. "Where we're going,
  there are no gas stations," Charlie explained.
  Boulware was looking at a map. Their journey was about five hundred miles
  through mountain country. "Listen," he said. "There is no way this car is
  going to get us to the border by two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. -
  "You don't understand," Charlie said. "This man is a Turkish driver. "
  "Oh, boy, " said Boulware; and he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes.
  They drove out of town and headed up into the mountains of central Turkey.
  The road was of dirt and gravel, with enormous potholes, and in places it
  was not much wider than the car. It snaked over the mountainsides, with a
  breathtaking sheer drop at one edge. There was no guardrail to stop an
  incautious driver shooting over the precipice into the abyss. But the
  scenery was spectacular, with stunning views across the sunlit valleys, and
  Boulware made up his mind to go back one day, with Mary and Stacy and
  Kecia, and do the trip again, at leisure.
  Up ahead, a truck was approaching them. The cabby braked to a halt. Two men
  in uniform got out of the truck. "Army patrol," said Charlie Brown.
  The driver wound down his window. Ilsman talked to the soldiers. Boulware
  did not understand what was said, but it seemed to satisfy the patrol. The
  cabby drove on.
  An hour or so later they were stopped by another patrol, and the same thing
  happened.
  At nightfall they spotted a roadside restaurant and pulled in. The place
  was primitive and filthy dirty. "All they have is beans and rice," said
  Charlie apologetically as they sat down.
 Boulware smiled. "I been eating beans and rice all my life."
  He studied the cabdriver. The man was about sixty years old, and looked
  tired. "I guess I'll drive for a while," said Boulware.
 Charlie translated, and the cabby protested vehemently.
  "He says you won't be able to drive that car," Charlie said. "It's an
  American car with a very peculiar gearshift."
 "Look, I am American," Boulware said. "Tell him that lots
 310        Ken Folleu

 of Americans are black. And I know how to drive a 'sixty-four Chevy with a
 standard shift, for Pete's sake!"
  The three Turks argued about it while they ate. Finally Charlie said: "You
  can drive, so long as you promise to pay for the damage if you wreck the
  car."
 "I promise," said Boulware, thinking: Big deal.
  He paid the bill, and they walked out to the car. It was beginning to rain.
  Boulware found it impossible to make any speed, but the big car was stable,
  and its powerful engine took the gradients without difficulty. They were
  stopped a third time by an army patrol. Boulware showed his American
  passport, and once again Ilsman made them happy somehow. This time,
  Boulware noted, the soldiers were unshaven and wore somewhat ragged
  uniforms.
  As they pulled away, lisman spoke, and Charlie said: "Try not to stop for
  any more patrols."
  'Nfty not?"
 "'Mey might rob us."
 That's great, thought Boulware.
  Near the town of Maras, a hundred miles from Adana and another four hundred
  from Van, the rain became heavy, making the mud-and-gravel road
  treacherous, and Boulware had to slow down even more.
 Soon after Maras , the car died.
  They all got out and lifted the hood. Boulware could see nothing wrong. The
  driver spoke, and Charlie translated: "He can't understand it--he has just
  tuned the engine with his own hands. "
  "Maybe he didn't tune it right," said Boulware. "Let's check a few things.
  "
  The driver got some tools and a flashlight out of the trunk, and the four
  men stood around the engine in the rain, trying to find out what had gone
  wrong.
  Eventually they discovered that the points were incorrectly set. Boulware
  guessed that either the rain, or the thinner mountain air, or both, had
  made the fault critical. It took a while to adjust the points, but finally
  the engine fired. Cold and wet and tired, the four men got back into the
  old car and Boulware drove on.
  The countryside grew more desolate as they traveled east-no towns, no
  houses, no livestock, nothing. The road became even worse: It reminded
  Boulware of a trail in a cowboy movie. Soon the nun turned to snow and the
  road became icy. Boulware kept
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   311

 glancing over the sheer drop at the side. If you go off this, sucker, he
 said to himself, you ain't going to get hurt-you're going to die.
  Near Bingol, halfway to their destination, they climbed up out of the
  storm. The sky was clear and there was a bright moon, almost like daylight.
  Boulware could see the snow clouds and the flashing lightning in the
  valleys below. The mountainside was frozen white, and the road was like a
  bobsled run.
  Boulware thought: Man, I'm going to die up here, and nobody's even going to
  know it, because they don't know where I am.
  Suddenly the steering wheel bucked in his hands and the car slowed:
  Boulware had a moment of panic, thinking he was losing control, then
  realized he had a flat tire. He brought the car gently to a halt.
  They all got out and the cabdriver opened the ftunk. He hauled out the
  extra fuel tank to get at the spare wheel. Boulware was freezing: the
  temperature had to be way below zero. The cabby refused any help and
  insisted on changing the wheel himself Boulware took off his gloves and
  offered them to the cabby: the man shook his head. Pride, I guess, thought
  Boulware.
  By the time the job was done, it was four A.m. Boulware said: "Ask him if
  he wants to take over the driving-4'm bushed."
 The driver agreed.
  Boulware got into the back. The car pulled away. Boulware closed his eyes
  and tried to ignore the bumps and jerks. He wondered whether he would reach
  the border in time. Shit, he thought, nobody could say we didn't try.
 A few seconds later he was asleep.

   2

 'Me Dirty Team blew out of Tehran like a breeze.
  The city looked like a battlefield from which everyone had gone home.
  Statues had been pulled down, cars burned, and trees felled to make
  roadblocks; then the roadblocks had been cleared-the cars pushed to the
  curb, the statues smashed, the trees burned. Some of those trees had been
  hand-watered every day for fifty years.
 But there was no fighting. They saw very few people and little
 312         Ken FoUeu

 ftffic. Perhaps the revolution was over. Or perhaps the revolutionaries were
 having tea.
  They drove past the airport and took the highway north, following the route
  Coburn and Simons had taken on their reconnaissance trip. Some of Simons's
  plans had come to nothing, but not this one. Still, Coburn was
  apprehensive. What was ahead of them? Did armies rage and storm in towns
  and handets still? Or was the revolution done? Perhaps the villagers had
  returned to their sheep and their plows.
  Soon the two Range Rovers were bowling along at seventy miles an hour at
  the foot of a mountain range. On their left was a flat plain; on their
  right, steep green hillsides topped by snowy mountain peaks against the
  blue sky. Coburn looked at the car in front and saw Taylor taking
  photographs through the tailgate window with his Instarnatic. "Look at
  Taylor," he said.
  "What does he think this is?" said Gayden. "A package tour?"
  Coburn began to feel optimistic. There had been no trouble so far: maybe
  the whole country was calming down. Anyway, why should the Iranians give
  them a hard time? What was wrong with foreigners leaving the country?
  Paul and Bill had false passports and were being hunted by the authorities,
  that was what was wrong.
  Thirty miles from Tehran, just outside the town of Karaj, they came to
  their first roadblock. It was manned, as they usually were, by
  machine-gun-toting men and boys in ragged clothes.
  The lead car stopped, and Rashid jumped out even before Paul had brought
  the second car to a halt, making sure that he, rather than the Americans,
  would do the talking. He immediately began speaking loud and rapid Farsi,
  with many gestures. Paul wound down the window. From what they could
  understand, it seemed Rashid was not giving the agreed story: he was saying
  something about journalists.
  After a while Rashid told them all to get out of the cars. "They want to
  search us for weapons."
  Coburn, remembering how many times he had been frisked on the
  reconnaissance trip, had concealed his little Gerber knife in the Range
  Rover.
  The Iranians patted them down, then perfunctorily searched the cars: they
  did not find Coburn's knife, nor did they come across the money.
 A few minutes later Rashid said: "We can go.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   313

  A hundred yards down the road was a filling station. They pulled in: Simons
  wanted to keep the fuel tanks as full as possible.
  While the cars were being fueled Taylor produced a bottle of Cognac, and
  they all took a swig except Simons, who disapproved, and Rashid, whose
  beliefs forbade him to take alcohol. Simons was mad at Rashid. Instead of
  saying the group were businessmen trying to go home, Rashid had said they
  were journalists going to cover the fighting in Tabriz. "Stick to the
  goddam story," Simons said.
 "Sure," said Rashid.
  Coburn thought Rashid would probably continue to say the first thing that
  came into his head at the time. That was how he operated-
  A small crowd gathered at the filling station, watching the foreigners.
  Coburn looked at the bystanders nervously. They were not exactly hostile,
  but there was something vaguely menacing about their quiet surveillance.
 Rashid bought a can of oil.
 What now?
  He took the fuel can, which contained most of the money in weighted plastic
  bags, out of the back of the car, and poured oil into it to conceal the
  money. It's not a bad idea, Coburn thought, but I would have mentioned it
  to Simons before doing it.
  He tried to read the expressions on the faces in the crowd. Were they idly
  curious? Resentftil? Suspicious? Malevolent? He could not tell, but he
  wanted to get away.
  Rashid paid the bill and the two cars pulled slowly out of the filling
  station.
  They had a clear run for the next seventy miles. The road, the new Iranian
  State Highway, was in good condition. It ran through a valley, alongside a
  single-track railroad, with snowcapped mountains above. The sun was
  shining.
 The second roadblock was outside Qazvin.
  It was an unofficial one-the guards were not in uniform-but it was bigger
  and more organized dim the last. There were two checkpoints, one after
  another, and a line of cars waiting.
 The two Range Rovers joined the queue.
  The car in front of them was searched methodically. A guard opened the
  trunk and took out what looked like a rolled-up sheet. He unrolled it and
  found a rifle. He shouted something and waved the rifle in the air.
 314       Ken Follett

  Other guards came running. A crowd gathered. 'Me driver of the car was
  questioned. One of the guards knocked him to the ground.
 Rashid pulled his car out of the line.
 Coburn told Paul to follow.
 "What's he doing?" Gayden said.
  Rashid inched through the crowd. The people made way as the Range Rover
  nudged them--4hey were interested in the man with the rifle. Paul kept the
  second Range Rover right on the tail of the first. They passed the first
  checkpoint.
 "What the fuck is he doing?" said Gayden.
 "This is asking for trouble," said Coburn.
  They approached the second checkpoint. Without stopping. Rashid yelled at
  the guard through the window. The guard said something in reply. Rashid
  accelerated. Paul followed.
  Coburn breathed a sigh of relief. That was just like Rashid: he did the
  unexpected, on impulse, without thinking through the consequences; and
  somehow he always got away with it. It just made life a little tense for
  the people with him.
  Next time they stopped, Rashid explained that he had simply told the guard
  the two Range Rovers had been cleared at the first checkpoint.
  At the next roadblock Rashid persuaded the guards to write a pass on his
  windshield in magic marker, and they were waved through another three
  roadblocks without being searched.
  Keane Taylor was driving the lead car when, climbing a long, winding hill,
  they saw two heavy trucks, side by side and filling the whole width of the
  road, coniing downhill fast toward them. Taylor swerved off the road and
  bumped to a halt in the ditch, and Paul followed. The trucks went by, still
  side by side, and everyone said what a lousy driver Taylor was.
  At midday they took a break. They parked at the roadside near a ski lift
  and lunched on dry crackers and cupcakes. Although there was snow on the
  mountainsides, the sun was shining and they were not cold. Taylor got out
  his bottle of Cognac, but it had leaked and was empty: Coburn suspected
  that Simons had surreptitiously loosened the cork. They drank water.
  They passed through the small, neat town of Zanjan, where on the
  reconnaissance trip Coburn and Simons had talked to the chief of police.
  Just beyond Zanjan the hunian State Highway ended-rather abruptly. In the
  second car, Coburn saw Rashid's Range Rover
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   315

 suddenly disappear from view. Paul slammed on the brakes and they got out to
 look.
  Where the tarmac ended, Rashid had gone down a steep slope for about eight
  feet and landed nose-down in mud. Off to the right, their route continued
  up an unpaved mountain road.
  Rashid restarted the stalled engine and put the car into fourwheel drive
  and reverse gear. Slowly he inched back up the bank and onto the road.
  The Range Rover was covered with mud. Rashid turned on the wipers and
  washed the windshield. When the mud splashes were gone, so was the pass
  that had been written on with magic marker. Rashid could have rewritten it,
  but nobody had a magic marker.
  They drove west, heading for the southern tip of Lake Rezaiyeh. 'Me Range
  Rovers were built for rough roads, and they could still do forty miles per
  hour. They were climbing all the time: the temperature dropped steadily,
  and the countryside was covered with snow, but the road was clear. Coburn
  wondered whether they might even make the border tonight, instead of
  tomorrow as planned.
  Gayden, in the backseat, leaned forward and said: "Nobody's going to
  believe it was this easy. We better make up some war stories to tell when
  we get home."
 He spoke too soon.
  As daylight faded they approached Mahabad. Its outskirts were marked by a
  few scattered huts, made of wood and mud brick, along the sides of the
  winding road. The two Range Rovers swept around a bend and pulled up
  sharply: the road was blocked by a parked truck and a large but apparently
  disciplined crowd. The men were wearing the traditional baggy trousers,
  black vest, red-and-white checkered headdress and bandolier of Kurdish
  tribesmen.
 Rashid jumped out of the lead car and went into his act.
  Coburn studied the guns of the guards, and saw both Russian and American
  automatic weapons.
 "Everyone out of the cars," said Rashid.
  By now it was routine. One by one they were searched. This time the search
  was a little more thorough, and they found Keane Taylor's little
  switchblade knife, but they let him keep it. They did not find Coburn's
  knife, or the money.
  Coburn waited for Rashid to say: "We can go." It was taking longer than
  usual. Rashid argued with the Kurds for a few
 316       Ken Follett

 minutes, then said: "We have to go and see the head man of the town. "
  They got back into the cars. A Kurd with a rifle joined them in each car
  and directed them into the little town.
  They were ordered to stop outside a small whitewashed building. One of the
  guards went in, came out again a minute later, and got back into the car
  without explanation.
  They stopped again outside what was clearly a hospital. Here they picked up
  a passenger, a young Iranian in a suit.
 Coburn wondered what the hell was going on.
  Finally they drove down an alley and parked outside what looked like a
  small private house.
 They went inside. Rashid told them to take off their shoes.
  Gayden had several thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills in his shoes.
  As he took them off he frantically stuffed the money up into the toes of
  the shoes.
  They were ushered into a large room furnished with nothing but a beautiful
  Persian carpet. Simons quietly told everyone where to sit. Leaving a space
  in the circle for the Iranians, he put Rashid on the right of the space.
  Next to Rashid was Taylor, then Coburn, then Simons himself opposite the
  space. On Simons's right Paul and Bill sat, back a little from the line of
  the circle, where they would be least conspicuous. Gayden, completing the
  circle, sat on Bill's right.
  As Taylor sat down he saw that he had a big hole in the toe of his sock,
  and hundred-dollar bills were poking through the hole. He cursed under his
  breath and hastily pushed the money back toward his heel.
  The young man in the suit followed them in. He seemed educated and spoke
  good English. "You are about to meet a man who has just escaped after
  twenty-five years it. jail," he said.
  Bill almost said: Well, how about that, I've just escaped from jail
  myself!--but he stopped himself just in time.
  "You are to be put on trial, and this man will be your judge," the young
  Iranian went on.
  The words on trial hit Paul like a blow, and he thought: we've come all
  this way for nothing.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   317

   3

 The Clean Team spent Wednesday at Lou Goelz's house in Tehran.
  Early in the morning a call came through from Tom Walter in Dallas. The
  line was poor and the conversation confused, but Joe Poche was able to tell
  Walter that he and the Clean Team were safe, would move into the Embassy as
  soon as possible, and would leave the country whenever the Embassy got the
  evacuation flights finally organized. Poch6 also reported that Cathy
  Gallagher's condition had not improved, and she had been taken to the
  hospital the previous evening.
  John Howell called Abolhasan, who had another message from Dadgar. Dadgar
  was willing to negotiate a lower bail. If EDS located Paul and Bill, the
  company should turn them in and post the lower bail. The Americans should
  realize that it would be hopeless for Paul and Bill to try to leave Iran by
  regular means and very dangerous for them to leave otherwise.
  Howell took that to mean that Paid and Bill would not have been allowed to
  get out on an Embassy evacuation flight. He wondered again whether the
  Clean Team might be in more danger than the Dirty Team. Bob Young felt the
  same. While they were discussing it, they heard shooting. It seemed to be
  coming from the direction of the U.S. Embassy.

 The National Voice of Iran, a radio station broadcasting from Baku moss the
 border in the Soviet Union, had for several days been issuing "news"
 bulletins about clandestine American plans for a counterrevolution. On
 Wednesday the National Voice announced that the files of SAVAK, the Shah's
 hated secret police force, had been transferred to the U.S. Embassy. The
 story was almost certainly invented, but it was highly plausible: the CIA
 had created SAVAK and was in close contact with it, and everyone knew that
 U.S. embassies-4ike all embassies-were fall of spies thinly disguised as
 diplomatic attaclids. Anyway, some of the revolutionaries in Tehran believed
 the story, and -without consulting any of the Ayatollah's aides-decided to
 take action.
 318       Ken Follett

  During the morning they entered the high buildings surrounding the Embassy
  compound and took up position with automatic weapons. They opened fire at
  ten-thirty.

 Ambassador William Sullivan was in his outer office, taking a call at his
 secretary's desk. He was speaking to the Ayatollah's Deputy Foreign
 Minister. President Carter had decided to recognize the new, revolutionary
 government in Iran, and Sullivan was making arrangements to deliver an
 official note.
  When he put the phone down, he turned around to see his press attaclid,
  Barry Rosen, standing there with two American journalists. Sullivan was
  furious, for the White House had given specific instructions that the
  decision to recognize the new goveminent was to be announced in Washington,
  not Tehran. Sullivan took Rosen into the inner office and chewed him out.
  Rosen told him that the two journalists were there to make arrangements for
  the body of Joe Alex Morris, the Los Angeles Times correspondent who had
  been shot during the fighting at Doshen Toppeh. Sullivan, feeling foolish,
  told Rosen to ask the journalists not to reveal what they had learned in
  overhearing Sullivan on the phone.
  Rosen went out. Sullivan's phone rang. He picked it up. There was a sudden
  tremendous crash of gunfire, and a hail of bullets shattered his windows.
 Sullivan hit the floor.
  He slithered across the room and into the next office, where he came
  nose-to-nose with his deputy, Charlie Naas, who had been holding a meeting
  about the evacuation flights. Sullivan had two phone numbers that he could
  use, in an emergency, to reach revolutionary leaders. He now told Naas to
  call one, and the army attach6 to call the other. Still lying on the floor,
  the two men pulled telephones off a desk and started dialing.
  Sullivan took out his walkie-talkie and called for reports from the marine
  units in the compound.
  The machine-gun attack had been covering fire for a squad of about
  seventy-five revolutionaries who had come over the front wall of the
  Embassy compound and were now advancing on the ambassadorial residence.
  Fortunately most of the staff were with Sullivan in the chancery building.
  Sullivan ordered the marines to fall back, not to use their rifles, and to
  fire their sidearms only in self-defense.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   319

  Then he crawled out of the executive suite and into the corridor.
  During the next hour, as the attackers took the residence and the cafeteria
  building, Sullivan got all the civilians in the chancery herded into the
  communications vault upstairs. When he heard the attackers breaking down
  the steel doors of the building, he ordered the marines inside to join the
  civilians in the vault. There he made them pile their weapons in a comer,
  and ordered everyone to surrender as soon as possible.
  Eventually Sullivan himself went into the vault, leaving the army attach6
  and an interpreter outside.
  When the attackers reached the second floor, Sullivan opened the vault door
  and walked out with his hands over his head.
 The othem-about a hundred people-followed him.
  They were all herded into the waiting room of the executive suite and
  frisked. There was a confused dispute between two factions of Iranians, and
  Sullivan realized that the Ayatollah's people had sent a rescue
  force-presumably in response to the phone calls by Charlie Naas and the
  army attach6--wW the rescuers had arrived on the second floor at the same
  time as the attackers.
 Suddenly a shot came through the window.
  All the Americans dropped to the floor. One of the Iranians seemed to think
  the shot had come from within the room, and he swung his AK-47 rifle wildly
  at the tangle of prisoners on the floor-, then Barry Rosen, the press
  attach6, yelled in Farsi: "It came from outside! It came from outside!" At
  that moment Sullivan found himself lying next to the two journalists who
  had been in his outer office. "I hope you're getting all this down in your
  notebooks," he said.
  Eventually they were taken out into the courtyard, where Ibrahim Yazdi, the
  Ayatollah's new Deputy Prime Minister, apologized to Sullivan for the
  attack.
  Yazdi also gave Sullivan a personal escort, a group of students who would
  henceforth be responsible for the safety of the U.S. Ambassador. The leader
  of the group explitined to Sullivan that they were well qualified to guard
  him. They had studied him, and were familiar with his routine, for until
  recently their assignment had been to assassinate him.

