The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 29

  “Khomeini? He’s supposed to be in exile, in France. They want to bring him back and put him in power?”

  “They think they do. So there’s a lot of turmoil and unrest over there right now. I’d advise you to steer clear of it, as much as you can. As I understand your mission, you’re supposed to advise the Shah on American affairs. Stick to that. Don’t let yourself get sucked into the local issues.”

  Well now. That was a piece of advice I wish I could have heeded.

  My flight from LAX to Dulles went without incident, hassle or excitement: back in those days, flying was still a bit of an adventure rather than the present ordeal. I picked up a rental car and followed I-495 and I-95 down to Fort Belvoir, gratefully mindful that my route took me nowhere near Langley, headquarters of the CIA. I settled in my hotel, made final arrangements to spend the next day with Sarge Wallace, touched base with a few Army friends in the area, and otherwise spent an uneventful evening continuing to get up to date on Iran, as best I could.

  Sarge was his usual ebullient, imposing self, hadn’t changed visibly since 1975. It was good to see him in the flesh again. All he’d done for me in Cambodia, I owed my life to that big-hearted sonofagun, and I’d been able to repay him only with a lousy five-carat uncut diamond. “Jake, my man,” he exclaimed when I knocked on his office door, “you are lookin’ good, indeed you are. Civilian life must suit you.”

  “Could be better, could be worse,” I said. “It’s something different, anyhow. I still miss the Army.”

  “I don’t know how well you’d like it any more, it’s not the same in peacetime like it was. All volunteer now, you know. On the one hand, the grunts are here because they want to be. On the other hand, the range of capabilities ain’t as wide as when them draftees was in the mix—more average these days. But they’ll be good soldiers, just takes a different approach with ‘em. The force is downsized, scope of things is a lot smaller, and them Democrats in Congress ain’t generous with our budget. Promotions come slower, they still got me as Master Sergeant. Not as many overseas assignments as used to be, no action to speak of anywhere, just trainin’ and adjustin’ to post-war. What I hear is, if the balloon goes up, everybody rises two ranks and trains the men below. I’ve been stateside since Nam. Wouldn’t mind going overseas again, not much side business to be done here in the States. Oh well, it’s the life I chose, and I like it well enough, can’t complain. Say, this Iran business sounds like exactly the thing I thought you’d be good at. Explain to me some more about it. It ain’t classified or anything, is it?”

  “I’m freelance, there’s no government involvement. My client is the Shah, and it’s pretty straightforward, as far as I’ve been told…” I went on to outline what I’d been hired to do.

  Sarge looked a little concerned. “What I’ve heard about Iran, they’s a lot going on over there these days. Oil money, that’s the key. When Israel whipped them Arab’s asses in ‘73, they embargoed oil shipments to Israel’s allies, especially us. With them embargos and all, the price went sky high, and all them Arab countries are rollin’ in new dollars, so much they can’t even find enough places to spend it. Iran is buyin’ a shitload of military materiel, and our defense industry guys are over there like hogs at a trough.”

  “So I understand. And the security agencies are thick as thieves as well. My job is to sort through what they tell the Shah and advise him what to make of it.”

  “That may not be so easy,” said Sarge. “Diggin’ out the truth from a dungheap of stupidity, ignorance, misinformation and prevarication is no job for the fainthearted.”

  “Sounds like real life to me,” I observed.

  “From what folks tells me, over in Iran it’s worse than real life—way worse. While we on the subject of oil money, do you remember when I was in the gold business back in Nam? Arabs and Iranians is real fond of gold, like Chinamen. When Nixon shitcanned the gold standard and the exchange rates, price of gold started doin’ funny things. That’s how I made my money, havin’ a sense of humor about gold, you might say. Could be some opportunities for you while you’re there. They sell it in the bazaars, and a lot of folks prefer it to paper money. The more trouble over there, the higher the price of oil goes up, and the price of gold will follow right along. And their troubles ain’t goin’ away any time soon.”

