On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

"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."

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.

The 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--if 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."

"Let's go, you guys," said Coburn.

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.

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 translating, 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 killed 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 frightened, standing there in the road, waiting. Ilsman could still be a liar, a confidence trickster. On the other 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 Mr. Fish are on their way here with a bus, Perot is in Istanbul alone. 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 corner. "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 screwup in 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 tired, 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 oil," 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.

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 corner. 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 was mad as hell to find his guardhouse littered 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 Sculley 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.

Mr. 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.

The 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 death?"

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 life.

Want to come to Dallas, Rashid? It was a dream come true. He thought of what he was leaving behind. He had no children, no wife, not even a girlfriend--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. EDS was finished in Iran. Probably computers were finished, too, for many years. Unemployed, he would be a burden to his family, 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 business--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 nothing could possibly be coming at him the other way. A group of soldiers waved him down, and he drove right past them. Mr. 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 an aircraft. He told the police the can contained suntan oil for the Americans' wives, and they believed him.

They all 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.

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 them.

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 Bill 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?"

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.

They 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 through 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: "Who 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."

"What papers?"

"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 three 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: "Darn 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.

"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. "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're not going to pay these clowns," said Simons. "I'll wait it out. They'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 boarded 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 drink?"

Boulware smiled.

The phone rang in Perot's hotel suite, and Paul happened to answer it.

A voice said: "Hello?"

Paul said: "Hello?"

The voice said: "Who is this?"

Paul, suspicious, said: "Who 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 Dad!"

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.

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 paper just 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, what 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

1_____

At midday on Friday, February 16, Lou Goelz called Joe Poche 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 airport, 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 Poche also favored the first flight, although he did not say much about it--he did not say much at all: Howell found him uncommunicative.

Rich and Cathy Gallagher were not sure they wanted to leave Iran. They told Poche quite firmly that, regardless of what Colonel Simons had said, Poche was not "in charge" of them, and they had the right to make their own decision. Poche 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 afternoon they all went through their documents and destroyed everything that referred to Paul and Bill.

Poche 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 Iranian EDS employees their last wages.

A few minutes before five, they were saying goodbye to Goelz's houseman when the phone rang.

Poche took the call. It was Tom Walter. He said: "We have the people. Do you understand? We have the people."

"I understand," Poche said.

They all got into the car, Cathy carrying her poodle, Buffy. Poche 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 there 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 Clean Team was herded into a queue.

They 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 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 Iranians 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 Poche 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. Poche noticed that the safety catch was off.

If he stumbled ...

The streets were full of people and traffic. Everyone seemed to know that these buses contained Americans, and their hatred 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.

The 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, Poche, 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?

Suddenly Poche 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 Poche decided to see what he could find out. He went off and located a Pan Am ticket agent. "I work for EDS," Poche told the agent. "Are the Iranians 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."

"Thanks."

Poche went back and told the others.

The evacuees were starting to go from the check-in concourse through to the departure lounge.

Poche 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, I'll 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 first opportunity.

They all went through the "Passengers Only" gate.

Next they had to pay the airport tax. This amused Poche: 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 Poche went through passport control last. The guard looked extra hard at him, comparing the face with the photograph, for Poche 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 Poche'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 Frankfurt 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.

They 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 Poche, but he'll know Bob Young.

And he'll know me best of all.

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 claim check number called, would you please identify yourself."

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 Poche. Poche 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 Goelz'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.

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 Poche 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."

Poche 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 see 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 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. His 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 tired to sleep, but Gayden went back to the luxurious bedroom and lay down on the king-size bed. Perot was a little miffed: he 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 for 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.

Gayden opened his eyes. "Davis?" he said incredulously. "What the hell are you doing in bed with me?"

"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 Paul 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 killed because they were ninety-nine percent sure they were safe."

Perot said to Luce: "Let's get a hundred percent sure. I'll call again in a few minutes."

They landed at Frankfurt and checked into a hotel within the airport complex. The German desk clerk seemed curious, and fully noted all their passport numbers. This increased Simons's unease.

They gathered in Perot's room, and Perot called Dallas again. This time 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, 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 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 shirt 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 him on the shoulder.

"Ross wants to see you in the hotel," Coburn said.

"What for?"

"I can't talk about it now, you need to come on back."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"Let's go."

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 him 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 here 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 first 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 pass, often the most far-fetched 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 information 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 porno movies and the third was Jaws II. Bill and Taylor got Jaws II. Paul and Coburn went in to see something about naked South Sea maidens.

Paul sat staring at the screen, bored and tired. 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 pull 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 evacuees. He was sitting next to writer Pierre Salinger (who did not know how close he was to a really 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 family 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 Poche--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-and-vinaigrette dip; three cheese trays with assorted breads and crackers; four deluxe pastry trays; four fresh-fruit trays; four bottles of 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 deicing--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 Poche, 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.

At last the plane was de-iced--but then its Number 1 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 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--it'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."

"The 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.

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.

A couple of minutes later the red light 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, lit 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 Mr. 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, 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. "This gentleman will have to stay with us until we put him on the plane."

"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, sir?"

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 Merve Stauffer in Dallas.

"Merv, we have one person here with an Iranian passport and no U.S. visa--you know who I'm talking about."

"Yes, sir."

"He has saved American lives and I won't have him hassled when we get to the States."

"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.

On the way to Gatwick they heard over the bus radio that China had invaded North Vietnam. 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 Braniff's 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."

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 banknotes 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 glad 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.

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.

4_____

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 Poche 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."

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 troubleshooters 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."

"Sure."

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 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 remembered 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, 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, getting stuck in Adana, and driving through the blizzard in that damn '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 cream. 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 Sean Sculley.

"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 forms.

"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?"

"There'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."

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. 1

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 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 blurred 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 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 man's shoulders. "I want you to meet a key member of the rescue team," 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 like 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 first 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 Poche, 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 real estate appreciated, his oil company found wells, and EDS won more and bigger contracts. EDS shares, priced around eighteen dollars apiece when Paul and Bill were arrested, 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.

APPENDIX

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 MINISTRY OF HEALTH AND WELFARE OF THE GOVERNMENT OF IRAN, THE GOVT. OF IRAN

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 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 nonacceptance 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 I 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 invoices 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 Iranian 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 preparations 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)

IT IS ORDERED, ADJUDGED AND DECREED 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 million, 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, seventy-nine 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 Poche, 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, 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.

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Helms, Cynthia. An Ambassador's Wife in Iran. New York: Dodd, Mead, 1981.

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