 Late that afternoon Cathy Gallagher called from the hospital. She had been
 given some medication that solved her problem, at
 320       Ken Follett

 least temporarily, and she wanted to rejoin her husband and the others at
 Lou Goetz's house.
  Joe Poch6 did not want any more of the Clean Team to leave the house, but
  he also did not want any Iranians to know where they were; so he called
  Gholarn and asked him to pick up Cathy at the hospital and bring her to the
  comer of the street, where her husband would meet her.
  She arrived at around seven-thirty that evening. She was feeling better,
  but Gholam had told her a horrifying story. "They shot up our hotel rooms
  yesterday," she said.
  Gholam had gone to the Hyatt to pay EDS's bill and pick up the suitcases
  they had left behind, Cathy explained. The rooms had been wrecked, there
  were bullet holes everywhere, and the luggage had been slashed to ribbons.
 "Just our rooms?" Howell asked.
 . 'Yes. 11
 "Did he find out how it happened?"
  When Gholarn went to pay the bill, the hotel manager had said to him: "Who
  the heU were those people-the CIAT' Apparently, on Monday morning, shortly
  after all the EDS people left the hotel, the revolutionaries had taken it
  over. They had harassed all the Americans, demanding their passports, and
  had shown pictures of two men whom they were seeking. The manager had not
  recognized the men in the photographs. Nor had anyone else.
  Howell wondered what had so enraged the revolutionaries that they had
  smashed up the rooms. Perhaps Gayden's well-stocked bar offended their
  Muslim sensibilities. Also left behind in Gayden's suite were a tape
  recorder used for dictation, some suction microphones for taping phone
  conversations, and a child's walkie-talkie set. The revolutionaries might
  have thought this was CIA surveillance gear.
  Throughout the day, vague and alarming reports of what was happening at the
  Embassy reached Howell and the Clean Team through Goe1z's houseman, who was
  calling friends. But Goelz returned as the others were having dinner, and
  after a couple of stiff drinks he was none the worse for his experience. He
  had spent a good deal of time lying on his ample belly in a corridor. The
  next day he went back to his desk, and he came home that evening with good
  news: evacuation flights would start on Saturday, and the Clean Team would
  be on the first.
 Howell thought: Dadgar may have other ideas about that.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   321

   4

 In Istanbul, Ross Perot had a dreadful feeling that the whole operation was
 slipping out of control.
  He heard, via Dallas, that the U.S. Embassy in Tehran had been overrun by
  revolutionaries. He also knew, because Tom Walter had talked to Joe Pochd
  earlier, that the Clean Team had been planning to move into the Embassy
  compound as soon as possible. But after the attack on the Embassy, almost
  all telephone lines to Tehran had been disconnected, and the White House
  was monopolizing the few lines left. So Perot did not know whether the
  Clean Team had been in the Embassy at the time of the attack, nor did he
  know what kind of danger they might be in even if they were still at
  Goelz's house.
  'Me loss of phone contact also meant that Merv Stauffer could not call
  Gholam to find out whether the Dirty Team had sent "a message for Jim
  Nyfeler" saying either that they were okay or that they were in trouble.
  The whole seventh-floor crew in Dallas was at work pulling strings to get
  one of the few remaining lines so they could talk to Gholam. Tom Walter had
  got on to A.T.&T. and spoken to Ray Johnson, who handled the EDS phone
  account. It was a very big account-EDS,'s computers in different parts of
  the U.S.A. talked to one another along telephone lines--and Johnson had
  been keen to help a major customer. He had asked whether EDS's call to
  Tehran was a matter of life and death. You bet it is, said Tom Walter.
  Johnson was trying to get them a line. At the same time, T. 1. Marquez was
  sweet-talking an international operator, trying to persuade her to break
  the rules.
  Perot had also lost touch with Ralph Boulware, who was supposed to meet the
  Dirty Team on the Turkish side of the border. Boulware had last been heard
  from in Adana, five hundred miles from where he was supposed to be. Perot
  presumed he was now on his way to the rendezvous, but there was no way of
  telling how far he had got or whether he would make it on time.
  Perot had spent most of the day trying to get a light plane or a helicopter
  with which to fly into Iran. The Boeing 707 was no use for that, because
  Perot would need to fly low and search for
 322       Ken Follett

 the Range Rovers with -X- or "A" on their roofs, then land on tiny, disused
 airfields or even on a road or in a meadow. But so far his efforts had only
 confirmed what Boulware had told him at six o'clock that morning: it was not
 going to happen.
  in desperation Perot had called a friend in the Drug Enforcement Agency and
  asked for the phone number of the agency's man in Turkey, thinking that
  narcotics people would surely know how to get hold of light planes. The DEA
  man had come to the Sheraton, accompanied by another man who, Perot
  gathered, was with the CIA; but if they knew where to get a plane they
  weren't telling.
  In Dallas, Merv Stauffer was calling all over Europe looking for a suitable
  aircraft that could be bought or rented immediately and flown into Turkey:
  he, too, had failed so far.
  Late in the afternoon Perot had said to Pat Sculley: "I want to talk to the
  highest-ranking American in Istanbul."
  Sculley had gone off and raised a little hell at the American Consulate,
  and now, at ten-thirty P.m., a Consul was sitting in Perot's suite at the
  Sheraton.
  Perot was leveling with him. "My men aren't criminals of any kind," he
  said. "They're ordinary businessmen who have wives and children worrying
  themselves to death back home. The Iranians kept them in jail for six weeks
  without bringing any charges or finding any evidence against them. Now
  they're free and they're trying to get out of the country. If they're
  caught, you can imagine how much chance they'd have of justice: none at
  all. The way things are in Iran now, my men may not get as far as the
  border. I want to go in and get them, and that's where I need your help. I
  have to borrow, rent, or buy a small aircraft. Now, can you help me?"
  "No," said the Consul. "In this country it's against the law for private
  individuals to have aircraft. Because it's against the law, the planes
  aren't here even for someone who's prepared to break the law."
 "But you must have aircraft.
 "The State Department has no aircraft."
  Perot despaired. Was he to sit and do nothing to help the Dirty Team?
  The Consul said: "Mr. Perot, we're here to help American citizens, and I'm
  going to try to get you an aircraft. I'll pull whatever strings I can. But
  I'll tell you now that my chance of success is close to zero."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   323

 "Well, I appreciate it."
 The Consul got up to go.
  Perot said: "It's very important that my presence in Turkey be kept secret.
  Right now the Iranian authorities have no idea where my men are. If they
  should learn that I'm here, they will be able to figure out how my men are
  getting out, and that would be a catastrophe. So please be very discreet."
 "I understand."
 The Consul left.
  A few minutes later the phone rang. It was T. J. Marquez calling from
  Dallas.
 "Perot, you're on the front page of the paper today."
 Perot's heart sank: the story was out.
  T.J. said: "The -governor just appointed you chairman of the Drug
  Commission. -
 Perot breathed again. "Marquez, you scared me."
 T.J. laughed.
  "You shouldn't do that to an old man," Perot said. "Boy, you really caught
  my attention there."
  "Wait a minute, Margot's on the other line," said T.J. "She just wants to
  wish you a happy Valentine's Day."
  Perot realized it was February 14. He said: "Tell her I'm completely safe,
  and being guarded at all times by two blondes. "
  "Wait a minute, I'll tell her." T.J. came back on the line a minute later,
  laughing. "She says, isn't it interesting that you need two to replace
  her?"
  Perot chuckled. He had walked into that one: he should have known better
  than to try to score points off Margot. "Now, did you get through to
  Tehran?"
  "Yes. The international operator got us a line, and we blew it on a wrong
  number. Then A.T. and T. got us a line and we reached Gholam.-
 "."d?"
 "Nothing. He hasn't heard from them."
  Perot's temporary cheerfulness vanished. "What did you ask him?"
  "We just said: 'Are there any messagesT and he said there weren 9t. -
  "Damn." Perot almost wished the Dirty Team had called to say they were in
  trouble, for then at least he would have known their location.
 He said goodbye to T.J. and got ready for bed. He had lost the
 324       Ken Follett

 Clean Team, he had lost Boulware, and now he had lost the Dirty Team. He had
 failed to get hold of an aircraft in which to go looking for them. The whole
 operation was a mess--and there was not a thing he could do about it.
  The suspense was killing him. He realized that never in his life had he
  experienced this much tension. He had seen men crumble under stress but he
  had never really been able to relate to their suffering because it had
  never happened to him. Stress did not upset him, normally-in fact, he
  thrived on it. But this was different.
  He broke his own rule, and allowed himself to think about all the bad
  things that could happen. What was at stake here was his freedom, for if
  this rescue were to go wrong he would end up in jail. Already he had
  assembled a mercenary army, connived at the misuse of American passports,
  arranged the forgery of U.S. military identity cards, and conspired to
  effect an illegal border crossing. He hoped he would go to jail in the U.S.
  rather than in Turkey. The worst would be if the Turks sent him to Iran to
  be tried for his "crimes" there.
  Jie lay awake on his hotel bed, worrying about the Clean Team, about the
  Dirty Tearn, about Boulware, and about himself. There was nothing he could
  do but endure it. In the future he would be more sympathetic to the men he
  put under stress. If he had a future.

   5

 Coburn was tense, watching Simons.
  They all sat in a circle on the Persian carpet, waiting for the :'judge."
  Simons had told Coburn, before they left Tehran: 'Keep your eye on me." So
  far Simons had been passive, rolling with the punches, letting Rashid do
  the talking, allowing the team to be arrested. But there might come a
  moment when he changed his tactics. if he decided to start a fight, he
  would let Coburn know a split-second before it happened.
 The judge arrived.
  Aged about fifty, he wore a dark blue jacket with a light tan sweater
  undemeath, and an open-neck shirt. He had the air of a professional man, a
  doctor or a lawyer. He had a .45 stuck in his belt.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   325

  Rashid recognized him. His name was Habib Bolourian, and he was a leading
  Communist.
 Bolourian sat in the space Simons had intended for him.
  He said something in Farsi, and the young man in the suitwho now took on
  the role of interpreter-asked for their passports.
  This is it, Coburn thought; this is where we get into trouble. He will look
  at Bill's passport and realize it belongs to someone else.
  The passports were piled up on the carpet in front of Bolourian. He looked
  at the top one. The interpreter began to write down details. There was some
  confusion about sumames and given names: Iranians often got the two mixed
  up, for some mason. Rashid was handing the passports to Bolourian, and
  Gayden was leaning over and pointing out things; and it dawned on Coburn
  that between the two they were making the confusion worse. Rashid was
  giving Bolourian the same passport more than once, and Gayden, in leaning
  over to point out things in a passport, was covering up the photograph.
  Coburn admired their nerve. In the end the passports were handed back, and
  it seemed to Coburn that Bill's had never actually been opened.
  Bolourian began to interrogate Rashid in Farsi. Rashid seemed to be telling
  the official cover story, about their being ordinary American businessmen
  trying to go home, with some embellishments about family members on the
  point of death back in the States.
  Eventually the interpreter said in English: "Would you tell us exactly what
  you're doing here?"
  Rashid said: "Well, you see--" then a guard behind him slammed in the bolt
  on his machine gun and stuck the barrel into the back of Rashid's neck.
  Rashid fell silent. Clearly the interpreter wanted to hear what the
  Americans had to say, to see whether their story matched Rashid's; the
  guard's action was a brutal reminder that they were in the power of violent
  revolutionaries.
  Gayden, as the senior EDS executive there, replied to the interpreter. "We
  all work for a data-processing company called PARS Data Systems, or PDS,-
  he said. In fact, PDS was the Ir-anian company jointly owned by EDS and
  Abolfath Mahvi. Gayden did not mention EDS because, as Simons had pointed
  out before they left Tehran, Dadgar might put out a blanket arrest order on
  anyone connected with EDS - "We had a contract with Bank Orman,- Gayden
  went on, telling the truth but by no
 326         Ken FoHeu

 means the whole truth. "We weren't getting paid, people were throwing rocks
 at our windows, we had no money, we missed our families, and we just wanted
 to go home. The airport was closed, so we decided to drive."
  "That's right," said the interpreter. "The same thing happened to me-I
  wanted to fly to Europe but the airport was closed. "
 We may have an ally here, Coburn thought.
  Bolourian asked, and the interpreter translated: "Did you have a contract
  with ISIRANT'
  Coburn was astonished. For someone who had spent twentyfive years in jail,
  Bolourian was remarkably well informed. ISHLAN-Information Systems Iran-was
  a data-processing company that had once been owned by Abolfath Mahvi and
  had subsequently been bought by the government. The company was widely
  believed to have close links with the secret police, SAVAK. Worse, EDS did
  have a contract with ISMAN: in partnership, the two companies had created
  a document-control system for the Iranian Navy back in 1977.
  "We have absolutely nothing to do with ISELAN," Gayden lied.
 "Can you give us some proof of whom you work for?"
  That was a problem. Before leaving Tehran they had all destroyed any papers
  connected with EDS, under Simons's instructions. Now they all searched
  their pockets for anything they might have overlooked.
  Keane Taylor found his health insurance card, with "Electronic Data Systems
  Corp. " printed across the bottom. He handed it to the interpreter, saying:
  "Electronic Data Systems is the Parent company of PDS."
 Bolourian got up and left the room.
  The interpreter, the armed Kurds, and the EDS men waited in silence. Coburn
  thought: What now?
  Could Bolourian possibly know that EDS had once had a contract with ISHLAN?
  If so, would he jump to the conclusion that the ED$ men were connected with
  SAVAK? Or had his question about ISIRAN been a shot in the dark? In that
  case, had he believed their story about being ordinary businessmen trying
  to go home?
  Opposite Coburn, on the far side of the circle, Bill was feeling strangely
  at peace. He had peaked out on fear during the questioning, and he was
  simply incapable of worrying any longer.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   327

 We've tried our hardest to get out, he thought, and if they put us up
 against the wall right now and shoot us, so be it.
 Bolourian walked back in, loading a gun.
 Coburn glanced at Simons: his eyes were riveted on the gun.
  It was an old MI carbine that looked as if it dated from World war 11.
 He can't shoot us all with that, Coburn thought.
  Bolourian handed the gun to the interpreter and said something in Farsi.
  Coburn gathered his muscles to spring. There would be a hell of a mess if
  they opened fire in this room--
  The interpreter took the gun and said: "And now you will be our guests, and
  drink tea."
  Bolourian wrote on a piece of paper and handed it to the interpreter.
  Coburn realized that Bolourian had simply issued the gun to the interpreter
  and given him a permit to carry it. "Christ, I thought he was going to
  shoot us," Coburn muttered.
 Simons's face was expressionless.
 Tea was served.
  It was now dark outside. Rashid asked whether there was somewhere the
  Americans could spend the night. "You will be our guests," said the
  interpreter. "I will personally look after you. " Coburn thought: For that,
  he needs a gun? The interpreter went on: "in the morning our mullah will
  write a note to the mullah of Rezaiyeh, asking him to let you pass."
  Coburn murmured to Simons: "What do you think? Should we stay the night
  here, or go on?"
  "I don't think we have a choice," Simons said. "When he said 'guests,' he
  was just being polite."
  They drank their tea, and the interpreter said: "Now we will go and have
  dinner."
  They got up and put on their shoes. Walking out to the cars, Coburn noticed
  that G4yden was limping. "What's the matter with your feet?" he said.
  "Not so loud," Gayden hissed. "I got all the money stuffed up in the toes
  of my shoes and my feet are killing me."
 Coburn laughed.
  They got into the cars and drove off, still accompanied by Kurdish guards
  and the interpreter. Gayden surreptitiously eased off his shoes and
  rearranged the money. They pulled into a filling station. Gayden murmured:
  "If they weren't going to let us go, they wouldn't take us to gas up ...
  would they?"
 328        Ken F61k9t

 Coburn shrugged.
  They drove to the town restaurant. The EDS men sat down, and the guards sat
  at tables around diem, forming a rough circle and cutting them off from the
  townspeople.
  A TV set was on, and the Ayatollah was making a speech. Paul thought:
  Jesus, it had to be now, when we're in trouble, that tins guy comes to
  power. Then the hiterpreter told bun that Khomeini was saying Americans
  should not be molested, but should be allowed to leave Iran unharmed, and
  Paul felt better.
  They were served chella. kebab-4amb with rice. The guards ate heartily,
  thew rifles on the tables beside their plates.
  Keane Taylor ate a little rice, then put down his spoon. He had a headache:
  he had been sharing the driving with Rashid, and he felt as if the sun had
  been in his eyes all day. He was also worried, for it occurred to him that
  Bolourian might call Tehran during the night to check out EDS. The guards
  kept telling him, with gestures, to eat, but he sat and nursed a Coke.
  Coburn was not hungry either. He had recalled that he was supposed to phone
  Gholam. It was late: they would be worried sick in Dallas. But what should
  he tell Gholam-that they were okay, or that they were in trouble?
  Them was some discussion about who should pay the bill when the meal was
  over. The guards wanted to pay, Rashid said. The Americans were anxious not
  to offend by offering to pay when they were supposed to be guess, but also
  keen to ingratiate themselves with these people. In the end Keane Taylor
  paid for everyone.
  As they were leaving, Coburn said to the interpreter: "I'd sure like to
  call Tehran, to let our people know we're all right."
 "Okay," said the young man.
  They drove to the post office. Coburn and the interpreter went in. Thme was
  a crowd of people waiting to use the three or four phone booths. The
  interpreter spoke to someone behind the counter, then told Coburn: "All the
  lines to Tehran are busyit's very difficult to get dumo.
 "Could we come back later?"
 ..Okay. I I
  They drove out of the town in the dark. After a few minutes they stopped at
  a gate in a fence. The moonlight showed the distant outline of what might
  have been a darn.
  There was a long delay while keys to the gate were found, then they drove
  in. They found themselves in a small park
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   329

 surrounding an ornate, modem two-story building made of white granite. "This
 is one of the Shah's palaces," the interpreter explained. "He has used it
 only once, when he opened the power station. Tonight we will use it. "
  They went inside. The place was cozily warm. The interpreter said
  indignantly: "The heating has been on for three years just in case the Shah
  should decide to drop by."
  They all went upstairs and looked at their quarters. There was a luxurious
  royal suite with an enormous fancy bathroom, then along the corridor were
  smaller rooms, each containing two single beds and a bathroom, presumably
  for the Shah's bodyguard. Under each bed was a pair of slippers.
  The Americans moved into the guards' rooms and the revolutionary Kurds took
  over the Shah's suite. One of them decided to take a bath: the Americans
  could hear him splashing about, hooting, and hollering. After a while he
  came out. He was the biggest and burliest of them, and he had put on one of
  the Shah's fancy bathrobes. He came mincing down the corridor while his
  colleagues fell about laughing. He went up to Gayden and said in heavily
  accented English: "Complete gentleman." Gayden broke UP-
 Coburn said to Simons: "What's the routine for tomorrow?"
  "They want to escort us to Rezaiyeh and hand us over to the head man
  there," said Simons. "It'll help to have them with us if we meet any more
  roadblocks. But when we get to Rezaiyeh, we may be able to persuade them to
  take us to the professor's house instead of the head man."
 Coburn nodded. "Okay."
  Rashid looked worried. "These are bad people," he whispered. "Don't trust
  them. We've got to get out of here."
  Coburn was not sure he trusted the Kurds, but he was quite certain there
  would be trouble if the Americans tried to leave now.
  He noticed that one of the guards had a G3 rifle. "Hey, that's a real neat
  firearm," he said.
 The guard smiled and seemed to understand.
  "I've never seen one before," Coburn said. "How do you load it?"
 "Load ... so," said the guard, and showed him.
  They sat down and the guard explained the rifle. He spoke enough English to
  make himself understood with the help of gestures.
 330        Ken Folleu