  “I’ll have to see what’s the situation on the ground. One thing at a time, but I think you’re on to something there.”

  “It never hurts a man to be open to opportunity. Say, a while back I was readin’ a book by an English feller, T. E. Lawrence—Seven Pillars of Wisdom. He was a smart old dude. He organized an Arab guerilla army during World War One, took Damascus, then saw his Arab friends get screwed over by the British. Sort of like Special Forces on camels. Now you ain’t going to be ridin’ no camels through the desert sands or anything, and Iranians ain’t Arabs anyhow, but some things he wrote might interest you. Those folks take Islam mighty seriously. If you haven’t read their Koran yet, do that. Honor is top priority to them, be careful you don’t offend or insult anyone. Keep your hands off their women and above all don’t mess with their religion. They aren’t horrified about dyin’, like most Americans are, makes ‘em a tough foe to beat. Life means less to them, because Islam promises Paradise after death, and for most of ‘em life ain’t no picnic anyhow. If they die fighting the infidels, they go straight to Paradise, and Allah issues ‘em 72 virgins. And Jake, you are one of them infidels. I hear that the Iranian government likes Americans just fine, but a lot of the folks think we’re the Great Satan. Over there you best maintain a low profile. From Phnom Penh you know what bein’ in a city full of hostiles is all about. Maybe Iranians ain’t as bad as the Khmer Rouge, but at all times you keep both eyes open, and one of ‘em on your backtrail.”

  Sarge’s standard parting words of wisdom and as apt as ever. Even if you can’t always follow them.

  The next morning I headed back up I-95 to D.C. Back in the LRRPs our teams always had several days of mission prep before we infiltrated behind enemy lines. With no team for this assignment, mission prep was up to yours truly. When they RIFed me out of the Army I gave up my security clearance, but from my intelligence training I knew where and how to access the best public information sources, and I still had a few buddies in the service. So I spent the next two days in government agency libraries and talking to people, taking a last-minute crash course on Iran. And I picked up an English translation of the Koran at an international book store. It is said that when the British had colonial ambitions in the Middle East, Prime Minister Gladstone studied the Koran to know his enemies’ souls. I didn’t count Iranians as my enemies (not yet, that is), but when Sarge Wallace makes a specific recommendation, only a fool would disregard it.

  Thanks to my overseas bodyguard assignments, I’d developed a fondness for European carriers. My Air France flight to Paris left mid-evening. First class was comfy and quiet, so I caught enough shuteye to leave me reasonably alert the next morning as we landed. The connection time was long enough that I could get out and stretch my legs before my Iran Air flight to Tehran boarded. Tempting as the goodies in the airport cafes were, Air France had made sure to stuff me with confections, but good. Why is it that US carriers have never been able to match the service on European carriers, even in first class? Even before deregulation the food and pampering proffered by our own airlines never came up to the international mark. Was it just a matter of catering to the tastes of their homegrown clientele, whose list of yucky foods would constitute the entrees in a three star French restaurant, and for many of whom standard airline meals used to be better than what they ate at home? On the other hand, back then you couldn’t find a decent hamburger anywhere in Europe, and nobody had thought to tell them about peanut butter.

