On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

before. Paul was in fine spirits as the guard walked him across the courtyard. Dadgar was just an overenthusiastic prosecutor, he thought, and now he had been slapped down by his superiors and would have to eat humble pie.

Dadgar was waiting, with the same woman translator beside him. He nodded curtly, and Paul sat down, thinking: he doesn't look very humble.

Dadgar spoke in Farsi, and Mrs. Nourbash translated: 'We are here to discuss the amount of your bail.'

'Good,' said Paul.

'Mr. Dadgar has received a letter on this subject from officials at the Ministry of Health and Social Welfare.'

She began to translate the letter.

The Ministry officials were demanding that bail for the two Americans should be increased to twenty-three million dollars--almost double--to compensate for the Ministry's losses since EDS had switched off the computers.

It dawned on Paul that he was not going to be released today.

The letter was a put-up job. Dadgar had neatly outmaneuvered Dr. Houman. This meeting was nothing but a charade.

It made him mad.

To hell with being polite to this bastard, he thought.

When the letter had been read he said: 'Now I have something to say, and I want you to translate every word. Is that clear?'

'Of course,' said Mrs. Nourbash.

Paul spoke slowly and clearly. 'You have now held me in jail for fourteen days. I have not been taken before a court. No charges have been brought against me. You have yet to produce a single piece of evidence implicating me in any crime whatsoever. You have not even specified what crime I might be accused of. Are you proud of Iranian justice?'

To Paul's surprise, the appeal seemed to melt Dadgar's icy gaze a little. 'I am sorry,' Dadgar said, 'that you have to be the one to pay for the things your company has done wrong.'

'No, no, no,' Paul said. 'I am the company. I am the person responsible. If the company had done wrong, I should be the one to suffer. But we have done nothing wrong. In fact, we have done far in excess of what we were committed to do. EDS got this contract because we are the only company in the world capable of doing this job--creating a fully automated welfare system in an underdeveloped country of thirty million subsistence farmers. And we have succeeded. Our data-processing system issues social-security cards. It keeps a register of deposits at the bank in the Ministry's account. Every morning it produces a summary of the welfare claims made the previous day. It prints the payroll for the entire Ministry of Health and Social Welfare. It produces weekly and monthly financial status reports for the Ministry. Why don't you go to the Ministry and look at the printouts? No, wait a minute,' he said as Dadgar began to speak, 'I haven't finished.'

Dadgar shrugged.

Paul went on: 'There is readily available proof that EDS has fulfilled its contract. It is equally easy to establish that the Ministry has not kept its side of the deal, that is to say, it has not paid us for six months and currently owes us something in excess of ten million dollars. Now, think about the Ministry for a moment. Why hasn't it paid EDS? Because it hasn't got the money. Why not? You and I know it spent its entire budget during the first seven months of the current year and the government hasn't got the funds to top it up. There might well be a degree of incompetence in some departments. What about those people who overspent their budgets? Maybe they're looking for an excuse--someone to blame for what's gone wrong--a scapegoat. And isn't it convenient that they have EDS--a capitalist company, an American company--right in there working with them? In the current political atmosphere people are eager to hear about the wickedness of the Americans, quick to believe that we are cheating Iran. But you, Mr. Dadgar, are supposed to be an officer of the law. You are not supposed to believe that the Americans are to blame unless there is evidence. You are supposed to discover the truth, if I have a correct understanding of the role of an examining magistrate. Isn't it time you asked yourself why anyone should make false accusations against me and my company? Isn't it time you started to investigate the goddam Ministry?'

The woman translated the last sentence. Paul studied Dadgar: His expression had frozen again. He said something in Farsi.

Mrs. Nourbash translated. 'He will see the other one now.'

Paul stared at her.

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

Paul was deeply depressed. He lay on his mattress, looking at the pictures of Karen and Ann Marie that he had stuck on the underside of the bunk above him. He missed the girls badly. Being unable to see them made him realize that in the past he had taken them for granted. Ruthie, too. He looked at his watch: it was the middle of the night in the States now. Ruthie would be asleep, alone in a big bed. How good it would be to climb in beside her and hold her in his arms. He put the thought out of his mind: he was just making himself miserable with self-pity. He had no need to worry about them. They were out of Iran, out of danger, and he knew that whatever might happen, Perot would take care of them. That was the good thing about Perot. He asked a lot of you--boy, he was just about the most demanding employer you could have--but when you needed to rely on him, he was like a rock.

Paul lit a cigarette. He had a cold. He could never get warm in the jail. He felt too down to do anything. He did not want to go to the Chattanooga Room and drink tea; he did not want to watch the news in gibberish on TV; he did not want to play chess with Bill. He did not want to go to the library for a new book. He had been reading The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough. He had found it a very emotional book. It was about several generations of families, and it made him think of his own family. The central character was a priest, and as a Catholic, Paul had been able to identify with that. He had read the book three times. He had also read Hawaii by James Michener, Airport by Arthur Hailey, and the Guinness Book of World Records. He never wanted to read another book for the rest of his life.

Sometimes he thought about what he would do when he got out, and let his mind wander on his favorite pastimes, boating and fishing. But that could be depressing.

He could not remember a time in his adult life when he had been at a loss for something to do. He was always busy. At the office he would typically have three days' work backed up. Never, never, did he lie down smoking and wondering how on earth he could keep himself amused.

But the worst thing of all was the helplessness. Although he had always been an employee, going where his boss sent him and doing what he was ordered to do, nevertheless he had always known that he could at any time get on a plane and go home, or quit his job, or say no to his boss. Ultimately the decisions had been his. Now he could not make any decisions about his own life. He could not even do anything about his plight. With every other problem he had ever had, he had been able to work on it, try things, attack the problem. Now he just had to sit and suffer.

He realized that he had never known the meaning of freedom until he lost it.

3___

The demonstration was relatively peaceful. There were several blazing cars but otherwise no violence: the demonstrators were marching up and down carrying pictures of Khomeini and putting flowers in the turrets of tanks. The soldiers looked on passively.

The traffic was at a standstill.