  After a while Coburn realized that he was now holding the rifle.
 He started to relax.
  The others wanted to take showers, but Gayden went first and used all the
  hot water. Paul took a cold shower: he had sure as hell got used to cold
  showers lately.
  They learned a little about their interpreter. He was studying in Europe
  and had been home on holiday when the revolution caught him and prevented
  his going back: that was how come he knew the airport was closed.
  At midnight Coburn asked him: "Can we try to place that call againT I
 . 'Okay.
  One of the guards escorted Coburn back into town. They went to the post
  office, which was still open. However, there were no lines to Tehran.
 Coburn waited until two o'clock in the morning, then gave up.
  When he returned to the palace beside the dam, everyone was fast asleep.
  He went to bed. At least they were all still alive. That was enough to be
  thankful for. Nobody knew what was between them and the border. He would
  worry about that tomorrow.
           TwELvE

 "Wake up, Coburn, let's move, let's go!"
  Simons's gravelly voice penetrated Coburn's slumber and he opened his eyes,
  thinking: Where am P
 In the Shah's palace at Mahabad.
 Oh, shit.
 He got up.
  Simons was getting the Dirty Team ready to go, but there was no sip of
  their guards: Apparently they were all still asleep. The Americans made
  plenty of noise, and eventually the Kurds emerged from the royal suite.
  Simons said to Rashid: "Tell them we have to go, we9re in a hurry, our
  friends are waiting at the border for us - "
 Rashid told diem, then said: "We have to wait."
 Simons did not like this. "What for?"
 "They all want to take showers."
  Keane Taylor said: "I don't see the urgency-most of them haven't taken a
  shower in a year or two, you'd think they could wait another day."
  Simons contained his impatience for half an hour, then told Rashid to tell
  the guards again that the team had to hurry.
 "We have to see the Shah's bathroom," Rashid said.
  "Goddammit, we've seen it," said Simons. "What's the delay?"
  Everyone trooped into the royal suite and dutifully exclaimed at the
  shameful luxury of an unused palace; and still the guards would not move
  out.
  Coburn wondered what was happening. Had they changed their minds about
  escorting the Americans to the next town? Had
               331
 332       Ken Follett

 Bolourian checked up on EDS during the night? Simons would not be kept here
 much longer . . .
  Finally the young interpreter showed up, and it turned out the guards had
  been waiting for him. The plan was unchanged: a group of Kurds would go
  with the Americans on the next leg of their journey.
  Simons said: "We have friends in Rezaiyeh-we'd like to be taken to their
  house, rather than go see the head man of the town. "
  "It's not safe," said the interpreter. "The fighting is heavy north of
  here--4he city of Tabriz is still in the hands of the Shah's supporters. I
  must hand you over to people who can protect you."
 "All right, but can we leave now?"
 "Sure. 11
 They left.
  They drove into the town and were ordered to stop outside a house. The
  interpreter went in. They all waited. Somebody bought bread and cream
  cheese for breakfast. Coburn got out of his car and went to Simons's.
  "What's happening now?"
  "This is the mullah's house," Rashid explained. "He is writing a letter to
  the mullah of Rezaiyeh, about us. "
  It was about an hour before the interpreter came out with the promised
  letter.
  Next they drove to the police station, and there they saw their escort
  vehicle: a big white ambulance with a flashing red light on top, its
  windows knocked out, and some kind of identification scrawled on its side
  in Farsi with red magic marker, presumably saying "Mahabad Revolutionary
  Committee" or something similar. It was full of gun-toting Kurds.
 So much for traveling inconspicuously.
 At last they got on the road, the ambulance leading the way.
  Simons was anxious about Dadgar. Clearly no one in Mahabad had been alerted
  to look out for Paul and Bill, but Rezaiyeh was a much bigger town. Simons
  did not know whether Dadgar's authority extended into the countryside: all
  he knew was that so far Dadgar had always surprised everyone by his
  dedication and his ability to persist through changes of government. Simons
  wished the team did not have to be taken before the Rezaiyeh authorities.
 "We have good friends in Rezaiyeh," he told the young
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   333

 interpreter. "If you could take us to their house, we'd be very safe there."
  "Oh, no," said the interpreter. "if I disobey orders and you get hurt,
  there will be hell to pay."
  Simons gave up. It was clear they were as much prisoners as guests of the
  Kurds. The revolution in Mahabad was characterized by Communist discipline
  rather than Islamic anarchy, and the only way to get rid of the escort
  would be by violence. Simons was not yet ready to start a fight.
  Just outside the town, the ambulance pulled off the road and stopped at a
  little caft.
 "Why am we stopping?" Simons said.
 "Breakfast," said the interpreter.
 "We don't need breakfast," Simons said forcefully.
 "But-"
 "We don't need breakfast!"
  The interpreter shrugged, and shouted something to the Kurds getting out of
  the ambulance. They got back in and the convoy drove on.
 They reached the outskirts of Rezaiyeh late in the morning.
  Their way was barred by the inevitable roadblock. This one was a serious,
  military-style affair of parked vehicles, sandbags, and barbed wire. The
  convoy slowed, and an armed guard waved them off the road and into the
  forecourt of a filling station that had been turned into a command post.
  The approach road was well covered by machine guns in the filling-station
  building.
  T"he ambulance failed to stop soon enough and ran right into the
  barbed-wire fence.
 The two Range Rovers pulled up in an orderly fashion.
  The ambulance was immediately surrounded by guards, and an argument
  started. Rashid and the interpreter went over to join in. The Rezaiyeh
  revolutionaries did not automatically assume that the Mahabad
  revolutionaries were on their side. The Rezaiyeh men were Azerbaijainis,
  not Kurds, and the argument took place in Turkish as well as Farsi.
  The Kurds were being ordered to turn in their weapons, it seemed, and they
  were refusing angrily. The interpreter was showing the note from the
  Mahabad mullah. Nobody was taking much notice of Rashid, who was suddenly
  an outsider.
  Eventually the interpreter and Rashid came back to the cars. "We're going
  to take you to a hotel," said the interpreter, "then I will go and see the
  mullah. "
 334       Ken Follett

  The ambulance was all tangled up in the barbed-wire fence, and had to be
  extricated before they could go. Guards from the roadblock escorted them
  into the town.
  It was a large town by the standards of the Iranian provinces. It had
  plenty of concrete and stone buildings and a few paved roads. The convoy
  pulled up in a main street. Distant shouting could be heard. Rashid and the
  interpreter went into a buildingpresumably a hotel--and the others waited.
  Coburn felt optimistic. You didn't put prisoners into a hotel before
  shooting them. This was just administrative hassle.
  Tle distant shouting grew louder, and a crowd appeared at the end of the
  street.
 In the rear car Coburn said: "What the hell is this?"
  The Kurds jumped out of their ambulance and surrounded the two Range
  Rovers, forming a wedge in front of the lead car. One of them pointed to
  Coburn's door and made a motion like turriing a key. "Lock the doors,"
  Coburn said to the others.
  The crowd came closer. It was some kind of street parade, Coburn realized.
  At the head of the procession were a number of army officers in tattered
  uniforms. One of them was in tears. "You know what I think?" said Coburn.
  "The army just surrendered, and they're running the officers down Main
  Street. "
  The vengeful crowd surged around the vehicles, jostling the Kurdish guards
  and looking through the windows with hostile glares. The Kurds stood their
  ground and tried to push the crowds away from the cars. It looked as though
  it would turn into a fight at any moment. -Tbis is getting ugly," said
  Gayden. Coburn kept an eye on the car in front, wondering what Simons would
  do.
  Coburn saw the snout of a gun aimed at the window on the driver's side.
  "Paul, don't look now, but someone's pointing a gun at your head."
 6      11
 'Jesus ...
  Coburn could imagine what would happen next: The mob would start rocking
  the cars, then they would turn them over . . .
  Then, suddenly, it ended. The defeated soldiers were the main attraction,
  and as they passed on, the crowd followed. Coburn relaxed. Paul said: "For
  a minute there . . . "
  Rashid and the interpreter came out of the hotel. Rashid said: 1611ey don't
  want to know about a bunch of Americans going into their hotel--4hey won't
  take the risk." Coburn took that to mean that feelings were running so high
  in the town that the
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   335

 hotel could get burned by the mob for taking in foreigners. "We have to go
 to revolutionary headquarters. "
  They drove on. There was feverish activity in the streets: lines of pickup
  trucks of all shapes and sizes were being loaded with supplies, presumably
  for the revolutionaries still fighting in Tabriz. The convoy stopped at
  what appeared to be a school. There was a huge, noisy crowd outside the
  courtyard, apparently waiting to get in. After an argument, the Kurds
  persuaded the gate sentry to admit the ambulance and the two Range Rovers.
  The crowd reacted angrily when the foreigners went in. Coburn breathed a
  sigh of relief as the courtyard gate closed behind him.
  They got out of the can. The courtyard was crammed with shot-up
  automobiles. A mullah was standing on a stack of rifle crates conducting a
  noisy and passionate ceremony with a crowd of men. Rashid said: "He is
  swearing in fresh troops to go to Tabriz and fight for the revolution. "
  The guards led the Americans toward the school building on one side of the
  courtyard. A man came down the steps and started yelling at them angrily,
  pointing at the Kurds. "They must not go into the building armed," Rashid
  translatedL
  Coburn could tell the Kurds were getting jumpy: to their surprise, they
  found themselves in hostile territory. They produced the note from the
  Mahabad mullah. There was more argument.
  Eventually Rashid said: "You all wait here. I'm going inside to talk to the
  leader of the revolutionary committee.- He went up the steps and
  disappeared.
  Paul and Gayden lit cigarettes. Paul felt scared and dejected. These people
  were bound to call Tehran, he felt, and find out all about him. Getting
  sent back to jail might be the least of his worries now. He said to Gayden:
  "I really appreciate what you've done for me, but it's a shame, I think
  we've had it."
  Coburn was more worried about the mob outside the gate. In here at least
  someone was trying to maintain order. Out there was a wolf pack. What if
  they persuaded some goofy guard to open the gate? It would be a lynch mob.
  In Tehran a fellow--aii Iranian-who had done something to anger a crowd had
  been literally pulled apart, his arms and legs torn off by people who were
  just crazed, hysterical.
  The guards jerked their weapons, indicating that the Americans should move
  to one side of the courtyard and stand against a wall. They obeyed, feeling
  vulnerable. Coburn looked at the
 336       Ken Follett

 wall. It had bullet holes in it. Paul had seen them, too, and his face was
 white. "My God," he said. "I think we bought the farm. I I

 Rashid asked himself. What will be the psychology of the leader of the
 revolutionary committee?
  He has a million things to do, Rashid thought. He has just taken control of
  this town, and he has never been in power before. He must deal with the
  officers of the defeated army, he must round up suspected SAVAK agents and
  interrogate them, he must get the town running normally, he must guard
  against a counterrevolution, and he must send troops to fight in Tabriz.
  All he wants to do, Rashid concluded, is cross things off his list.
  He has no time or sympathy for fleeing Americans. If he must make a
  decision, he will simply throw us in jail for the time being, and deal with
  us later, at his leisure. Therefore, I must make sure that he does not
  decide.
  Rashid was shown into a schoolroom. The leader was sitting on the floor. He
  was a tall, strong man with the thrill of victory in his face; but he
  looked exhausted, confused, and restless.
  Rashid's escort said in Farsi: "This man comes from Mahabad with a letter
  from the mullah-he has six Americans with him."
  Rashid thought of a movie he had seen in which a man got into a guarded
  building by flashing his driving license instead of a pass. If you had
  enough confidence you could undermine people's suspicions.
  "No, I come from the Tehran Revolutionary Cormnittee," Rashid said. "There
  are five or six thousand Americans in Tehran, and we have decided to send
  them home. The airport is closed, so we will bring them all out this way.
  Obviously we must make arrangements and set up procedures for handling all
  these people. That is why I am here. But you have many problems to deal
  widi--perhaps I should discuss the details with your subordinates.
 "Yes," said the leader, and waved them away.
 It was the technique of the Big Lie, and it had worked.
  "I'm the deputy leader," said Rashid's escort as they left the room. They
  went into another room where five or six people were drinking tea. Rashid
  talked to the deputy leader, loud enough for the others to hear. "These
  Americans just want to get home and see their families. We're happy to get
  rid of them, and
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   337

 we want to treat them right so they won't have anything against the new
 regime."
  "Why do you have Americans with you now?" the deputy asked.
  "For a trial run. This way, you know, we find out what the problems are .
  . . -
 "But you don't have to let them cross the border."
  "Oh, yes. They are good men who have never done any harm to our country,
  and they have wives and children at home---one of them has a little child
  dying in hospital. So the Revolutionary Committee in Tehran has instructed
  me to see them across the border . . . -
  He kept talking. From time to time the deputy would interrupt him with a
  question: Whom did the Americans work for? What did they have with them?
  How did Rashid know they were not SAVAK agents spying for the
  counterrevolutionaries in Tabriz? For every question Rashid had an answer,
  and a long one. While he was talking, he could be persuasive; whereas if he
  were silent, the others would have time to think of objections. People came
  in and went out continually. The deputy left three or four times.
  Eventually he came in and said: "I have to clear this with Tehran. -
  Rashid's heart sank. Of course nobody in Tehran would verify his story. But
  it would take forever to get a call through. I 'Everything has been
  verified in Tehran, and there is no need to reverify," he said. "But if you
  insist, I'll take these Americans to a hotel to wait. - He added: "You had
  better send some guards with us. - The deputy would have sent the guards
  anyway: asking for them was a way of allaying suspicion.
 "I don't know," said the deputy.
  "This is not a good place to keep them," Rashid said. "It could cause
  trouble. They might be harmed. - He held his breath. Here they were
  trapped. In a hotel they would at least have the chance to make a break for
  the border . . .
 "Okay," said the deputy.
 Rashid concealed his relief.

 Paul was deeply grateful to see Rashid coming down the steps of the
 schoolhouse. It had been a long wait. Nobody had actually pointed guns at
 them, but they had got an awful lot of hostile looks.
 338       Ken Follett

  "We can go to the hotel," said Rashid.
  The Kurds from Mahabad shook hands with them and left in their ambulance.
  A few moments later the Americans left in the two Range Rovers, followed by
  four or five armed guards in another car. They drove to the hotel. This
  time they all went in. There was an argument between the hotel keeper and
  the guards, but the guards won, and the Americans were assigned four rooms
  on the third floor at the back, and told to keep the curtains drawn and
  stay away from windows in case local snipers thought Americans inviting
  targets.
  They gathered in one of the rooms. They could hear distant gunfire. Rashid
  organized lunch and ate with them: barbecued chicken, rice, bread, and
  Coke. Then he left for the school.
  The guards wandered in and out of the room, carrying their rifles. One of
  them struck Coburn as being evil. He was young, short, and muscular, with
  black hair and eyes like a snake. As the afternoon wore on, he seemed to
  get bored. -
 One time he walked in and said: "Carter no good."
 He looked around for a reaction.
 "CIA no good," he said. "America no good."
 Nobody replied. He went out.
  "That guy is trouble," Simons said calmly. "Don't anybody take the bait."
  The guard tried again a little later. "I am very strong," he said.
  "Wrestling. Wrestle champion. I went to Russia."
 Nobody spoke.
  He sat down and fiddled with his gun, as if he did not know how to load it.
  He appealed to Coburn. "You know guns?"
 Coburn shook his head.
 The guard looked at the others. "You know guns?"
  The gun was an Ml, a weapon they were all familiar with, but nobody said
  anything.
  "You want to trade?" the guard said. "This gun for a backpack?"
  Coburn said: "We don't have a backpack and we don't want a gun. 11
 The guard gave up and went out into the corridor again.
 Simons said: "Where the hell is Rashid?"
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   339

   2

 The car hit a pothole, jolting Ralph Boulware awake. He felt tired and
 groggy after his short, restless sleep. He looked through the windows. It
 was early morning. He saw the shore of a vast lake, so big he could not see
 the far side.
 "Where are we?" he said.
 "That's Lake Van," said Charlie Brown, the interpreter.
  There were houses and villages and civilian cars: they had come out of the
  wild mountain country and returned to what passed for civilization in this
  part of the world. Boulware looked at a map. He figured they were about a
  hundred miles from the border.
 "Hey, this is good!" he said.
  He saw a filling station. They really were back in civilization. "Let's get
  gas," he said.
  At the filling station they got bread and coffee. The coffee was almost as
  good as a shower: Boulware felt raring to go. He said to Charlie: "Tell the
  old man I want to drive."
  The cabby had been doing thirty or forty miles per hour, but Boulware
  pushed the ancient Chevrolet up to seventy. It looked as though he had a
  real chance of getting to the border in time to meet Simons.
  Bowling along the lakeside road, Boulware heard a muffled bang, followed by
  a tearing sound; then the car began to buck and bump, and there was a
  screech of metal on stone: he had blown a tire.
 He braked hard, cursing.
  They all got out and looked at the wheel: Boulware, the elderly cabby,
  Charlie Brown, and fat Ilsman. The tire was completely shredded and the
  wheel deformed. And they had used the spare wheel during the night, after
  the last blowout.
  Boulware looked more closely. The wheel nuts had been stripped: even if
  they could get another spare, they would not be able to remove the damaged
  wheel.
  Boulware looked around. There was a house a way up the hill. "Let's go
  there," Boulware said. "We can phone."
 Charlie Brown shook his head. "No phones around here."
 340       Ken Follett