  The Iran Air flight to Tehran was about the same length as across the continental United States, with three time zone changes going east,—six hours in the air
, nine on the clock. The array of passengers spanned a wider range than you’d have seen in any US carrier. At one extreme were a few men in burnooses and women in burkhas. At the other was my seatmate, a pert little French woman—mid-20s, I’d estimate, slender but with enough up front, big green eyes, waved blond hair, superb ankles and insteps, dressed in what must have been that season’s Parisian haute couture…all in all a very elegant piece of work. She soon occupied herself with a copy of Elle. I still had some studying to do, so I pulled out my Koran and pitched in. The quiet was disturbed only by the squabbling I heard through the bulkhead curtain: the Farsi stewards and the British stewardesses had some issues. The Koran was…interesting. It had a number of references to our own Bible, although the Koran had Adam, not Eve, tempted by the serpent. Satan loomed large. Their dietary strictures were similar to kosher, it seemed to me, “halal,” they called it. Alcohol and gambling were forbidden, and dogs were considered unclean. The specs of Paradise, promised to the Faithful, were spelled out several times and gave an indication of what 7th century desert Arabs sorely lacked—fresh fruits, abundant clear water and hot girls, primarily. The five pillars of Islam seemed wholesome enough, but other sections—surahs, they were called—were not so wholesome at all, especially the ones regarding infidels, the non-believers. No “love your enemies” for this outfit. While the faithful were enjoined to be honest and moral, lying to infidels was okay if in the cause of the Faith. Close reading could come up with different programs, as indeed was the case with our own Bible. All was in the hands of Allah: ensha allah—”God willing”—was the catch phrase. If I had to sum it all up in a sentence, it would be “Believe This Or Burn.” I’ll never be a theologian, but at least I had a clue what I was getting into.

  The stewardess planted a sumptuous lunch on our tray-tables. Iran Air was dubbed “the caviar airline,” and the chow certainly lived up to that. The Koran’s strictures about alcohol apparently didn’t have jurisdiction at 30,000 feet, as wine was included. My seatmate, unfurled her napkin, picked up her fork and gave me a big smile: “Bon appetit,” she remarked. I smiled and nodded, raised my wine glass and replied “Salud.”

  “Oh, you are Americain?” she asked.

  “Yes I am, oui.”

  “I could tell from zee accent. So many Americains in Tehran.”

  “So I have been told. Then you are familiar with Tehran?”

  “Un peu…a leetle. Ess beeg place. Zis is your firs’ time to Tehran?”

  “Never been here before, yes, first time. You come often, then? Business?”

  “Um…een a way…am ac-tress.”

  “Oh? In the cinema? The theater? TV?”

  “I am weeth Madame Claude de Paris.”

  “Is that a casting agency? “

  “Um…een a way…”

  “I was with a casting agency in Hollywood years ago, but just as a movie extra, not actually an actor.”

  She looked at me quizzically. “Bon appetit,” she repeated, gave me a little knowing smile, and tucked into her lunch. Thus ended our conversation. Huh, what’d I say? Oh well, I returned to studying my Koran. Islam claims to be more modern than Judaism or Christianity, and chronologically it is, by 2000 years in the former case, 600 in the latter. It had never occurred to me, how long these religions have been around. Hmm, may be something to them?

  We cleared the Mediterranean Sea and entered Middle East airspace. I had the window seat, so I scoped out the passing landscape far below. From five miles aloft it looked like the eastern side of California: khaki colored plains, desolate mountains, occasional cultivated fields. Not much greenery in prospect. Ditto water. We dropped lower, and our imminent landing in Tehran was announced in several languages. I could make out the Caspian Sea off in the distance to the north. Then Tehran crept into view. Now that looked like home, a flat, low, sprawling city backstopped by the Elburz Mountains, a range of snow-capped peaks: Los Angeles without the ocean. Or maybe more like ten times Denver, as it was 3000 feet above sea level. Big place, my seatmate had said, and a big place it surely was.

  We landed, taxied over to the terminal, and the plane rolled to a stop. We deplaned down stairs, not straight into a jetway, and as I stepped out the cabin door onto the platform, WHAM! I might as well have walked into a pizza oven. It was HOT, even in early evening. The terminal building wasn’t much cooler, certainly not sealed off and air-conditioned as Americans are accustomed to. I’d dressed for August weather in L.A. and D.C., which are hot enough for anybody, but this was a step up.

  Passing through passport control and customs was a breeze, indeed they seemed to be expecting me. I was traveling light, outfitted for my role as an American carpet buyer and figuring to pick up what I needed otherwise once I arrived. Once through customs I paused to get my bearings. I noted a number of sinister-looking men in suits and sunglasses stationed around the concourse keeping an eye on things, like the fellows riding herd on the protest at Chet Alverson’s office. SAVAK, I assumed. Two local men in well-tailored business suits detached from one of them and approached me. “Mister Fonko?” one asked.

