"Take a look around, Joe," Simons said to Poche. Coburn knew what this meant. The team had scouted the hotel and its grounds during their weeks of waiting, and Poche would now see whether there had been any changes.
The 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."
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 Poche, 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.
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 precautions--this suite, Poche 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 rang 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?
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 corner. "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 Poche 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," said Gayden.
Simons went back upstairs. Paul and Bill were ready. Coburn and Poche 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.
Poche threw open the doors of the first Range Rover. Paul and Bill jumped in. Poche started the engine and pulled away fast. Simons and Coburn got into the second car and followed.
The revolutionaries went into the hotel.
Poche 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.
Poche 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 Poche rolled down the window.
"Where are you going?" the revolutionary said in perfect English.
"I'm going to my mother-in-law's house in Abbas Abad," Poche 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 Poche.
"Okay, go ahead."
Poche drove on down the Shahanshahi Expressway.
Coburn pulled the second car forward to where the revolutionaries stood.
"Are you with them?" 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."
"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 called. 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.
Ruthie said: "Hi, Jean."
"Ruth, I have good news for you. The guys are free. They got out of jail."
"Oh, thank God!" said Ruthie.
She had not yet begun to wonder how Paul would get out of Iran.
When Emily Gaylord got back from church, her mother said: "Tom Walter called f
rom 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."
"When are they coming home?"
"We're not sure yet, but we'll keep you posted."
"Thank you, Tom," said Emily. "Thank you!"
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. "That's great!"
Margot said sleepily: "They're out?"
"Yes."
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 them, 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."
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; 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 jail 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, who--though he no longer worked at EDS--had been trying to use his connections in the Democratic party to help Paul and Bill.
Until now, communications 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 happened 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--"
"Charter a jet," 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 alternative 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--somebody 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 aircraft, in case we want to sneak into Iran. Sally, call Margot and ask her to pack me a case--I'll need casual clothes, a flashlight, all-weather boots, thermal underwear, a sleeping bag, and a tent."
"Yes, sir." Sally left the room.
"Ross, I don't think that's a good idea," T. J. said. "Margot might get 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."
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 eighty--and 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 from 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 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 lines 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. "Dammit, Perot!" said one of them. "You aren't giving the Iranians an even chance!"
"Right." Perot grinned. "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."
"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."
"Good!"
"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."
"That's great," said Perot. "Now, I've been to the Pentagon and they can't fly the guys out--they'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 pl
ane, capable of crossing the Atlantic, complete with a crew and equipped with a single-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."
"Got 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, Ohio. 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 of today.
T. J. dialed the number of Harry McKillop, a Braniff vice-president 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 111 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.
"Where?"
"The 707 is at Meachem Field in Forth Worth--"
"Why, that's right here!" said T. J. "Now tell me, does it have a single-sideband radio?"
"Sure does."
T. J. could hardly believe his luck.
"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.