  Boulware was not about to give up, after all he had gone through: he was
  too close. "Okay," he said to Charlie. "Hitch a ride back to the last town
  and get us another cab. "
  Charlie started walking. Two cars passed him without stopping, then a truck
  pulled up. It had hay and a bunch of children in the back. Charlie jumped
  in, and the truck drove out of sight.
  Boulware, Ilsman, and the cabby stood looking at the lake, eating oranges.
  An hour later a small European station wagon came tearing along the road
  and screeched to a halt. Charlie jumped out.
  Boulware gave the driver from Adana five hundred dollars, then got into the
  new taxi with Usman and Charlie and drove off, leaving the Chevrolet beside
  the lake, looking like a beached whale.
  The new driver went like the wind, and by midday they were in Van, on the
  eastern shore of the take. Van was a small town, with brick buildings in
  the center and mud-hut suburbs. Ilsman directed the driver to the home of
  a cousin of Mr. Fish.
  They paid their driver and went in. Ilsman got into a long discussion with
  Nft. Fish's cousin. Boulware sat in the living room, listening but not
  understanding, impatient to get moving. After an hour he said to Charlie:
  "Listen, let's just get another cab, we don't need the cousin."
  "It's a very bad place between here and the border," Charlie said. "We're
  foreigners, we need protection."
 Boulware forced himself to be patient.
  At last Ilsman shook hands with Mr. Fish's cousin and Charlie said: "His
  sons will take us to the border."
 There were two sons and two cars.
  They drove up into the mountains. Boulware saw no sign of the dangerous
  bandits against whom he was being protected: just snow-covered fields,
  scrawny goats, and a few ragged people living in hovels.
  They were stopped by the police in the village of Yuksekova, a few miles
  from the border, and ordered into the little whitewashed police station.
  llsman showed his credentials and they were quickly released. Boulware was
  impressed: maybe llsman really was with the Turkish equivalent of the CIA.
  They reached the border at four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, having been
  on the road for twenty-four hours.
  The border station was in the middle of nowhere. The guard post consisted
  of two wooden buildings. There was also a post
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   341

 office. Boulware wondered who the hell used it. Truck drivers, perhaps. Two
 hundred yards away, on the Iranian side, was a bigger cluster of buildings.
 There was no sign of the Dirty Team.
  Boulware felt angry. He had broken his neck to get here more or less on
  time: where the hell was Simons?
  A guard came out of one of the huts and approached him, saying: "Are you
  looking for the Americans?"
  Boulware was surprised. The whole thing was supposed to be top secret. It
  looked like security had gone all to hell. "Yes," he said. "I'm looking for
  the Americans."
 I 'There's a phone call for you."
  Boulware was even more surprised. "No kidding!" The timing was phenomenal.
  Who the hell knew he was here?
 He followed the guard into the hut and picked up the phone.
 Yes?"
  "This is the American Consulate," said the voice. "What's your name?"
 "Uh, what is this about?" Boulware said warily.
 "Look, would you just tell me what you're doing there?"
  "I don't know who you are and I'm not going to tell you what I'm doing."
  "Okay, listen, I know who you are and I know what you're doing. If you have
  any problems, call me. Got a pencil?"
  Boulware took down the number, thanked the man, and hung up, mystified. An
  hour ago I didn't know I was going to be here, he thought, so how could
  anyone else? Least of all the American Consulate. He thought again about
  Ilsman. Maybe Ilsman was in touch with his bosses, the Turkish MIT, who
  were in touch with the CIA, who were in touch with the Consulate. 11sman
  could have asked somebody to make a call for him in Van, or even at the
  police station in Yuksekova.
  He wondered whether it was good or bad that the Consulate knew what was
  happening. He recalled the "help" Paul and Bill had got from the U.S.
  Embassy in Tehran: with friends in the State Department a man had no need
  of enemies.
  He pushed the Consulate to the back of his mind. The main problem now was,
  where was the Dirty Team?
  'He went back outside and looked across no-man's-land. He decided to stroll
  across and talk to the Iranians. He called to Ilsman and Charlie Brown to
  come with him.
 As he approached the Iranian side he could see that the
 342         Ken Folku

 frontier guards were not in uniform. Presumably they were revolutionaries
 who had taken over when the government fell.
  He said to Charlie: "Ask them if they've heard anything about some American
  businessmen coming out in two jeeps."
  Charlie did not need to translate the reply: the Iranians shook their heads
  vigorously.
  An inquisitive tribesman, with a ragged headband and an ancient rifle, came
  up on the Iranian side. There was an exchange of some length, then Charlie
  said: "This man says he knows where the Americans are and he will take you
  to them if you pay."
  Boulware wanted to know how much, but Ilsman did not want him to accept the
  offer at any price. Usman spoke forcefully to Charlie, and Charlie
  translated. "You're wearing a leather coat and leather gloves and a fine
  wristwatch."
  Boulware, who was into watches, was wearing one Mary had given him when
  they got married. "So?"
  "With clothes like that they think you're SAVAK. They hate SAVAK over
  there."
 "I'll change my clothes. I have another coat in the car."
  "No," Charlie said. "You have to understand, they just want to get you over
  there and blow your head off."
 "AD right," Boulware said.
  They walked back to the Turkish side. Since there was a post office so
  conveniently nearby, he decided to call Istanbul and check in with Ross
  Perot. He went into the post office. He had to sign his name. The call
  would take some time to place, the clerk told him.
  Boulware went back outside. The Turkish border guards were now getting
  edgy, Charlie told him. Some of the Iranians had wandered back with them,
  and the guards did not like people milling around in no-man's-land: it was
  disorderly.
 Boulware thought: Well, I'm doing no good here.
  He said: "Would these guys call us, if the team comes across while we're
  back in Yuksekova?"
  Charlie asked them. The guards agreed. There was a hotel in the village,
  they said; they would call there.
  Boulware, Usman, Charlie, and the two sons of Mr. Fish's cousin got into
  the two cars and drove back to Yuksekova.
  There they checked into the worst hotel in the whole world. It had dirt
  floors. The bathroom was a hole in the ground under the
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   343

 stain. All the beds were in one room. Charlie Brown ordered food, and it
 came wrapped in newspaper.
  Boulware was not sure he had made the right decision in leaving the border
  station. So many things could go wrong: the guards might not phone as they
  had promised. He decided to accept the offer of help from the American
  Consulate, and ask them to seek permission for him to stay at the border
  station. He called the number he had been given on the hotel's single
  ancient wind-up telephone. He got through, but the line was bad, and both
  parties had trouble making themselves understood. Eventually the man at the
  other end said something about calling back, and hung up.
  Boulware stood by the fire, fretting. After a while he lost patience, and
  decided to return to the border without permission.
 On the way they had a flat tire.
  They all stood in the road while the sons changed the wheel. llsman
  appeared nervous. Charlie explained: "He says this is a very dangerous
  place, the people are all murderers and bandits."
  Boulware was skeptical. lisman had agreed to do all this for a flat fee of
  eight thousand dollars, and Boulware now suspected the fat man was getting
  ready to up his price. "Ask him how many people were killed on this road
  last month," Boulware told Charlie.
  He watched Ilsman's face as he replied. Charlie translated: "Thirty-nine.
  ' I
  Ilsman looked serious. Boulware thought: Shit, this guy9s telling the
  goddam truth. He looked around. Mountains, snow . . . He shivered.

   3

 In Rezaiyeh, Rashid took one of the Range Rovers and drove from the hotel
 back to the school that had been turned into revolutionary headquarters.
  He wondered whether the deputy leader had called Tehran. Coburn had been
  unable to get a line the-previous night: would the revolutionary leadership
  have the same problem? Rashid thought they probably would. Now, if the
  deputy could not get through, what would he want to do? He had only two
  options:
 344        Ken Folleu

 hold the Americans, or let them go without checking. The man might feel
 foolish about letting them go without checking: he might not want Rashid to
 know that things were so loosely organized here. Rashid decided to act as if
 he assumed the call had been made and verification completed.
  He went into the courtyard. The deputy leader was there, leaning against a
  Mercedes. Rashid started talking to him about the problem of bringing six
  thousand Americans through the town on the way to the border. How many
  people could be accommodated overnight in Rezaiyeh? What facilities were
  there at the Sero border station for processing them? He emphasized that
  the Ayatollah Khomeini had given instructions for Americans to be well
  treated as they left Iran, for the new government did not want to quarrel
  with the U.S.A. He got onto the subject of documentation: perhaps the
  Rezaiyeh committee should issue passes to the Americans authorizing them to
  go through Sero. He, Rashid, would certainly need such a pass today, to
  take these six Americans through. He suggested the deputy and he should go
  into the school and draft a pass.
 The deputy agreed.
 1hey went into the library.
 Rashid found paper and pen and gave them to the deputy.
  "What should we write?" said Rashid. "Probably we should say, the person
  who carries this letter can take six Americans through Sero. No, say
  Barzagan or Sero, in case Sero is closed.
 The deputy wrote.
  "Maybe we should say, um, It is expected that all guards will give their
  best cooperation and assistance, they aft fully inspected and identified,
  and if necessary escort them."
 IMe deputy wrote it down.
 Then he signed his name.
  Rashid said: "Maybe we should put, Islamic Revolution Commandant
  Committee."
 IMe deputy did so.
  Rashid looked at the document. It seemed somehow inadequate, improvised. It
  needed something to make it look official. He found a rubber stamp and an
  inking pad, and stamped the letter. Then he read what the stamp said:
  "Library of the School of Religion, Rezaiyeh. Founded 1344."
 Rashid put the document in his pocket.
  "We should probably print six thousand of these, so they can just be
  signed," he said.
           ON wINGS OF EAGLES   345

 The deputy nodded.
 "We can talk some more about these arrangements tomorrow,
 Rashid went on. "I'd like to go to Sero now, to discuss the problem with the
 border officials there."
 "Okay. "
 Rashid walked away.
 Nothing was impossible.
  He got into the Range Rover. It was a good idea to go to the border, he
  decided: he could find out what the problems might be before making the
  trip with the Americans.
  On the outskirts of Rezaiyeh was a roadblock manned by teenage boys with
  rifles. They gave Rashid no trouble, but he worried about how they might
  react to six Americans: the kids were evidently itching to use their guns.
  After that the road was clear. It was a dirt road, but smooth enough, and
  he made good speed. He picked up a hitchhiker and asked him about crossing
  the border on horseback. No problem, said the hitchhiker. It could be done,
  and as it happened, his brother had horses ...
  Rashid did the forty-mile journey in a little over an hour. He pulled up at
  the border station in his Range Rover. The guards were suspicious of him.
  He showed them the pass written by the deputy leader. The guards called
  Rezaiyeh and-they said--spoke to the deputy, who vouched for Rashid.
  He stood looking across to Turkey. It was a pleasant sight. They had all
  been through a lot of anguish just to walk across there. For Paul and Bill
  it would mean freedom, home, and family. For all the EDS men it would be
  the end of a nightmare. For Rashid it meant something else: America.
  He understood the psychology of EDS executives. They had a strong sense of
  obligation. If you helped them, they liked to show their appreciation, to
  keep the books balanced . He knew he only had to ask, and they would take
  him with them to the land of his dreams.
  The border station was under the control of the village of Sero, just half
  a mile away down a mountain track. Rashid decided he would go and see the
  village chief, to establish a friendly relationship and smooth the way for
  later.
  He was about to turn away when two cars drove up on the Turldsh side. A
  tall black man in a leather coat got out of the first car and came to the
  chain on the edge of no-man's-land.
  Rashid's heart leaped. He knew that man! He started waving and yelled:
  "Ralph! Ralph Boulware! Hey, Ralph!"
 346       Ken Follett

   4

 Thursday morning found Glenn Jackson-hunter, Baptist, and Rocket Man-in the
 skies over Tehran in a chartered jet.
  Jackson had stayed in Kuwait after reporting on the possibility of Paul and
  Bill coming out of Iran that way. On Sunday, the day Paul and Bill got out
  of jail, Simons had sent orders, via Merv Stauffer, that Jackson was to go
  to Amman, Jordan, and there try to charter a plane to fly into Iran.
  Jackson had reached Amman on Monday and had gone to work straightaway. He
  knew that Perot had flown into Tehran from Amman on a chartered jet of Arab
  Wings. He also knew that the president of Arab Wings, Akel Biltaji, had
  been helpful, allowing Perot to go in with NBC's television tapes as a
  cover. Now Jackson contacted BiltaJi and asked for his help again.
  He told BiltaJi that EDS had two men in Iran who had to be brought out. He
  invented false names for Paul and Bill. Even though Tehran Airport was
  closed, Jackson wanted to fly in and try to land. Biltaji was willing to
  give it a try.
  However, on Wednesday Stauffer-on Simons's instructionschanged Jackson's
  orders. Now his mission was to check on the Clean Team: the Dirty Team was
  no longer in Tehran, as far as Dallas knew.
 On Thursday Jackson took off from Amman and headed east.
  As they came down toward the bowl in the mountains where Tehran nestled,
  two aircraft took off from the city.
  The planes came closer, and Jackson saw that they were fighter jets of the
  h-aman Air Force.
 He wondered what would happen next.
  His pilot's radio came to life with a burst of static. As the fighters
  circled, the pilot talked: Jackson could not understand the conversation,
  but he was glad the Iranians were talking rather than shooting.
  The discussion went on. The pilot seemed to be arguing. Eventually he
  turned to Jackson and said: "We have to go back. They won't let us land."
 "What will they do if we land anyway?"
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   347

 "Shoot us down."
 "Okay," said Jackson. "We'll try again this afternoon.

 On Thursday morning in Istanbul, an English-language newspaper was delivered
 to Perot's suite at the Sheraton.
  He picked it up and eagerly read the front-page story about yesterday, s
  takeover of the American Embassy in Tehran. None of the Clean Team was
  mentioned, he was relieved to see. The only injury had been suffered by a
  marine sergeant, Kenneth Krause. However, Krause was not getting the
  medical attention he needed, according to the newspaper.
  Perot called John Carlen, the captain of the Boeing 707, and asked him to
  come to the suite. He showed Carlen the newspaper and said: "How would you
  feel about flying into Tehran tonight and picking up the wounded marine?"
  Carlen, a laid-back Californian with graying hair and a tan, was very cool.
  "We can do that," he said.
  Perot was surprised that Carlen did not even hesitate. He would have to fly
  through the mountains at night with no airtraffic control to help him, and
  land at a closed airport. "Don't you want to talk to the rest of the crew?"
  Perot asked.
  "No, they'll want to do it. The people who own the airplane will go
  bananas."
 "Don't tell them. I'll be responsible.-
  "I'll need to know exactly where that marine is going to be," Carlen went
  on. "The Embassy will have to get him to the airport. I know a lot of
  people at that airport-I can talk my way in, bending the rules a little
  bit, and either talk my way out again or just take off."
  Perot thought: And the Clean Team will be the stretcher bearers.
  He called Dallas and reached Sally Walther, his secretary. He asked her to
  patch him through to General Wilson, commandant of the Marine Corps. He and
  Wilson were friends.
 Wilson came on the line.
  "I'm in Turkey on business ,, Perot told him. "I've just read about
  Sergeant Krause. I have a plane here. If the Embassy can get Krause to the
  airport, we will fly in tonight and pick him up and see he gets proper
  medical care."
  "All right," said Wilson. "If he's dying I want you to pick him up. If not,
  I won't risk your crew. I'll get back to you."
 Perot got Sally back on the line. There was more bad news. A
 348       Ken Follett

 press officer in the State Department's Iran Task Force had talked to Robert
 Dudney, Washington correspondent for the Dallas Times-Herald, and revealed
 that Paul and Bill were on their way out overland.
  Perot cursed the State Department yet again. If Dudney published the story,
  and the news reached Tehran, Dadgar would surely intensify border security.
  The seventh floor in Dallas blamed Perot for all this. He had leveled with
  the Consul, who had come to see him the night before, and they believed the
  leak started with the Consul. They were now frantically trying to get the
  story killed, but the newspaper was making no promises.
  General Wilson called back. Sergeant Krause was not dying: Perot's help was
  not required.
 Perot forgot about Krause and concentrated on Ins own problems.
  The Consul called him. He had tried his best, but he could not help Perot
  buy or rent a small aircraft. It was possible to charter a plane to go from
  one airport to another within Turkey, but that was all.
 Perot said nothing to him about the press leak.
  He called in Dick Douglas and Julian "Scratch" Kanauch, the two spare
  pilots he had brought specifically to fly small aircraft into Iran, and
  told them he had failed to find any such aircraft.
 "Don't worry," said Douglas. "We'll get an airplane."
 "How?"
 "Don't ask."
 :'No, I want to know how.
  'I've operated in eastern Turkey. I know where there are planes. If you
  need 'em, we'll steal 9em."
 :'Have you thought this through?" said Perot.
  'You think it through," Douglas said. "If we get shot down over Iran, what
  difference does it make that we stole the plane? If we don't get shot down,
  we can put the planes back where we got them. Even if they have a few holes
  in them, we'll be out of the area before anybody knows. What else is there
  to think about?"
 "That settles it," said Perot. "We're going."
  He sent John Carlen and Ron Davis to the airport to file a flight plan to
  Van, the nearest airport to the border.
  Davis called from the airport to say that the 707 could not land at Van: it
  was a Turkish-language-only airport, so no foreign
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   349

 planes were allowed to land except U.S. military planes carrying
 interpreters.
  Perot called Mr. Fish and asked him to arrange to fly the team to Van. Mr.
  Fish called back a few minutes later to say it was all fixed. He would go
  with the team as guide. Perot was surprised: until now, Mr. Fish had been
  adamant that he would not go to eastern Turkey. Perhaps he had become
  infected by the spirit of adventure.
  However, Perot himself would have to stay behind. He was the hub of the
  wheel: he had to stay in telephone contact with the outside world, to
  receive reports from Boulware, from Dallas, from the Clean Team, and from
  the Dirty Team. If the 707 had been able to land at Van, Perot could have
  gone, for the plane's single-sideband radio enabled him to make phone calls
  all over the world; but without that radio he would be out of touch in
  eastern Turkey, and there would be no link between the fugitives in Iran
  and the people who were coming to meet them.
  So he sent Pat Sculley, Jim Schwebach, Ron Davis, Mr. Fish, and the pilots
  Dick Douglas and Julian Kanauch to Van; and he appointed Pat Sculley leader
  of the Turkish Rescue Team.
  When they had gone he was dead in the water again. They were just another
  bunch of his men off doing dangerous things in dangerous places. He could
  only sit and wait for news.
  He spent a lot of time thinking about John Carlen and the crew of the
  Boeing 707. He had only known them for a few days: they were ordinary
  Americans. Yet Carlen had been prepared to risk his life to fly into Tehran
  and pick up a wounded marine. As Simons would say: This is what Americans
  are supposed to do for one another. It made Perot feel pretty good, despite
  everything.
 The phone rang.
 He answered. "Ross Perot."
 "This is Ralph Boulware.-
 "Hi, Ralph, where are you?"
 "I'm at the border."
 "Good! -
 "I've just seen Rashid."
 Perot's heart leaped. "Great! What did he say?"
 . 'They're safe.
 "Thank God!"
  "They're in a hotel thirty or forty miles from the border. Rashid is just
  scouting the territory in advance. He's gone back now. He says they'll
  probably cross tomorrow, but that's just his
 350       Ken Follett

 idea, and Simons may think otherwise. If they're that close I don't see
 Simons waiting until morning."
  "Right. Now, Pat Sculley and Mr. Fish and the rest of the guys are on their
  way to you. They're flying to Van, then they'll rent a bus. Now, where will
  they find you?"
  "I'm based in a village called Yuksekova, closest place to the border, at
  a hotel. It's the only hotel in the district."
 "I'll tell Sculley."
 "Okay. 11
  Perot hung up. Oh, boy, he thought; at last things are beginning to go
  right!

 Pat Sculley's orders from Perot were to go to the border, ensure that the
 Dirty Team got across safely, and bring them to Istanbul. If the Dirty Team
 failed to reach the border, he was to go into Iran and find them, preferably
 in a plane stolen by Dick Douglas, or failing that, by road.
  Sculley and the Turkish Rescue Team took a scheduled flight from Istanbul
  to Ankara, where a chartered jet was waiting for them. (The charter plane
  would take them to Van and bring them back: it would not go anywhere they
  pleased. The only way of making the pilot take them into Iran would have
  been to hijack the plane.)
  The arrival of a jet seemed to be a big event in the town of Van. Getting
  off the plane, they were met by a contingent of policemen who looked ready
  to give them a hard time. But Mr. Fish went into a huddle with the police
  chief and came out smiling.
  "Now, listen," said Mr. Fish. "We're going to check into the best hotel in
  town, but I want you to know it's not the Sheraton, so please don't
  complain."
 They went off in two taxis.
  The hotel had a high central hall with three floors of rooms reached via
  galleries, so that every room door could be seen from the hall. When the
  Americans walked in, the hall was full of Turks, drinking beer and watching
  a soccer match on a black-and-white TV, yelling and cheering. As the Turks
  noticed the strangers, the room quieted down until there was complete
  silence.
  They were assigned rooms. Each bedroom had two cots and a hole in the
  comer, screened by a shower curtain, for a toilet,. There were plank floors
  and whitewashed walls without windows.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   351

 The rooms were infested with cockroaches. On each floor was one bathroom.
  Sculley and Mr. Fish went to get a bus to take diem all to the border. A
  Mercedes picked them up outside the hotel and took them to what appeared to
  be an electrical appliance store with a few ancient TV sets in the window.
  The place was closed-4t was evening by now-but Mr. Fish banged on the iron
  grille protecting the windows, and someone came out.
  They went into the back and sat at a table under a single light bulb.
  Sculley understood none of the conversation, but by the end of it Mr. Fish
  had negotiated a bus and a driver. They returned to the hotel in the bus.
  The rest of the team were gathered in Sculley's room. Nobody wanted to sit
  on these beds, let alone sleep in diem. They all wanted to leave for the
  border immediately, but Mr. Fish was hesitant. "It's two o'clock in the
  morning," he said. "And the police are watching the hotel."
 "Does that matter?" said Sculley.
 "It means more questions, more trouble."
 "Let's give it a try."
  They all trooped downstairs. The manager appeared, looking anxious, and
  started to question Mr. Fish. Then, sure enough, two policemen came in from
  outside and joined in the discussion.
  Mr. Fish turned to Sculley and said: "They don't want us to go. 11
 -Why not?"
 "We look very suspicious, don't you realize that9-
 "Look, is it against the law for us to go?"
 "No, but-"
 "Then we're going. Just tell them."
  There was more argument in Turkish, but finally the policemen and the hotel
  manager appeared to give in, and the team boarded the bus.
  They left town. The temperature dropped rapidly as they drove up into the
  snow-covered hills. They all had warm coats, and blankets in their
  backpacks, and they needed them.
  Mr. Fish sat next to Sculley and said: "This is where it gets serious. I
  can handle the police, because I have ties with them; but I'm worried about
  the bandits and the soldiers-I have no connections there."
 "What d'you want to do?"
 352                  - Ken Follett

