On Wings of Eagles (29 page)

    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