  “Yes. And who are you?”

  “I am Habib. I am the Shah’s representative. This is my associate, Naser. Come with me, please, Naser will see to your luggage. The one suitcase and the carry-on is all you have?” Naser took command of the baggage trolley. I noticed that my seatmate was emerging from customs with many more than one Louis Vuitton suitcase stacked on her trolley, and she too was met by well-dressed local men, however sans SAVAK escort. How could these guys wear those suits in this heat, I wondered?

  We proceeded to a grey Mercedes sedan parked in front of the terminal, by no means the most luxurious car at the curb. From there we proceeded around the imposing Aszid Monument into the worst traffic jam I’d seen since the Khmer Rouge frog-marched the population of Phnom Penh out of town, then crept at the pace of a lame banana slug to the Hilton Hotel. My two companions handled the details with the desk clerk, and soon they were escorting me to my room. I noticed that my seatmate also had proceeded to the Hilton and was being checked in.

  “It is already evening, and you no doubt are sorely in need of rest after your journey, Mr. Fonko,” Habib said as he handed me the room key. “There are excellent restaurants in the hotel, should you be hungry. Alcoholic beverages are available, if that is your pleasure. Charge whatever you desire to the room. Get a good night’s rest, and we will see you in the morning. Our man will look for you at 10 o’clock down in the lobby, if that is all right with you.”

  “What is on my schedule for tomorrow, if I may ask?”

  “The Shah is very anxious that you start your duties immediately. ASAP as they say. So you will be briefed, and then you will have a conference with the Shah.”

  “Does the Shah expect a presentation or anything like that?”

  “All will be explained to you tomorrow. Mostly, it will be best if at first you just listen. Good evening and pleasant dreams, ensha Allah.”

  3 | Tehran

  They put me up in a single room, and my first night in Tehran went just fine. In a new Hilton Hotel, how could it not? Tired from the trip, I slept straight through to eight a.m. In those days Hiltons were much the same the world over. The idea was, Americans by and large are timid about anything exotic, so Conrad Hilton exported oases of America to exotic locations in which they could, for a price (“Be My Guest…oh, and here’s your bill”) feel at home. Of course, to live like an American in most foreign countries costs much more than it does at home, and Hilton Hotels were no exception. The coffee shop served a solid American breakfast. Islam notwithstanding, ham, bacon and pork sausage were on the menu. Those into halal were at leave to avoid them.

  I put on a lightweight suit and a conservative tie for my meeting with the Shah and was in the lobby a few minutes before 1000, looking for my airport reception committee or the equivalent. Somewhat later than that a
taxi driver asked at the reception counter for me. I answered up. “Come with me sir,” he announced. “I am to transport you to the Ministry of Trade.”

  “Are you sure you have the right passenger?” I asked.

  “Yes sir. Mr. Hoveyda himself instructed me.”

  Chances of being abducted were slim—who even knew I was in town?—so I took his word for it and followed him to his cab, a relatively new one compared to most on the road. It was a long ride, through crowded streets thronged with honking drivers who apparently made the rules up as it struck their fancy. The city of Tehran felt cramped and crowded compared to L.A. Buildings were brick or masonry, built low—this was a notorious earthquake zone. Shade trees adorned most blocks and lined wide major boulevards. Many people were on bicycles, more were on foot. The majority were men. Some men favored western business suits and ties, but most were not especially well-dressed—loose cotton shirts and baggy pants. Of the women, some wore Western dress, others more Middle Eastern styles. The head-to-foot totally-covering chador, officially banned in Iran, nevertheless shrouded a few.

  The cab pulled up in front of an undistinguished office building. “Here you are, sir, the Ministry of Trade,” announced the driver. As I reached for my wallet he added, “The fare has been taken care of.”

  “Can I give you a tip?”

  “No need, sir. Mr. Hoveyda is most generous.”