  "I believe I can talk my way out of trouble, so long as none of you have
  guns."
  Sculley considered. Only Davis was armed anyway; and Simons had always
  worried that weapons could get you into trouble more readily than they
  could get you out of it: the Walther PPKs had never left Dallas. "Okay,"
  Sculley said.
 Ron Davis threw his .38 out of the window into the snow.
  A little later the headlights of the bus revealed a soldier in uniform
  standing in the middle of the road, waving. The bus driver kept right on
  going, as if he intended to run the man down, but Mr. Fish yelled and the
  driver pulled up.
  Looking out the window, Sculley saw a platoon of soldiers armed with
  high-powered rifles on the mountainside, and thought: if we hadn't stopped,
  we'd have been mown down.
  A sergeant and a corporal got on the bus. They checked all the passports.
  Mr. Fish offered them cigarettes. They stood talking to him while they
  smoked, then they waved and got off.
  A few miles farther on, the bus was stopped again, and they went through a
  similar routine.
  The third time, the men who got on the bus had no uniforms. Mr. Fish became
  very jumpy. "Act casual," he hissed at the Americans. "Read books, just
  don't look at these guys. " He talked to the Turks for something like half
  an hour, and when the bus was finally allowed to proceed, two of them
  stayed on it. "Protection," Mr. Fish said enigmatically, and he shrugged.
  Sculley was nominally in charge, but there was little he could do other
  than follow Mr. Fish's directions. He did not know the country, nor did he
  speak the language: most of the time he had no idea what was going on. It
  was hard to have control under those circumstances. The best he could do,
  he figured, was to keep Mr. Fish pointed in the right direction and lean on
  him a little when he began to lose his nerve.
  At four o'clock in the morning they reached Yuksekova, the nearest village
  to the border station. Here, according to Mr. Fish's cousin in Van, they
  would find Ralph Boulware.
  Sculley and Mr. Fish went into the hotel. It was dark as a barn and smelled
  like the men's room at a football stadium. They yelled for a while, and a
  boy appeared with a candle. Mr. Fish spoke to him in Turkish, then said:
  "Boulware's not here. He left hours ago. They don't know where he went."
         THIRTEEN

 At the hotel in Rezaiyeh, Jay Coburn had that sick, helpless feeling again,
 the feeling he had had in Mahabad, and then in the courtyard of the
 schoolhouse: he had no control over his own destiny, his fate was in the
 hands of others-in this case, the hands of Rashid.
 Where the hell was Rashid?
  Coburn asked the guards if he could use the phone. They took him down to
  the lobby. He dialed the home of Majid's cousin, the professor, in
  Rezaiyeh, but there was no answer.
  Without much hope he dialed Gholam's number in Tehran. To his surprise he
  got through.
  "I have a message for Jim Nyfeler," he said. "We are at the staging area.
  I I
 "But where are you?" said Gholam. In Tehran," Coburn lied.
 "I need to see you."
  Coburn had to continue the deception. "Okay, I'll meet you tomorrow moming.
  Where?"
 "At Bucharest."
 "Okay. I I
  Coburn went -back upstairs. Simons took him and Keane Taylor into one of
  the rooms. "If Rashid isn't back by nine o'clock, we're leaving," Simons
  said.
 Coburn immediately felt better.
  Simons went on: "The guards are getting bored, their vigilance is slipping.
  We'll either sneak past them or deal with them the other way."
 "We've only got one car," said Coburn.
               353
 354         Ken FoIku

  "And we're going to leave it here, to confuse them. We'll walk to the
  border. Hell, it's only thirty or forty miles. We can go across country:
  we'll avoid roadblocks by avoiding roads."
  Coburn nodded. This was what he wanted. They were taking the initiative
  again.
  "Ut's get the money together," Simons said to Taylor. "Ask the guards to
  take you down to the car. Bring the Kleenex box and the flashlight up here
  and take the money out of them."
 Taylor left.
  "We might as well eat first," Simons said. "It's going to be a long walk.
  11

 Taylor went into an empty room and spilled the money out of the Kleenex box
 and the flashlight onto the floor.
 Suddenly the door was flung open.
 Taylor's heart stopped.
  He looked up and saw Gayden, grinning all over his face. "Gotcha!" Gayden
  said.
  Taylor was furious. "You bastard, Gayden," he said. "You gave me a fucking
  heart attack."
 Gayden laughed like bell.

 The guards took them downstairs to the dining room. The Americans sat at a
 big circular table, and the guards took another table across the room. Lamb
 with rice was served, and tea. It was a grim meal: they were all worried
 about what might have happened to Rashid, and how they would manage without
 him.
  There was a TV set on, and Paul could not take his eyes off the screen. He
  expected at any minute to see his own face appear like a "Wanted" poster.
 Where the hell was Rashid?
  They were only an hour from the border, yet they were trapped, under guard,
  and still in danger of being sent back to Tehran and jail.
 Someone said: Hey, look who's here!"
 Rashid walked in.
  He came over to their table, wearing his self-important look. "Gentlemen,"
  he said, "this is your last meal."
 They all stared at him, horrified.
 "in Iran, I mean," he added hastily. "We can leave."
 They all cheered.
 "I got a letter from the revolutionary committee," he went
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   355

 on. "I went to the border to check it out. There are a couple of roadblocks
 on the way, but I have arranged everything. I know where we can get horses
 to cross the mountains-but I don't think we need them. There are no
 government people at the border station--the place is in the hands of the
 villagers. I saw the head man of the village, and it will be all right for
 us to cross. Also, Ralph Boulware is there. I talked to him."
 Simons stood up. "Let's move," he said. "Fast."
  They left their meal half-eaten. Rashid talked to the guards, and showed
  them his letter from the deputy leader. Keane Taylor paid the hotel bill.
  Rashid had bought a stack of Khomeini posters, and he gave them to Bill to
  stick on the cars.
 They were out of there in minutes.
  Bill had done a good job with the posters. Everywhere you looked on the
  Range Rovers, the fierre, white-bearded face of the Ayatollah glared out at
  you.
 They pulled away, Rashid driving the first car.
  On the way out of town Rashid suddenly braked, leaned out of the window,
  and waved frantically at an approaching taxi.
 Simons growled: "Rashid, what the fuck are you doing?"
  Without answering, Rashid jumped out of the car and ran over to the taxi.
 "Jesus Christ, - said Simons.
  Rashid talked to the cabdriver for a minute, then the cab went on. Rashid
  explained: "I asked him to show us a way out of town by the back street.
  'Mere is one roadblock I want to avoid because it is manned by kids with
  rifles and I don't know what they might do. The cabby has a fare ah-eady,
  but he's coming back. We'll wait."
 "We won't wait very goddarn long," Simons said.
  The cab returned in ten minutes. They followed it through the dark, unpaved
  streets until they came to a main road. The cabby turned right. Rashid
  followed, taking the comer fast. On the left, just a few yards away, was
  the roadblock he had wanted to avoid, with teenage boys firing rifles into
  the air. 'Me cab and the two Range Rovers accelerated fast away from the
  corner, before the kids could realize that someone had sneaked past diem.
 Fifty yards down the road, Rashid pulled into a gas station.
  Keane Taylor said to him: "What the hell are you stopping for? I I
 "We've got to get gas."
 356        Ken Folkit

  "We've got three-quarters of a tankful, plenty to jump the border on-4et,
  s get out of here. "
 I It may be impossible to get gas in Turkey."
 Simons said: "Rashid, let's go."
 Rashid jumped out of the car.
  When the fuel tanks had been topped up, Rashid was still haggling with the
  ta)u driver, offering him a hundred nals-a little more than a dollar-fbr
  guiding them out of town.
  Taylor said: "Rashid, just give him a handful of money and kt's go."
 "He wants too much," Rashid said.
 "Oh, God,' 1 said Taylor.
  Rashid settled with the cabby for two hundred rials and got back into the
  Range Rover, saying: "He would have got suspicious if I didn't argue."
  They drove out of town. The road wound up into the mountains. The surface
  was good and they made rapid progress. After a while am road began to
  follow a ridge, with deep wooded gulleys on either side. "There was a
  checkpoint around here somewhere this aftmoon," Rashid said. "Maybe they
  went home. 11
  The headlights picked out two men standing beside the road, waving them
  down. There was no barrier. Rashid did not brake.
 "I guess we'd better stop," Simons said.
 Rashid kept going right past the two men.
 "I said stop!" Simons barked.
 Rashid stopped.
  Bill stared out through the windshield and said: "Would you look at that?"
  A few yards ahead was a bridge over a ravine. On either side of the bridge,
  tribesmen were emerging from the ravine. They kept coniing-4iirty, forty,
  fifty--and they were armed to the teeth.
  it looked very like an ambush. If the cars had tried to rush the
  checkpoint, they would have been shot fun of holes.
 "Thank God we stopped," Bill said fervently.
  Rashid jumped out of the car and started talking. The tribesmen put a chain
  across the bridge and surrounded the cars. It rapidly became clear that
  these were the most unfriendly people the team had yet encountered. They
  surrounded the cars, glaring in and hefting their rifles, while two or
  dn-ee of them started yelling at Rashid.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   357

  It was maddening, Bill thought, to have come so far, through so much danger
  and adversity, only to be stopped by a bunch of dumb farmers. Wouldn't they
  just like to take these two fine Range Rovers and all our money? he
  thought. And who would ever know?
  The tribesmen got meaner. They started pushing and shoving Rashid. In a
  minute they'll start shooting, Bill thought.
  "Do nothing," Simons said. "Stay in the car, let Rashid handle it."
  Bill decided Rashid needed some help. He touched his pocket rosary and
  started praying. He said every prayer he knew. We're in God's hands now, he
  thought; it will take a miracle to get us out of this mess.

 In the second car Coburn sat frozen while a tribesman outside pointed a
 rifle directly at his head.
  Gayden, sitting behind, was seized by a wild impulse, and whispered: "Jay!
  Why don't you lock the door!"
 Coburn felt hysterical laughter bubble up in his throat.

 Rashid felt he was on the cliff-edge of death.
  These tribesmen were bandits, and they would kill you for the coat on your
  back: they didn't care. The revolution.was nothing to them. No matter who
  was in power, they reiognized no government, obeyed no laws. They did not
  even spei& Farsi, the language of Iran, but Turkish.
  They pushed him around, yelling at him in Turkish. He yelled fight back in
  Farsi. He was getting nowhere. They're working themselves up to shoot us
  all, he thought.
  He heard the sound of a car. A pair of headlights approached from the
  direction of Rezaiyeh. A Land Rover pulled up and three men got out. One of
  them was dressed in a long black overcoat. The tribesmen seemed to defer to
  him. He addressed Rashid. "Let me see the passports, please."
  "Sure," said Rashid. He led the man to the second Range Rover. Bill was in
  the first, and Rashid wanted the overcoat man to get bored with looking at
  passports before he got to Bill's. Rashid tapped on the car window, and
  Paul rolled it down. "Passports. 11
  The man seemed to have dealt with passports before. He examined each one
  carefully, checking the photograph against the face of the owner. Then, in
  perfect English, he asked questions:
 358        Ken Follen

 Where were you born? Where do you live? What is your date of birth?
 Fortunately Simons had made Paul and Bill learn every piece of information
 contained in their false passports, so Paul was able to answer the overcoat
 man's questions without hesitation.
  Reluctantly, Rashid led the man to the first Range Rover. Bill and Keane
  Taylor had changed seats, so that Bill was on the far side, away from the
  light. The man went through the same routine. He looked at Bill's passport
  last. Then he said: "The picture is not of this man."
  "Yes, it is," Rashid said frantically. "He's been very sick. He's lost
  weight, his skin has changed color--don't you understand that he's dying?
  He has to get back to America as quickly as possible so he can have the
  right medical attention, and you are delaying him--do you want him to die
  because the Iranian people had no pity for a sick man? Is this how you
  uphold the honor of our country? Is--
 "They're Americans," the man said. "Follow me."
 He turned and went into the little brick hut beside the bridge.
  Rashid followed him in. "You have no right to stop us," he said. "I have
  been instructed by the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee in Rezaiyeh
  to escort these people to the border, and to delay us is a
  counterrevolutionary crime against the Iranian people." He flourished the
  letter written by the deputy leader and stamped with the library stamp.
  The man looked at it. "Still, that one American does not look like the
  picture in his passport."
  "I told you, he has been sick!" Rashid yelled. "They have been cleared to
  the border by the revolutionary committee! Now get these bandits out of my
  way!"
  "We have our own revolutionary committee," the man said. "You will all have
  to come to our headquarters."
 Rashid had no choice but to agree.

 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.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   359

  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
 360        Ken Folktt

 could be killed, our bodies would disappear without 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 nig.
 Simons said to Rashid: "Tell them we have to go."
  'Mere 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
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   361

 started giving very sharp commatids in a voice that belied his courteous
 demeanon "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 sad 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 goddarn jeep down, I don't want to get killed at
  this point in the gaine - "
  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 comer 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 nfles at him.
 362       Ken Follett

 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 Me and thumbed the safety.
  Rashid stopped the car. 'Usten, I came to your village this afterntoon 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 down 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 Corninitte
    .4e,_1 1
  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.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   363

  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. AD along EDS had underestimated Dadgar ...
  The frontier station was brightly lit by high neon lamps. The two can drove
  slowly along, past the buildings, and stopped where a chain across the road
  marked the limit of Iratlian territory.
 Rashid got out.
 He spoke to the guards at the station, then came back and said: 'They don't
 have a key to unloose 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."
 364        Ken Folleu

  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.
 'Me 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-4f 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."
 I 'Let's go, you guys," said Coburn.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   365

  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.
 366        Ken Follen

   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 traffilating, 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 kWed 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 hightened, standing there in the road waiting.
  Usman could still be a liar, a confidence trickster. On the other
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   367

 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 hft. Fish are on their way
  here with a bus, Perot is in Istanbul with a plane. 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 comer. "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."
 "Okay," Simons said reluctantly. "We'll wait awhile."
  He looked tired, Boulware thought; an old man who just wanted to rest.
  Coburn looked the same: drained, exhausted, almost broken. Boulware
  wondered just what they had been through to get here.
  Boulware himself felt terrific, even though he had had little sleep for
  forty-eight hours. He thought of his endless discussions with Mr. Fish
  about how to get to the border; of the screw-up in
 368       Ken Folleit

 Adana when the bus failed to come; of the taxi ride through a blizzard in
 the mountains ... And here he was, after all.
  The little guardhouse was bitterly cold, and the wood-burning stove did
  nothing but fill the room with smoke. Everyone was fired, and the scotch
  made them drowsy. One by one they began to fall asleep on the wooden
  benches and the floor.
  Simons did not sleep. Rashid watched him, pacing up and down like a caged
  tiger, chain-smoking his plastic-tipped cigars. As dawn broke, he started
  looking out of the window, across no-man's-land to Iran.
  "There are a hundred people with rifles across there," he said to Rashid
  and Boulware. "What do you think they would do if they should happen to
  find out exactly who it was who slipped across the border last night?"
  Boulware, too, was beginning to wonder whether he had been right to propose
  waiting for Mr. Fish.
  Rashid looked out the window. Seeing the Range Rovers on the other side, he
  remembered something. "The fuel can," he said. "I left the can with the
  money. We might need the money.
 Simons just looked at him.
  On impulse Rashid walked out of the guardhouse and started across the
  border.
 It seemed a long way.
  He thought about the psychology of the guards on the Iranian side. They
  have written us off, he decided. If they have any doubts about whether they
  did right last night, then they must have spent the last few hours making
  up excuses, justifying their action. By now they have convinced themselves
  that they did the right thing. It will take them a while to change their
  minds.
 He reached the other side and stepped over the chain.
 He went to the first Range Rover and opened the tailgate.
 Two guards came running out of their hut.
  Rashid lifted the can out of the car and closed the tailgate. "We forgot
  the off," he said as he started walking back toward the chain.
  "What do you need it for?" asked one of the guards suspiciously. "You don't
  have the cars anymore."
  -For the bus," said Rashid as he stepped over the chain. "The bus that's
  taking us to Van."
 He walked away, feeling their eyes on his back.
  He did not look around until he was back inside the Turkish guardhouse.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   369

 A few minutes later they all heard the sound of a motor.
  They looked out of the windows. A bus was coming down the road.
 They cheered all over again.
  Pat Sculley, Jim Schwebach, Ron Davis, and Mr. Fish stepped off the bus and
  came into the guardhouse.
 They all shook hands.
  The latest arrivals had brought another bottle of scotch, so everyone had
  another celebratory drink.
  Mr. Fish went into a huddle with Ilsman and the border guards.
  Gayden put his arm around Pat Sculley and said: "Have you noticed who's
  with us?" He pointed.
  Sculley saw Rashid, asleep in a comer. He smiled. In Tehran he had been
  Rashid's manager, and then, during that first meeting with Simons in the
  EDS boardroom-was it only six weeks ago?-he had strongly argued that Rashid
  should be in on the rescue. Now it seemed Simons had come round to the same
  point of view.
  Mr. Fish said: "Pat Sculley and I have to go to Yuksekova and speak with
  the chief of police there. The rest of you wait here for us, please."
  "Now hold it," Simons said. "We waited for Boulware, then we waited for
  you. Now what are we waiting for?"
  Mr. Fish said: "If we don't get clearance in advance, there will be
  trouble, because Paul and Bill have no passports."
  Simons turned to Boulware. "Your guy Ilsman is supposed to have dealt with
  that problem," he said angrily.
  "I thought he did!" said Boulware. "I thought he bribed them. -
 "So what's happening?"
 Mr. Fish said: "It's better this way."
 Simons growled: "Make it goddam fast."
 Sculley and Mr. Fish went off.
  The others started a poker game. They all had thousands of dollars hidden
  in their shoes, and they were a little crazy. One hand Paul got a full
  house, with three aces in the hole, and the pot went over a thousand
  dollars. Keane Taylor kept raising him. Taylor had a pair of kings showing,
  and Paul guessed he had another king in the hole, making a full house with
  kings. Paul was right. He won fourteen hundred dollars.
 A new shift of border guards arrived, including an officer who
 370      Ken Follett

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         ON WINGS OF EAGLES    371

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 372       Ken Follett

 was mad as hell to find his guardhouse Uttered with cigarette butts,
 hundred-dollar bills, and poker-playing Americans, two of whom had entered
 the country without passports.
  The morning wore on, and they all began to feel bad---too much liquor and
  not enough sleep. As the sun climbed in the sky, poker did not seem fun
  anymore. Simons got jittery. Gayden started giving Boulware a hard time.
  Boulware wondered where ScuRey and Mr. Fish had got to.
  Boulware was now sure he had made a mistake. They should all have left for
  Yuksekova as soon as he had arrived. He had made another mistake in letting
  Mr. Fish take charge. Somehow he had lost the initiative.
  At ten A.M., having been away four hours, Sculley and Mr. Fish came back.
 Nft. Fish told the officer that they had permission to leave.
  The officer said something sharp, and-as if accidentally-let his jacket
  fall open to reveal his pistol.
 1"he other guards backed away from the Americans.
 Mr. Fish said: "He says we leave when he gives permission.
  "Enough," said Simons. He got to his feet and said something in Turkish.
  All the Turks looked at him in surprise: they had not realized he spoke
  their language.
 Simons took the officer into the next room.
  They came out a few minutes later. "We can go," said Simons.
 They all went outside.
  Coburn said: "Did you bribe him, Colonel---or frighten him to (Wth?"
 Simons gave the ghost of a smile and said nothing.
 Pat Sculley said: "Want to come to Dallas, Rashid?"
  For the last couple of days, Rashid reflected, they had been talking as if
  he would go all the way with them; but this was the first time anyone had
  asked him directly whether he wanted to. Now he had to make the most
  important decision of his fife.
  Want to come to Dallas, Rashid? It was a dream come true. He thought of
  what be was leaving behind. He had no children, no wife, not even a
  girlftiend--he had never been in love. But he thought of his parents, his
  sister, and his brothers. They might need him: life was sure to be rough in
  Tehran for some time. Yet what help could he give them? He would be
  employed for a few more days, or weeks, shipping the Americans' possessions
  back to the States, taking care of the dogs and cats---then nothing.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   373

 EDS was finished in Iran. Probably computers were finished, too, for many
 years. Unemployed, he would be a burden to his fairtily, just another mouth
 to feed in hard times.
 But in America-
  In America he could continue his education. He could put his talents to
  work, become a success in busines&---especially with the help of people
  like Pat Sculley and Jay Coburn.
 Want to come to Dallas, Rashid?
 "Yes," he said to Sculley. "I want to go to Dallas."
 "What are you waiting for? Get on the bus!"
 They all got on the bus.
  Paul settled into his seat with relief. The bus pulled away, and Iran
  disappeared into the distance: he would probably never see the country
  again. There were strangers on the bus: some scruffy Turks in improvised
  uniforms, and two Americans who--someone mumbled-were pilots. Paul was too
  exhausted to inquire further. One of the Turkish guards from the border
  station had joined the party: presumably he was just hitching a ride.
  They stopped in Yuksekova. Mr. Fish told Paul and Bill: "We have to talk to
  the chief of police. He has been here twenty-five years and this is the
  most important thing that has ever happened. But don't worry. It's all
  routine - "
  Paul, Bill, and Mr. Fish got off the bus and went into the little police
  station. Somehow Paul was not worried. He was out of Iran, and although
  Turkey was not exactly a Western country, at least, he felt, it was not in
  the throes of a revolution. Or perhaps he was just too tired to be
  frightened.
 He and Bill were interrogated for two hours, then released.
  Six more people joined the bus at Yuksekova: a woman and a child who seemed
  to belong to the border guard, and four very dirty men-"Bodyguards," said
  Mr. Fish-who sat behind a curtain at the back of the bus.
  They drove off, heading for Van, where a charter plane was waiting. Paul
  looked out at the scenery. It was prettier than Switzerland, he thought,
  but incredibly poor. Huge boulders littered the road. In the fields ragged
  people were treading down the snow so that their goats could get at the
  frozen grass beneath. There were caves with wood fences across their
  mouths, and it seemed that was where the people lived. They passed the
  ruins of a stone fortress that might have dated back to the Crusades.
  The bus driver seemed to think he was in a race. He drove aggressively on
  the winding road, apparently confident that noth-
   374        Ken Folleu

 ing could possibly be coming at him the other way. A group of soldiers waved
 him down, and he drove right past them. Nk. Fish yelled at him to stop, but
 he yelled back and kept going.
  A few miles farther on, the army was waiting for them in force, probably
  having heard that the bus had run the last checkpoint. The soldiers stood
  in the road with their rifles raised, and the driver was forced to stop.
  A sergeant jumped on the bus and dragged the driver off with a pistol at
  his head.
 Now we're in trouble, Paul thought.
  The scene was almost funny. The driver was not a bit cowed: he was yelling
  at the soldiers as loudly and as angrily as they were yelling at him.
  Mr. Fish, Ilsman, and some of the mystery passengers got off the bus and
  started talking, and eventually they satisfied the military. The driver was
  literally thrown back onto the bus, but even that did not quench his
  spirit, and as he drove away he was still yelling out of the window and
  shaking his fist at the soldiers.
 They reached Van late in the afternoon.
  They went to the town hall, where they were handed over to the local
  police; and the scruffy bodyguards disappeared like melting snow. The
  police filled in forms, then escorted them to the airstrip.
  As they were boarding the plane, Ilsman was stopped by a policeman: he had
  a .45 pistol strapped under his arm, and it seemed that even in Turkey
  passengers were not allowed to take firearms on board aircraft. However,
  Ilsman flashed his credentials yet again, and the problem went away.
  Rashid was also stopped. He was carrying the fuel can with the money in it,
  and of course inflammable liquids were not allowed on aircraft. He told the
  police the can contained suntan oil for the Americans' wives, and they
  believed him.
  They ail boarded the plane. Simons and Coburn, coming down from the effects
  of the stay-awake pills, both stretched out and were asleep within seconds.
  As the plane taxied and took off, Paul felt as elated as if it were his
  first plane trip. He recalled how, in jail in Tehran, he had longed to do
  that most ordinary thing, get on a plane and fly away. Soaring up into the
  clouds now gave him a feeling he had not experienced for a long time: the
  feeling of freedom.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   375

   3

 According to the peculiar rules of Turkish air travel, the charter plane
 could not go where a scheduled flight was available; so they could not fly
 directly to Istanbul where Perot was waiting, but had to change planes in
 Ankara.
  While they were waiting for their connection, they solved a couple of
  problems.
  Simons, Sculley, Paul, and Bill got into a taxi and asked for the American
  Embassy.
  It was a long drive through the city. The air was brownish and had a strong
  smell. "The air's bad here," said Bill.
  "High-sulfur coal," said Simons, who had lived in Turkey in the fifties.
  "They've never heard of pollution controls."
  The cab pulled up at the U.S. Embassy. Bill looked out the window and his
  heart leaped: there stood a young, handsome marine guard in an immaculate
  uniform.
 This was the U.S.A.
 They paid off the cab.
  As they went in, Simons said to the marine: "Is there a motor pool here,
  soldier?"
 "Yes, sir," said the marine, and gave him directions.
  Paul and Bill went into the passport office. In their pockets they had
  passport-sized photographs of themselves that Boulware had brought from the
  States. They went up to the desk, and Paul said: "We've lost our passports.
  We left Tehran in kind of a hurry. "
 "Oh, yes," said the clerk, as if he had been expecting diem.
  They had to fill in forms. One of the officials took them into a private
  office and told them he wanted some advice. The U.S. Consulate in Tabriz,
  Iran, was under attack by revolutionaries, and the staff there might have
  to escape as Paul and Bin had. They told him the route they had taken and
  what problems they had encountered.
  A few minutes later they walked out of there, each holding a sixty-day U.S.
  passport. Paul looked at his and said: "Did you ever see anything so
  beautiful in your whole damn life?"
 376        Ken Folleu

 Simons emptied the oil from the can and shook out the money in the weighted
 plastic bags. There was a hell of a mess: some of the bags had broken and
 there was oil all over the banknotes. Sculley started cleaning off the oil
 and piling the money up in ten-thousand-dollar stacks: there was sixty-five
 thousand dollars plus about the same again in Iranian rials.
  While he was doing this, a marine walked in. Seeing two disheveled,
  unshaven men kneeling on the floor counting out a small fortune in
  hundred-dollar bills, he did a double take.
  Sculley said to Simons: "Do you think I ought to tell him, Colonel?"
  Simons growled: "Your buddy at the gate knows about this, soldier. "
 The marine saluted and went out.

 it was eleven P.m. when they were called to board their flight to Istanbul.
  Ilwy went through the final security check one by one. Sculley was just
  ahead of Simons. Looking back, he saw that the guard had asked to see
  inside the envelope Simons was carrying.
 The envelope contained all the money from the fuel can.
 Sculley said: "Oh, shit."
  The soldier looked in the envelope and saw the sixty-five thousand dollars
  and four million rials; and all hell broke loose.
  Several soldiers drew their guns, one of them called out, and officers came
  running.
  Sculley saw Taylor, who had fifty thousand dollars in a little black bag,
  pushing his way through the crowd around Simons, saying: "Excuse me ,
  excuse me please, excuse me . "
  Ahead of Sculley, Paul had already been cleared ti~ough the checkpoint.
  Sculley thrust his thirty thousand dollars into Paul's hands, then turned
  and went back through the checkpoint.
  The soldiers were taking Simons away to be interrogated. Sculley followed
  with Mr. Fish, Ilsman, Boulware, and Jim Schwebach. Simons was led into a
  little room. One of the officers turned, saw five people following, and
  said in English: -%rho are you?"
 "We're all together," Sculley said.
  They sat down and Mr. Fish talked to the officers. After a while he said:
  "They want to see the papers that prove you brought this money into the
  country."
 `VVhat papers?"
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   377

 "You have to declare all the foreign currency you bring in."
 "Hell, nobody asked us!"
  Boulware said: "Mr. Fish, explain to these clowns that we entered Turkey at
  a tiny little border station where the guards probably don't know enough to
  read forms and they didn't ask us to fill in any forms but we're happy to
  do it now."
  Mr. Fish argued some more with the officers. Eventually Simons was allowed
  to leave, with the money; but the soldiers took down his name, passport
  number, and description, and the moment they landed in Istanbul, Simons was
  arrested.

 At th1W A.M. on Saturday, February 17, 1979, Paul and Bill walked into Ross
 Perot's suite at the Istanbul Sheraton.
 It was the greatest moment in Perot's life.
  Emotion welled up inside him as he embraced them both. Here they were,
  alive and well, after all this time, all those weeks of waiting, the
  impossible decisions and the awful risks. He looked at their beaming faces.
  The nightmare was over.
  The rest of the team crowded in after them. Ron Davis was clowning, as
  usual. He had borrowed Perot's cold-weather clothes, and Perot had
  pretended to be anxious to get them back: now Davis stripped off his hat,
  coat, and gloves, and threw them on the floor dramatically, saying: "Here
  you are, Perot, here's your damned stuff!"
  Then Sculley walked in and said: "Simons got arrested at the airport. "
 Perot's jubilation evaporated. "Why?" he exclaimed in dismay.
  "He was carrying a lot of money in a paper envelope and they just happened
  to search him. "
 Perot said angrily: "Dam it, Pat, why was he carrying money?"
 "It was the money from the fuel can. See--
  Perot interrupted: "After all Simons has done, why in the world did you let
  him take a completely unnecessary risk? Now see here. I'm taking off at
  noon, and if Simons isn't out of jail by then, you are going to stay in
  frigging Istanbul until he is!"

 Sculley and Boulware sat down with Mr. Fish. Boulware said: "We need to get
 Colonel Simons out of jail."
 "Well," said Mr. Fish, "it will take around ten days-"
  "Bullshit," said Boulware. "Perot will not buy that. I want him out of jail
  now. "
 "It's five o'clock in the morning!" Mr. Fish protested.
 378        Ken Folleu

 "How much?" said Boulware.
  "I don't know. Too many people know about this, in Ankara as well as
  Istanbul. "
 "How about five thousand dollars?"
 ::For that, they would sell their mothers.
  Fine," said Boulware. I-Let,s get it on.-
  Mr. Fish made a phone call, then said: "My lawyer will meet us at the jail
  near the airport.-
  Boulware and Mr. Fish got into Mr. Fish's battered old car, leaving Sculley
  to pay the hotel bill.
  They drove to the jail and met the lawyer. The lawyer got into Mr. Fish's
  car and said: "I have a judge on the way. I've already talked to the
  police. Where's the money?"
 Boulware said: "The prisoner has it."
 "What do you mean?"
  Boulware said: "You go in there and bring the prisoner out, and he will
  give you the five thousand dollars."
  It was crazy, but the lawyer did it. He went into the jail and came out a
  few minutes later with Simons. They got into the car.
  -we I re n going to pay these clowns," said Simons. "I'll wait it out.
  ey'll just talk themselves to death and let me go in a few days."
  Boulware said: "Bull, please don't fight the program. Give me the
  envelope."
  Simons handed over the envelope. Boulware took out five thousand dollars
  and gave it to the lawyer, saying: "Here's the money. Make it happen. -
 The lawyer made it happen.
  Half an hour later, Boulware, Simons, and Mr. Fish were driven to the
  airport in a police car. A policeman took their passports and walked them
  through passport control and customs. When they came out on the tarmac, the
  police car was there to take them to the Boeing 707 waiting on the runway.
  They bearded the plane. Simons looked around at the velvet curtains, the
  plush upholstery, the TV sets, and the bars, and said: "What the fuck is
  this?"
  The crew were on board, waiting. A stewardess came up to Boulware and said:
  "Would you like a chink?"
 Boulware smiled.

 The phone rang in Perot's hotel suite, and Paul happened to answer it.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   379

 A voice said: "Hello?"
 Paul said: "Hello?"
 The voice said: "Who is this?"
 Paul, suspicious, said: "N"o is this?"
 "Hey, Paul?"
 Paul recognized the voice of Merv Stauffer. "Hello, Merv!"
 "Paul, I got somebody here wants to talk to you."
 There was a pause, then a woman's voice said: "Paul?"
 It was Ruthie.
 "Hello, Ruthie!"
 "Oh, Paul!"
 "Hi! What are you doing?"
  "What do you mean, what am I doing?" Ruthie said tearfully. "I'm waiting
  for you!"

 The phone rang. Before Emily got to it, someone picked up the extension in
 the children's room.
  A moment later she heard a little girl scream: "It's Dad! It's IDW! I I
 She rushed into the room.
  All the children were jumping up and down and fighting over the phone.
  Emily restrained herself for a couple of minutes, then took the phone away
  from them.
 "Bill?"
 "Hello, Emily."
  "Gee you sound good. I didn't expect you to sound ... Oh, Bill, you sound
  so good."

 In Dallas, Merv began to take down a message from Perot in code.
 Take ... the ...
  He was now so familiar with the code that he could transcribe as he went
  along.
 ... code ... and ...
  He was puzzled, because for the last three days Perot had been giving him
  a hard time about the code. Perot did not have the patience to use it, and
  Stauffer had had to insist, saying: "Ross, this is the way Simons wants it.
  - Now that the danger was past, why had Perot suddenly started to use the
  code?
 ... stick ... it ... where ...
 Stauffer guessed what was coming, and burst out laughing.
 380       Ken Folleu

 Ron Davis called room service and ordered bacon and eggs for everyone.
  While they were eating, Dallas called again. It was Stauffer. He asked for
  Perot.
 "Ross, we just got the Dallas Times-Herald."
 Was this to be another joke?
  Stauffer went on: "The headline on the front page says: 'Perot men
  reportedly on way out. Overland exit route from Iran indicated. ' "
  Perot felt his blood start to boil. "I thought we were getting that story
  killed!"
  "Boy, Ross, we tried! The people who own or manage the paperjust don't seem
  to be able to control the editor."
  Tom Luce came on the line, mad as hell. "Ross, those bastards are willing
  to get the rescue team killed and destroy EDS and see you jailed just to be
  the first to print the story, We've explained the consequences to them and
  it just doesn't matter. Boy, when this is over we should sue them, no
  matter how long it takes or how much it costs---
  "Maybe," said Perot. "Be careful about picking a fight with people who buy
  ink by the barrel and paper by the ton. Now, wdit are the chances of this
  news reaching Tehran?"
  "We don't know. There are plenty of Iranians in Texas, and most of them
  will hear about this. It's still very hard to get a phone line to Tehran,
  but we've managed it a couple of times, so they could, too."
 "And if they do .
  "Then, of course, Dadgar finds out that Paul and Bill have slipped through
  his grasp--
  "And he could decide to take alternative hostages," Perot said coldly. He
  was disgusted with the State Department for leaking the story, furious with
  the Dallas Times-Herald for printing it, and maddened that there was
  nothing he could do about it. "And the Clean Team is still in Tehran," he
  said.
 The nightmare was not over yet.
         FoURTEEN

 At midday on Friday, February 16, Lou Goelz called Joe PocW and told him to
 bring the EDS people to the U.S. Embassy that afternoon at five o'clock.
 Ticketing and baggage check-in would be done at the Embassy overnight, and
 they could leave on a Pan Am evacuation flight on Saturday morning.
  John Howell was nervous. He knew, from Abolhasan, that Dadgar was still
  active. He did not know what had happened to the Dirty Team. If Dadgar were
  to find out that Paul and Bill had gone, or if he were simply to give up on
  them and take a couple more hostages, the Clean Team would be arrested. And
  where better to make the arrests than at the anport, where everyone had to
  identify himself by showing his passport?
  He wondered whether it was wise for them to take the first -available
  flight: there would be a series of flights, according to Goelz. Maybe they
  should wait, and see what happened to the first batch of evacuees, whether
  there was any kind of search for EDS personnel. At least then they would
  know in advance what the procedures were.
  But so would the Iranians. The advantage of taking the first flight was
  that everything would probably be confused, and the confusion might help
  Howell and the Clean Team slip out unnoticed.
  In the end he decided the first flight was best, but he remained uneasy.
  Bob Young felt the same way. Although Young no longer worked for EDS in
  Iran---he was based in Kuwait-he had been here when the Ministry contract
  was first negotiated, he had met Dadgar face-to-face, and his name might be
  on some list in Dadgar's files.
 Joe Poch6 also favored the first flight, although he did not say
               381
 382         Ken Folku

 much about it--he did not say much at all: Howell found him uncommunicative.
  Rich and Cathy Gallagher were not sum they wanted to leave Iran. They told
  Poch6 quite firmly that, regardless of what Colonel Simons had said, Pochf
  was not "in charge" of them, and they had the right to make their own
  decision. Poch6 agreed, but pointed out that if they decided to take their
  chances here with the Iranians, they should not rely on Perot sending
  another rescue team in for them if they got thrown in jail. In the end the
  Gallaghers also decided to go on the first flight.
  That aftemoon they all went through their documents and destroyed
  everything that referred to Paul and Bill.
  PocM gave each of them two thousand dollars, put five hundred dollars in
  his own pocket, and hid the rest of the money in his shoes, ten thousand
  dollars in each. He was wearing shoes borrowed from Gayden, a size too
  large, to accommodate the money. He also had in his pocket a million rials,
  which he planned to give to Lou Goelz for Abolhasan, who would use the
  money to pay the remaining lx~aman EDS employees their last wages.
  A few minutes before five, they were saying goodbye to Goelz's houseman
  when the phone rang.
  Poch6 took the call. It was Tom Walter. He said: "We have the people. Do
  you understand? We have the people.
 "I understand," Pochi said.
  They all got into the car, Cathy carrying her poodle, Buffy. Pochd drove.
  He did not tell the others about his cryptic message from Tom Walter.
  They parked in a side street near the Embassy, and left the car: it would
  stay them until somebody decided to steal it. -
  There was no relief of tension for Howell as he walked into the Embassy
  compound. There were at least a thousand Americans milling about, but there
  were also scores of armed revolutionary guards. The Embassy was supposed to
  be American soil, inviolate; but clearly the Iranian revolutionaries did
  not take any notice of such diplomatic niceties.
 The Clem Tearn was herded into a queue.
 Tliey spent most of the night waiting in line.
  They queued to fill in forms, they queued to hand in their passports, and
  they queued for baggage checks. All the bags were put in a huge hall, then
  the evacuees had to find their own bags and put the claim checks on. Then
  they queued to open
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   383

 their bags so the revolutionaries could search them: every single piece was
 opened.
  Howell learned that there would be two planes, both Pan Am 747s. One would
  go to Frankfurt, the other to Athens. The evacuees were organized by
  company, but the EDS people were included with Embassy personnel who were
  leaving. They would be on the Frankfurt flight.
  At seven o'clock on Saturday morning they were boarded on buses to go to
  the airport.
 It was a hell of a ride.
  Two or three armed revolutionaries got on each bus. As they drove out of
  the Embassy gates, they saw a crowd of reporters and television crews: the
  hugans had decided that the flight of the humiliated Americans would be a
  world television event.
  The bus bumped along the road to the airport. Close to Pochd was a guard
  about fifteen years old. He stood in the aisle, swaying with the motion of
  the bus, his finger on the trigger of his rifle. Pochd noticed that the
  safety catch was off.
 If he stumbled ...
  The streets were full of people and traffic. Everyone seemed to kriow that
  these buses contained Americans, and their hafted was palpable. They yelled
  and shook their fists. A truck pulled alongside, and the driver leaned out
  of his window and spat on the bus.
  The convoy was stopped several times. Different areas of the city seemed to
  be under the control of different revolutionary groups, and each group had
  to demonstrate its authority by stopping the buses and then giving them
  permission to proceed.
 It took two hours to drive the six miles to the airport.
  Ile scene there was chaotic. There were more television cameras and
  reporters, plus hundreds of armed men running around, some wearing scraps
  of uniform, some directing traffic, all of them in charge, all having a
  different opinion on where the buses should go.
 The Americans finally got inside the terminal at nine-thirty.
  Embassy personnel started distributing the passports they had collected
  during the night. Five were missing: those of Howell, Poch6, Young, and the
  Gallaghers.
  After Paul and Bill had given their passports to the Embassy for
  safekeeping back in November, the Embassy had refused to return them
  without informing the police. Would they pull the same trick now?
 384        Ken Folleu

  Suddenly Pochd came pushing through the crowd with five passports in his
  hand. "I found them on a shelf behind a counter," he said. "I guess they
  got put there by accident."
  Bob Young saw two Americans holding photographs and scanning the crowd. To
  his horror, they started to approach the EDS people. They walked up to Rich
  and Cathy Gallagher.
 Surely Dadgar would not take Cathy hostage?
  The people smiled and said they had some of the Gallaghers' luggage.
 Young relaxed.
  Friends of the Gallaghers had salvaged some of the bags from the Hyatt, and
  had asked these two Americans to bring them to the airport and try to give
  them to the Gallaghers. The people had agreed, but they did not know the
  Gallaghers--hence, the photographs-
  It had been a false alarm, but if anything, it increased their anxiety.
  Joe Pochi decided to see what he could find out. He went off and located a
  Pan Am ticket agent. "I work for EDS,- Pochd told the agent. "Are the
  Manians looking for anyone?"
  "Yes, they're looking pretty hard for two people," said the agent.
  Anybody else?"
 "No. And the stop list is several weeks old."
  Tbanks. "
 Poch6 went back and told the others.
  The evacuees were starting to go from the check-in concourse through to the
  departure lounge.
  PocM 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, IT 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 firv opportunity.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   385

 They all went through the "Passengers Only" gate.
  Next they had to pay the airport tax. This amused Poch6: 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 Pochd went through passport control last. The guard looked extra hard
  at him, comparing the face with the photograph, for Poch6 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 Pocht'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 Frank-
   386        Ken Folteu

 furt 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.
 Tley 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 PocK but he'll know Bob
  Young.
 And he'll know me best of all.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   387

 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 clainicheck number called,
  would you please identify yourself. "
 388       Ken Follett

  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 get 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 Poch6. Pochd 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 Goe1z'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.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   389

  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 PocM 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."
  Poch6 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 gee 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
 390         Ken Folkn

 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. Ills 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 fired to sleep, but Gayden went back to the luxurious
  bedroom and lay down on the king-size bed. Perot was a little miffed: be
  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 fbr 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.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   391

  Gayden opened his eyes. "Davis?" he said incredulously. "What the hell are
  you doing in bed with meT ,
  "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 Paid 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 Mlled because they were ninety-nine percent
  sure they were safe."
  Perot said to Luce: "Let's get a hundred percent sure. I'll call you again
  in a few minutes. "
  They landed at Frankfurt and checked into a hotel within the abport
  complex. The German desk clerk seemed curious, and carefully noted all
  their passport numbers. This increased Simons's unease.
  They gathered in Perot's room, and Perot called Dallas again. This dine 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, hell, 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
 392        Ken FoUett

 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
  shut 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
  turn on the shoulder.
 "Ross wants to see you in the hotel," Coburn said.
 11.197
   Vhat for?"
 "I can't talk about it now, you need to come on back."
 "You've got to be kidding!"
 .IWIs go. 11
  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
  hun 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 hem 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 fust 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 pus, often the most farfetched 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 inforniation 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 prono
  movies and the third was Jaws 11. Bill and Taylor got Jaws 11. Paul and
  Coburn went in to see something about naked South Sea maidens.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   393

  Paul sat staring at the screen, bored and fired. The movie was in German,
  not that the dialogue appeared to count for much. What could be worse, he
  thought, than a bad X-rated movie? Suddenly he heard a loud snort. He
  looked at Coburn.
 Coburn was fast asleep, snoring.

 When John Howell and the rest of the Clean Team landed at Frankfurt, Simons
 had everything set up for a quick turnaround.
  Ron Davis was at the arrival gate, waiting to pun the Clean Team out of the
  line and direct them to another gate where the Boeing 707 was parked. Ralph
  Boulware was watching from a distance: as soon as he saw the first member
  of the Clean Team arrive, he would go down to the movie theater and tell
  Sculley to round up the guys inside. Jim Schwebach was in the roped-off
  press area, where reporters were waiting to see the American evactWes. He
  was sitting next to writer Pierre Salinger (who did not know how close he
  was to a realty good story) and pretending to read a furniture
  advertisement in a German newspaper. Schwebach's job was to tail the Clean
  Team from one gate to the other, just to make sure no one was following
  them. If there was trouble, Schwebach and Davis would start a disturbance.
  It would not matter much if they were arrested by the Germans, for there
  was no reason for them to be extradited to Iran.
  The plan went like clockwork. There was only one hitch: Rich and Cathy
  Gallagher did not want to go to Dallas. They had no friends or farmly
  there, they were not sure what their future would be, they did not know
  whether the dog, Buffy, would be allowed to enter the U.S.A., and they did
  not want to get on another plane. They said goodbye and went off to make
  their own arrangements.
  The rest of the Clean Team---John Howell, Bob Young, and Joe
  Poch6--followed Ron Davis and boarded the Boeing 707. Jim Schwebach tailed
  them. Ralph Boulware rounded up everyone else, and they all got on board
  for the flight home.
  Merv Stauffer in Dallas had called Frankfurt Airport and ordered food for
  the flight. He had asked for thirty superdeluxe meals, each including fish,
  fowl, and beef, six seafood trays with sauce, horseradish and lemon; six
  hors d'oeuvre trays; six sandwich trays with ham-and-cheese, roast beef,
  turkey, and Swiss cheese; six dip trays with raw vegetables and
  blue-cheese-andvinaigrette dip; three cheese trays with assorted breads and
  crackers; four deluxe pastry trays; four fresh-fruit trays; four bottles of
 394        Ken FoUett

 brandy; twenty Seven-Ups and twenty ginger ales; ten club sodas and ten
 tonics; ten quarts of orange juice; fifty cartons of milk; four gallons of
 freshly brewed coffee in Thermos bottles; one hundred sets of plastic
 cutlery consisting of knife, fork, and spoon; six dozen paper plates in two
 sizes; six dozen plastic glasses; six dozen Styrofoam cups; two cartons each
 of Kent, Marlboro, Kool, and Salem Light cigarettes; and two boxes of
 chocolates.
  There had been a mix-up, and the airport caterers had delivered the order
  double.
  Takeoff was delayed. An ice storm had dropped out of nowhere, and the
  Boeing 707 was last in the queue for de-icing--commercial flights had
  priority. Bill began to worry. The airport was going to close at midnight,
  and they might have to get off the plane and return to the hotel. Bill did
  not want to spend the night in Germany. He wanted American soil beneath his
  feet.
  John Howell, Joe Poch6, and Bob Young told the story of their flight from
  Tehran. Both Paul and Bill were chilled to hear how implacably determined
  Dadgar had been to prevent their leaving the country.
  I At last the plane was de-ice"ut then its Number I engine would not start.
  Pilot John Carlen traced the problem to the start valve. Engineer Ken Lenz
  got off the plane and held the valve open manually while Carlen started the
  engine.
  Perot brought Rashid to the flight deck. Rashid had never flown until
  yesterday, and he wanted to sit with the crew. Perot said to Carlen: "Let's
  have a really spectacular takeoff."
  "You got it," said Carlen. He taxied to the runway, then took off in a very
  steep climb.
  In the passenger cabin Gayden was laughing: he had just heard that, after
  six weeks in jail with all-male company, Paul had been forced to sit
  through an X-rated movie; and he thought it was funny as hell.
  Perot popped a champagne cork and proposed a toast. "Here's to the men who
  said what they were going to do, then went out and did it."
  Ralph Boulware sipped his champagne and felt a warm glow. That's right, he
  thought. We said what we were going to do, then we went out and did it.
  Right.
  He had another reason to be happy. Next Monday was Kecia's birthday: she
  would be seven. Every time he had called Mary she
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   395

 had said: "Get home in time for Kecia's birthday. " It looked like he was
 going to make it.
  Bill began to relax at last. Now there's nothing but a plane ride between
  me and America and Emily and the kids, he thought. Now I'm safe.
  He had imagined himself safe before: when he reached the Hyatt in Tehran,
  when he crossed the border into Turkey, when he took off from Van, and when
  he landed in Frankfurt. He had been wrong each time.
 And he was wrong now.

   3

 Paul had always been crazy about airplanes, and now he took the opportunity
 to sit on the flight deck of the Boeing 707.
  As the plane flew across the north of England, he realized that pilot John
  Carlen, engineer Ken Lenz, and first officer Joe Fosnot were having
  trouble. On autopilot the plane was drifting, first to the left and then to
  the right. The compass had failed, rendering the inertial navigation system
  erratic.
 "What does all that mean?" Paul asked.
  "It means we'll have to hand-fly this thing all the way across the
  Atlantic," said Carlen. "We can do it-4t's kind of exhausting, that's all."
  A few minutes later the plane became very cold, then very hot. Its
  pressurization system was failing.
 Carlen took the plane down low.
 "We can't cross the Atlantic at this height," he told Paul.
 "Why not?"
  "We don't have enough fuel---an aircraft uses much more fuel at low
  altitudes."
 "Why can't we fly high?"
 "Can't breathe up there."
 "ne plane has oxygen masks."
  "But not enough oxygen to cross the Atlantic. No plane carries that much
  oxygen."
  Carlen and his crew fiddled with the controls for a while, then Carlen
  sighed and said: "Would you get Ross up here, Paul?"
 Paul fetched Perot.
 396       Ken Follett

  Carlen said: "Mr. Perot, I think we ought to take this thing and land it as
  soon as we can. " He explained again why they could not cross the Atlantic
  with a faulty pressure system.
  Paul said: "John, I'll be forever grateful to you if we don't have to land
  in Germany."
  "Don't worry," said Carlen. "We'll head for London, Heathrow. "
  Perot went back to tell the others. Carlen called London Air Traffic
  Control on the radio. It was one in the morning, and he was told Heathrow
  was closed. This is an emergency, he replied. They gave him permission to
  land.
  Paul could hardly believe it. An emergency landing, after all he had been
  through!
  Ken Lenz began to dump fuel to reduce the plane below its maximum landing
  weight.
  London told Carlen there was fog over southern England, but at the moment
  visibility was up to half a mile at Heathrow.
  When Ken Lenz shut off the fuel-dump valves, a red light that should have
  gone out stayed on. "A dump chute hasn't retracted," said Lenz.
 "I can't believe this," said Paul. He lit a cigarette.
 Carlen said: "Paul, can I have a cigarette?"
  Paul stared at him. "You told me you quit smoking ten years ago. "
 "Just give me a cigarette, would you?"
 Paul gave him a cigarette and said: "Now I'm really scared."
  Paul went back into the passenger cabin. The stewardesses had everyone busy
  stowing trays, bottles, and baggage, securing all loose objects, in
  preparation for landing.
  Paul went into the bedroom. Simons was lying on the bed. He had shaved in
  cold water and there were bits of stickum tape all over his face. He was
  fast asleep.
  Paul left him. He said to Jay Coburn: "Does Simons know what's going on?"
  "Sure does," Coburn replied. "He said he doesn't know how to fly a plane
  and there's nothing he can do, so he was going to take a nap."
 Paul shook his head in amazement. How cool could you get?
  He returned to the flight deck. Carlen was as laid-back as ever, his voice
  calm, his hands steady; but that cigarette worried Paul.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   397

  A couple of minutes later the red fight went out. The dump chute had
  retracted.
  They approached Heathrow in dense cloud and began to lose height. Paul
  watched the altimeter. As it dropped through six
 ,hundred feet, then five hundred, there was still nothing outside but
 swirling gray fog.
  At three hundred feet it was the same. Then, suddenly, they dropped out of
  the cloud and there was the runway, straight ahead, fit up like a Christmas
  tree. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.
  They touched down, and the fire engines and ambulances came screaming
  across the tarmac toward the plane; but it was a perfect safe landing.

 Rashid had been hearing about Ross Perot for years. Perot was the
 multimillionaire, the founder of EDS, the business wizard, the man who sat
 in Dallas and moved men such as Coburn and Sculley around the world like
 pieces on a chessboard. It had been quite an experience for Rashid to meet
 W. Perot and find he was just an ordinary-looking human being, rather short
 and surprisingly friendly. Rashid had walked into the hotel room in
 Istanbul, and this little guy with the big smile and the bent nose just
 stuck out his hand and said: "Hi, I'm Ross Perot," and Rashid had shaken
 hands and said: "Hi, I'm Rashid Kazemi," just as natural as could be.
  Since that moment he had felt more than ever one of the EDS team. But at
  Heathrow Airport he was sharply reminded that he was not.
  As soon as the plane taxied to a halt, a vanload of airport police, customs
  men, and immigration officials boarded and started asking questions. They
  did not like what they saw: a bunch of dirty, scruffy, smelly, unshaven
  men, carrying a fortune in various currencies, aboard an incredibly
  luxurious airplane with a Grand Cayman Islands tail number. This, they said
  in their British way, was highly irregular, to say the least.
  However, after an hour or so of questioning, they could find no evidence
  that the EDS men were drug smugglers, terrorists, or members of the PLO.
  And as holders of U.S. passports, the Americans needed no visas or other
  documentation to enter Britain. They were all admitted--except for Rashid.
  Perot confronted the immigration officer. "There's no reason why you should
  know who I am, but my name is Ross Perot, and if you would just check me
  out, maybe with U.S. Customs,
 398       Ken Follett

 I believe you will conclude that you can trust me. I have too much to lose
 by trying to smuggle an illegal immigrant into Britain. Now, I will assume
 personal responsibility for this young man. We will be out of England in
 twenty-four hours. In the morning we will check with your counterparts at
 Gatwick Airport, and we will then get on the Braniff flight to Dallas."
  "I'm afraid we can't do that, sir," said the official. I 'This gentleman
  will have to stay with us until we put him on the plane. 11
 "If he stays, I stay," said Perot.
  Rashid was flabbergasted. Ross Perot would spend the night at the airport,
  or perhaps in a prison cell, rather than leave Rashid behind! It was
  incredible. If Pat Sculley had made such an offer, or Jay Coburn, Rashid
  would have been grateful but not surprised. But this was Ross Perot!
  The immigration officer sighed. "Do you know anyone in Great Britain who
  might vouch for you, sit?"
  Perot racked his brains. Who do I know in Britain? he thought. "I don't
  think-no, wait a minute." Of course! One of Britain's great heroes had
  stayed with the Perots in Dallas a couple of times. Perot and Margot had
  been guests at his home in England, a place called Broadlands. "I know Earl
  Mountbatten of Burma,
 he said.
  "I'll just have a word with my supervisor," said the officer, and he got
  off the plane.
 He was away a long time.
  Perot said to Sculley: "As soon as we get out of here, your job is to get
  us all first-class seats on that Braniff flight to Dallas in the morning."
 "Yes, sir," said Sculley-
  The immigration officer came back. "I can give you twenty-four hours," he
  said to Rashid.
  Rashid looked at Perot. Oh, boy, he thought; what a guy to work for!

 They checked in to the Post House Hotel near the airport, and Perot called
 Merv Stauffer in Dallas.
  "Merv, we have one-Verson here with an Iranian passport and no U.S.
  visa-you know who I'm talking about."
 I 'Yes, sir. "
  "He has saved American lives and I won't have him hassled when we get to
  the States."
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   399

 "Yes, sir."
 "Call Harry McKillop. Have him fix it."
 "Yes, sir."

 Sculley woke them all at Six A.m. He had to drag Coburn out of bed. Coburn
 was still suffering the aftereffects of Simons's stay-awake pills:
 ill-tempered and exhausted, he did not care whether he caught the plane or
 not.
  Sculley had organized a bus to take them to Gatwick Airport, a good
  two-hour journey from Heathrow. As they went out, Keane Taylor, who was
  struggling with a plastic bin containing some of the dozens of bottles of
  liquor and cartons of cigarettes he had bought at Istanbul Airport, said:
  "Hey, do any of you guys want to help me carry this stuff?"
 Nobody said anything. They all got on the bus.
  "Screw you, then," said Taylor, and he gave the whole lot to
 the hotel doorman.               I
  on the way to Gatwick they heard over the bus radio that China had invaded
  North Vietriam. Someone said: "That'll be our next assignment. "
  "Sure," said Simons. "We could be dropped between the two armies. No matter
  which way we fired, we'd be right."
  At the airport, walking behind his men, Perot noticed other people backing
  away, giving them room, and he suddenly realized how terrible they all
  looked. Most of them had not had a good wash or a shave for days, and they
  were dressed in a weird assortment of ill-fitting and very dirty clothes.
  They probably smelled bad, too.
  Perot asked for Braniffs passenger-service officer. Braniff was a Dallas
  airline, and Perot had flown with them to London several times, so most of
  the staff knew him.
  He asked the officer: "Can I rent the whole of the lounge upstairs in the
  747 for my party?"
  The officer was staring at the men. Perot knew what he was thinking: Mr.
  Perot's party usually consisted of a few quiet, well-dressed businessmen,
  and now here he was with what looked like a crowd of garage mechanics who
  had been working on a particularly filthy engine.
  The officer said: "Uh, we can't rent you the lounge, because of
  international airline regulations, sir, but I believe if your companions go
  up into the lounge, the rest of our passengers won't disturb you too much."
 400       Ken Follett

 Perot saw what he meant.
  As Perot boarded, he said to a stewardess: "I want these men to have
  anything they want on this plane."
  Perot passed on, and the stewardess turned to her colleague, wide-eyed.
  "Who the hell is he?"
 Her colleague told her.
  The movie was Saturday Night Fever, but the projector would not work.
  Boulware was disappointed: he had seen the movie before and he had been
  looking forward to seeing it again. Instead, he sat and chewed the fat with
  Paul.
  Most of the others went up to the lounge. Once again, Simons and Coburn
  stretched out and went to sleep.
  Halfway across the Atlantic, Keane Taylor, who for the last few weeks had
  been carrying around anything up to a quarter of a million dollars in cash
  and handing it out by the fistful, suddenly took it into his head to have
  an accounting.
  He spread a blanket on the floor of the lounge and started collecting
  money. One by one, the other members of the team came up, fished wads of
  bank notes out of their pockets, their boots, their hats, and their
  shirtsleeves, and threw the money on the floor.
  One or two other first-class passengers had come up to the lounge, despite
  the unsavory appearance of Mr. Perot's party; but now, when this smelly,
  villainous-looking crew, with their beards and knit caps and dirty boots
  and go-to-hell coats, spread out several hundred thousand dollars on the
  floor and started counting it, the other passengers vanished.
  A few minutes later a stewardess came up to the lounge and approached
  Perot. "Some of the passengers are asking whether we should inform the
  police about your party," she said. "Would you come down and reassure
  them?"
 "I'd be rJad to."
  Perot went down to the first-class cabin and introduced himself to the
  passengers in the forward seats. Some of them had heard of him. He began to
  tell them what had happened to Paul and Bill.
  As he talked, other passengers came up to listen. The cabin crew stopped
  work and stood nearby; then some of the crew from the economy cabin came
  along. Soon there was a whole crowd.
  It began to dawn on Perot that this was a story the world would want to
  hear.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   401

 Upstairs, the team were playing one last trick on Keane Taylor. While
 collecting the money, Taylor had dropped, three bundles of ten thousand
 dollars each, and Bill had slipped them into his own pocket.
  The accounting came out wrong, of course. They all sat around on the floor,
  Indian fashion, suppressing their laughter, while Taylor counted it all
  again.
  "How can I be thirty thousand dollars out?" Taylor said angrily. "Dammit,
  this is all I've got! Maybe I'm not thinking clearly. What the hell is the
  matter with me?"
  At that point Bill came up from downstairs and said: "What's the problem,
  Keane?"
  "God, we're thirty thousand dollars short, and I don't know what I did with
  all the rest of the money."
  Bill took the three stacks out of his pocket and said: "Is this what you're
  looking for?"
 They all laughed uproariously.
  "Give me that," Taylor said angrily. "Dammit, Gaylord, I wish I'd left you
  in jail!"
 They laughed all the more.

 The plane came down toward Dallas.
  Ross Perot sat next to Rashid and told him the names of the places they
  were passing over. Rashid looked out of the window, at the flat brown land
  and the big wide roads that went straight for miles and miles. America.
  Joe Pocht had a good feeling. He had felt this way as captain of a rugby
  club in Minnesota, at the end of a long match when his side had won. The
  same feeling had come to him when he had returned from Vietnam. He had been
  part of a good team, he had survived, he had learned a lot, he had grown.
  Now all he wanted to make him perfectly happy was some clean underwear.
  Ron Davis was sitting next to Jay Coburn. "Hey, Jay, what'll we do for a
  living, now?"
 Coburn smiled. "I don't know.
 402       Ken Follett

  It would be strange, Davis thought, to sit behind a desk again. He was not
  sure he liked the idea.
  He suddenly remembered that Marva was now three months pregnant. It would
  be starting to show. He wondered how she would look, with a bulging tummy.
  I know what I need, he thought. I need a Coke. In the can. From a machine.
  In a gas station. And Kentucky Fried Chicken.
 Pat Sculley was thinking: no more orange cabs.
  Sculley was sitting next to Jim Schwebach: they were together again, the
  short but deadly duo, having fired not a single shot at anyone during the
  whole adventure. They had been talking about what EDS could learn from the
  rescue. The company had projects in other Middle Eastern countries and was
  pushing into the Far East: should there perhaps be a permanent rescue team,
  a group of trouble-shooters trained and fit and armed and willing to do
  covert operations in faraway countries? No, they decided: this had been a
  unique situation. Sculley realized he did not want to spend any more time
  in primitive countries. In Tehran he had hated the morning trial of
  squeezing into an orange cab with two or three grumpy people, Persian music
  blaring from the car radio, and the inevitable quarrel with the driver over
  the fare. Wherever I work next, he thought, whatever I do, I'm going to
  ride to the office by myself, in my own car, a big fat American automobile
  with air-conditioning and soft music. And when I go to the bathroom,
  instead of squatting over a hole in the damn floor, there will be a clean
  white American toilet.
  As the plane touched down Perot said to him: "Pat, you'll be last out. I
  want you to make sure everyone gets through the formalities and deal with
  any problems."
 I 'Sure. 11

  The plane taxied to a halt. The door was opened, and a woman came aboard.
  "Where is the man?" she said.
 "Here," said Perot, pointing to Rashid.
 Rashid was first off the plane.
 Perot thought: Merv Stauffer has all that taken care of.
 The others disembarked and went through customs.
  On the other side, the first person Coburn saw was stocky, bespectacled
  Merv Stauffer, grinning from ear to ear. Coburn put his arms around
  Stauffer and hugged him. Stauffer reached into his pocket and pulled out
  Coburn's wedding ring.
  Coburn was touched. He had left the ring with Stauffer for safekeeping.
  Since then, Stauffer had been the linchpin of the
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   403

 whole operation, sitting in Dallas with a phone to his ear making everything
 happen. Coburn had talked to him almost every day, relaying Simons's orders
 and demands, receiving information and advice: he knew better than anyone
 how important Stauffer had been, how they had all just relied on him to do
 whatever had to be done. Yet with all that happening, Stauffer had remem-
 bered the wedding band.
  Coburn slipped it on. He had done a lot of hard thinking about his
  marriage, during the empty hours in Tehran; but now all that went out of
  his mind, and he looked forward to seeing Liz.
  Merv told him to walk out of the airport and get on a bus that was waiting
  outside. Coburn followed directions. On the bus he saw Margot Perot. He
  smiled and shook hands. Then, suddenly, the air was filled with screams of
  joy, and four wildly excited children threw themselves at him: Kim, Kristi,
  Scott, and Kelly. Coburn laughed out loud and tried to hug them all at the
  same time.
  Liz was standing behind the kids. Gently Coburn disentangled himself. His
  eyes filled with tears. He put his arms around his wife, and he could not
  speak.
  When Keane Taylor got on the bus, his wife did not recognize him. Her
  normally elegant husband was wearing a filthy orange ski jacket and a
  knitted cap. He had not shaved for a week and he had lost fifteen pounds.
  He stood in front of her for several seconds, until Liz Coburn said: "Mary,
  aren't you going to say hello to Keane?" Then his children, Mike and Dawn,
  grabbed him.
  Today was Taylor's birthday. He was forty-one. It was the happiest birthday
  of his life.
  John Howell saw his wife, Angela, sitting at the front of the bus, behind
  the driver, with Michael, eleven months, on her lap. The baby was wearing
  blue jeans and a striped rugby shirt. Howell picked him up and said: "Hi,
  Michael, do you remember your daddy?"
  He sat next to Angie and put his arms around her. It was kind of awkward,
  on the bus seat, and Howell was normally too shy for public displays of
  affection, but he kept right on hugging her because it felt so good.
  Ralph Boulware was met by Mary and the girls, Stacy and Kecia. He picked
  Kecia up and said: "Happy birthday!" Everything was as it should be, he
  thought as he embraced them. He had done what he was supposed to do, and
  the family was here,
 404       Ken Follett

 where they were supposed to be. He felt as though he had proved something,
 if only to himself. All those years in the air force, tinkering with
 instrumentation or sitting in a plane watching bombs drop, he had never felt
 his courage was being tested. His relations had medals for ground fighting,
 but he had always had the uncomfortable feeling that he had an easy role,
 like the guy in the war movies who slops out the food at breakfast time
 before the real soldiers go off to fight. He had always wondered whether he
 had the right stuff. Now he thought about Turkey, and getting stuck in
 Adana, and driving through the blizzard in that dam '64 Chevy, and changing
 the wheel in Blood Alley with the sons of Mr. Fish's cousin; and he thought
 about Perot's toast, to the men who said what they were going to do, then
 went out and did it; and he knew the answer. Oh, yes. He had the right
 stuff.
  Paul's daughters, Karen and Ann Marie, were wearing matching plaid skirts.
  Ann Marie, the littlest, got to him first, and he swept her up in his arms
  and squeezed her tight. Karen was too big to be picked up, but he hugged
  her just as hard. Behind them was Ruthie, his biggest little girl, all
  dressed in shades of honey and crearn. He kissed her long and hard, then
  looked at her, smiling. He could not have stopped smiling if he had wanted
  to. He felt very mellow inside. It was the best feeling he had ever known.
  Emily was looking at Bill as if she did not believe he was really there.
  "Gosh," she said lamely, "it's good to see you again, sweetie."
  The bus went rather quiet as he kissed her. Rachel Schwebach began to cry.
  Bill kissed the girls, Vicki, Jackie, and Jenny, then he looked at his son.
  Chris was very grown up in a blue suit he had been given for Christmas.
  Bill had seen that suit before. He remembered a photograph of Chris,
  standing in front of the Christmas tree in his new suit: that photograph
  had been above Bill's bunk, in a prison cell, long ago and far away ...
  Emily kept touching him to make sure he was really there. "You look
  marvelous," she said.
  Bill knew he looked absolutely terrible. He said: "I love you. "
 Ross Perot got on the bus and said: "Is everybody here?"
  "Not my dad!" said a plaintive small voice. It was Scan Sculley.
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   405

  "Don't worry," said Perot. "He'll be right out. He's our straight man. -
  Pat Sculley had been stopped by a customs agent and asked to open his
  suitcase. He was carrying all the money, and of course the agent had seen
  it. Several more agents were summoned, and Sculley was taken into an office
  to be interrogated.
  The agents got out some forms. Sculley began to explain, but they did not
  want to listen, they only wanted to fill out the form.
 "Is the money yours?"
 "No, it belongs to EDS."
 "Did you have it when you left the States?"
 "Most of it."
 "When and how did you leave the States?"
 "A week ago on a private 707.
 "Where did you go?"
 "To Istanbul, then to the Iranian border."
  Another man came into the office and said: "Are you Mr. Sculley?"
 "Yes."
  "I'm terribly sorry you've been troubled like this. Mr. Perot is waiting
  for you outside." He turned to the agents. "You can tear up those forms."
  Sculley smiled and left. He was not in the Middle East anymore. This was
  Dallas, where Perot was Perot.
  Sculley got on the bus, and saw Mary, Sean, and Jennifer. He hugged and
  kissed them all, then said: "What's happening?"
 "Ibere's a little reception for you," said Mary.
  The bus started to move, but it did not go far. It stopped again a few
  yards away at a different gate, and they were all ushered back into the
  airport and led to a - door marked "Concorde Room. I I
  As they walked in, a thousand people rose to their feet, cheering and
  clapping.
 Someone had put up a huge banner reading:

JOHN HOWELL
NO. I
DADDY

  Jay Coburn was overwhelmed by the size of the crowd and their reaction.
  What a good idea the buses had been, to give the
 406        Ken Folktt

 men a chance to greet their families in private before coming in here. Who
 had arranged that? Stauffer, of course.
  As he walked through the room toward the front, people in the crowd reached
  over to shake his hand, saying: Good to see you! Welcome back! He smiled
  and shook hands---there was David Behne, there was Dick Morrison, the faces
  bluffed and the words melted into one big warm hello.
  When Paul and Bill walked in with their wives and children, the cheering
  rose to a roar.
  Ross Perot, standing at the front, felt tears come to his eyes. He was more
  tired than he had ever been in his life, but immensely satisfied. He
  thought of all the luck and all the coincidences that had made the rescue
  possible: the fact that he knew Simons, that Simons had been willing to go,
  that EDS had hired Vietnam veterans, that they had been willing to go, that
  the seventh floor knew how to get things achieved around the world because
  of their experience with the POW campaign, that T.J. had been able to rent
  a plane, that the mob had stormed the Gasr Prison ...
  And he thought of all the things that might have gone wrong. He recalled
  the proverb: success has a thousand fathers, but failure is an orphan. In
  a few minutes he would stand up and tell these people a little of what had
  happened and how Paul and Bill were brought home. But it would be hard to
  put into words the risks that had been taken, the awful cost if the thing
  had gone badly and ended in the criminal courts or worse. He remembered the
  day he left Tehran, and how he had superstitiously thought of his luck as
  sand running through an hourglass. Suddenly he saw the hourglass again, and
  all the sand had run out. He grinned to himself, picked up the imaginary
  glass, and turned it upside down.
  Simons bent down and spoke in Perot's ear. "Remember you offered to pay
  me?"
  Perot would never forget it. When Simons gave you that icy look, you froze.
  "I sure do."
 "See this?" said Simons, inclining his head.
  Paul was walking toward them, carrying Ann Marie in his arms, through the
  crowd of cheering friends. "I see it," said Perot.
 Simons said: "I just got paid." He drew on his cigar.
  At last the room quieted down, and Perot began to speak. He called Rashid
  over and put his arm around the young' man9s
          ON WINGS OF EAGLES    407

 shoulders. "I want you to meet a key member of the rescue tearn," he said to
 the crowd. "As Colonel Simons said, Rashid only weighs a hundred and forty
 pounds, but he has five hundred pounds of courage."
  They all laughed and clapped again. Rashid looked around. Many times, many
  times he had thought about going to America; but in his wildest dreams he
  had never imagined that his welcome would be Re this!
  Perot began to tell the story. Listening, Paul felt oddly humble. He was
  not a hero. The others were the heroes. He was privileged. He belonged with
  just about the finest bunch of people in the whole world.
  Bill looked around the crowd and saw Ron Sperberg, a good friend and a
  colleague for years. Sperberg was wearing a great big cowboy hat. We're
  back in Texas, Bill thought. This is the heartland of the U.S.A., the
  safest place in the world; they can't reach us here. This time, the
  nightmare is really over. We're back. We're safe.
 We're home.
          EpiLoGuE

 Jay and Liz Coburn were divorced. Kristi, the second daughter, the emotional
 one, chose to live with her father. Coburn was made Manager of Human
 Resources for EDS Federal. In September 1982 he and Ross Perot, Jr., became
 the fiM men to fly around the world in a helicopter. The aircraft they used
 is now in the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. It is called
 Spirit of Texas.
  Paul became Comptroller of EDS and Bill became Medicaid Marketing Director
  in the Health Care Division.
  Joe Poch6, Pat Sculley, Jim Schwebach, Ron Davis, and Rashid all continued
  to work for EDS in various parts of the world. Davis's wife, Marva, gave
  birth to a boy, Benjamin, on July 18, 1979.
  Keane Taylor was made Country Manager for EDS in the Netherlands, where he
  was joined by Glenn Jackson. Gayden continued to be head of EDS World, and
  therefore Taylor's boss.
  John Howell was made a full partner in Tom Luce's law firm, Hughes and
  Hill. Angela Howell had another baby, Sarah, on June 19, 1980.
  Rich Gallagher left EDS on July 1, 1979. An easterner, he had never quite
  felt one of the boys at EDS. Lloyd Briggs and Paul Bucha, two more
  easterners, left around the same time.
 Ralph Boulware also parted company with EDS.
 Lulu May Perot, Ross Perot's mother, died on April 3, 1979.
  Ross Perot, Jr., graduated from college and went to work for his father in
  the fall of 1981. A year later Nancy Perot did the same. Perot himself just
  went on making more and more money. His teal estate appreciated, his oil
  company found wells, and EDS won more and bigger contracts. EDS shares,
  priced around 408
          ON WINGS OF EAGLES    409

 eighteen dollars apiece when Paul and Bill were armsted, were worth six
 times that four years later.
  Colonel Simons died on May 21, 1979, after a series of heart attacks. In
  the last few weeks of his life, his constant companion was Anita Melton,
  the zany stewardess from the Boeing 707. They had an odd, tragic
  relationship: they never became lovers in the physical sense, but they were
  in love. They lived together in the guest cottage at Perot's Dallas house.
  She taught him to cook, and he started her jogging, timing her with a
  stopwatch. They held hands a lot. After Simons died, his son Harry and
  Harry's wife, Shawn, had a baby boy. They named him Arthur Simons, Jr.
  On November 4, 1979, the U.S. Embassy in Tehran was once again overrun by
  militant Iranians. This time they took hostages. Fifty-two Americans were
  held prisoner for more than a year. A rescue mission mounted by President
  Carter came to an ignominious end in the deserts of central Iran.
 But then, Carter did not have the help of Bull Simons.
 EK

 IN THE UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT FOR THE NORTHERN DISTRICT OF TEXAS,
 DALLAS DIVISION

 ELECTRONIC DATA SYSTEMS CORP. IRAN VS.
 SOCIAL SECURITY ORGANIZATION OF THE GOVERNMENT OF IRAN, THE MINIMY OF HEALTH
 AND WELFARE OF THE GOVERNMENT OF IRAN, THE GOVT. OF MAN

 NO. CA3-79-218-F

 (Extracts from the Findings of Fact)

 Neither EDSCI nor anyone on its behalf procured the contract unlawfully. No
 evidence showed bribery of any official or employee of Defendants in order
 to secure the contract, nor did the evidence suggest the existence of fraud
 or public corruption in the procurement of the contract ...
  The price of the contract was not exorbitant; rather, the evidence showed
  that the price was reasonable and in accordance with amounts charged by EDS
  to others for similar services. The price did not compare unfavorably with
  amounts charged by others in the health care industry for similar services
  . . .
  The failure by SSO and the Ministry to provide written notice of
  non-acceptance of unpaid invoices was inexcusable and therefore constituted
  a breach of the contract. The assignment of Dr. Towliati to SSO as Deputy
  Managing Director did not effect such an excuse. I do not find evidence
  that Dr. Towliati's services influenced the process of approval for
  invoices, nor do 1
               410
           ON WINGS OF EAGLES   411

 find evidence that Dr. Towliati functioned improperly in his review of
 performance under the contract. Rather, the evidence showed that the
 Ministry and SSO had full and continuous opportunity to monitor EDSCI's
 performance. Moreover, I do not find credible evidence of trickery or that
 EDSCI conspired with anyone to gain wrongful approval for payment of its in-
 voices or to deny the Defendants fair opportunity for their evaluation of
 EDSCI's performance under the contract ...
  EDSCI did not materially breach its performance obligations under the
  contract; rather, EDSCI substantially performed in accordance with the
  description and timing of its duties for each applicable phase up until
  January 16, 1978, the date of termination of the contract ...
  Recovery under the contract is not barred by Defendants' claims,
  unsupported by the evidence, that EDSCI procured the contract by fraud,
  bribery or public corruption. Specifically, the evidence did not
  demonstrate that EDS' relationship with the Mahvi Group was illegal.
  EDSCI's execution of and performance under the contract violated no Ranian
  law ...
  Plaintiff introduced a plethora of evidence showing the fact and result of
  its services: testimony from those who managed and implemented the data
  processing systems, photographic evidence illustrating aspects of the data
  prepamtions functions developed, as well as reports jointly prepared by
  EDSCI and the Ministry of benefits being realized from the contract.
  Credible evidence failed to directly rebut this showing ...

 (Extract from the Final Judgment)

 rr is oRDEnD, ADjuDGED and DEcREw that Plaintiff Electronic Data Systems
 Corporation Iran have and recover of Defendants The Government of Iran, The
 Social Security Organization of The Government of Iran, and the Ministry of
 Health and Welfare of The Government of Iran, jointly and severally, the sum
 of fifteen adllion, one hundred and seventy-seven thousand, four hundred and
 four dollars ($15,177,404), plus two million, eight hundred twelve thousand,
 two hundred fifty-one dollars ($2,812,251) as prejudgment interest, plus one
 million, seventynine thousand, eight hundred seventy-five dollars
 ($1,079,875) as attorneys' fees, plus interest on all such sums at the rate
 of nine percent (9%) per annum from the date hereof, plus all costs of suit
 herein ...
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 Many people helped me by talking to me for hours on end, by replying to my
 letters, and by reading and correcting drafts of the book. For their
 patience, frankness, and willing cooperation, I thank especially the
 following:
 Paul and Ruthie Chiapparone, Bill and Emily Gaylord;
  Jay and Liz Coburn, Joe PocK Pat and Mary Sculley, Ralph and Mary Boulware,
  Jim Schwebach, Ron Davis, Glenn Jackson;
  Bill Gayden, Keane Taylor, Rich and Cathy Gallagher, Paul Bucha, Lloyd
  Briggs, Bob Young, John Howell, "Rashid," Toni Dvoranchik, Kathy Marketos;
 T. J. Marquez, Tom Walter, Tom Luce;
 Merv Stauffer, for whom nothing is too much trouble;
 Margot Perot, Bette Perot;
 John Carlen, Anita Melton;
  Henry Kissinger, Zbigniew Brzezinski, Ramsey Clark, Bob Strauss, William
  Sullivan, Charles Naas, Lou Goelz, Henry Precht, John Stempel;
 Dr. Manuchehr Razmara;
 Stanley Simons, Bruce Simons, Harry Simons;
 Lieutenant Colonel Charles Krohn at the Pentagon;
 Major Dick Meadows, Major General Robert McKinnon;
 Dr. Walter Stewart, Dr. Harold Kimmerling.

 As usual, I was helped by two indefatigable researchers, Dan Starer in New
 York and Caren Meyer in London.
  I was also helped by the remarkable switchboard staff at EDS headquarters
  in Dallas.
 More than a hundred hours of taped interviews were transcribed,
               412
          ON WINGS OF EAGLES    413

 mainly by Sally Walther, Claire Woodward, Linda Huff, Cheryl Hibbitts, and
 Becky DeLuna.

 Finally I thank Ross Perot, without whose astonishing energy and
 determination not only this book, but the adventure that is its subject,
 would have been impossible.
 BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Beny, Roloff. Persia, Bridge of Turquoise. London: Thames & Hudson, 1975.
  Carter, Jimmy. Keeping Faith-Memoirs of a President. New York: Bantam,
  1982.
  Forbis, William H. Fall of the Peacock Throne. New York: Harper & Row,
  1980.
 Ghirshman, R. Iran. New York: Penguin, 1978.
  Graham, Robert. Iran: The Illusion of Power. New York: St. Martin's Press,
  1980.
  Helms, Cynthia. An Ambassador's Wife in Iran. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1981.
  Keddie, Nikki R., and Richard Yann. Roots of Revolution. New Haven: Yale
  University Press, 1981.
  Ledeen, Michael, and William Lewis. Debacle: The American Failure in Iran.
  New York: Knopf, 198 1.
  Maheu, Reni, and Bruno Barbey. Iran. Paris: Editions J.A., 1976.
  Pahlavi, Mohammad Reza. Answer to History. New York: Stein & Day, 1980.
  Roosevelt, Kermit. Countercoup: The Strugglefor the Control or Iran. New
  York: McGraw-Hill, 1979.
  Schernmer, Benjamin F. The Raid. New York: Harper & Row, 1976.
  Stempel, John D. Inside the Iranian Revolution. Bloomington: Indiana
  University Press, 1981.
  Sullivan, William H. Mission to Iran. New York: Norton, 1981.

               414
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