On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

He felt like a character in a spy movie.

The rescue plan was in a holding pattern while Majid researched the colonel in charge of the jail. Meanwhile, Coburn was doing a job for Perot.

He had an assignation with a man nicknamed Deep Throat (after the secretive character who gave 'deep background' to reporter Bob Woodward in All the President's Men). This Deep Throat was an American management consultant who gave seminars to foreign corporate executives on how to do business with the Iranians. Before Paul and Bill were arrested, Lloyd Briggs had engaged Deep Throat to help EDS get the Ministry to pay its bills. He had advised Briggs that EDS was in bad trouble, but for a payment of two and a half million dollars they could get the slate wiped clean. At the time EDS had scorned this advice: the government owed money to EDS, not vice versa; it was the Iranians who needed to get the slate wiped clean.

The arrest had given credibility to Deep Throat (as it had to Bunny Fleischaker) and Briggs had contacted him again. 'Well, they're mad at you now,' he had said. 'It's going to be harder than ever, but I'll see what I can do.'

He had called back yesterday. He could solve the problem, he said. He demanded a face-to-face meeting with Ross Perot.

Taylor, Howell, Young, and Gallagher all agreed there was no way Perot was going to expose himself to such a meeting--they were horrified that Deep Throat even knew Perot was in town. So Perot asked Simons if he could send Coburn instead, and Simons consented.

Coburn had called Deep Throat and said he would be representing Perot.

'No, no,' said Deep Throat, 'it has to be Perot himself.'

'Then all deals are off,' Coburn had replied.

'Okay, okay.' Deep Throat had backed down and given Coburn instructions.

Coburn had to go to a certain phone booth in the Vanak area, not far from Keane Taylor's house, at eight P.M.

At exactly eight o'clock the phone in the booth rang. Deep Throat told Coburn to go to the Sheraton, which was nearby, and sit in the lobby reading Newsweek. They would meet there and identify one another by a code. Deep Throat would say: 'Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?' It was a block away, but Coburn was to reply: 'No, I don't. I'm new in town.'

That was why he felt like a spy in a movie.

On Simons's advice he was wearing his long, bulky down coat, the one Taylor called his Michelin Man coat. The object was to find out whether Deep Throat would frisk him. If not, he would be able, at any future meetings, to wear a recording device under the coat and tape the conversation.

He flicked through the pages of Newsweek.

'Do you know where Pahlavi Avenue is?'

Coburn looked up to see a man of about his own height and weight, in his early forties, with dark, slicked- down hair and glasses. 'No, I don't. I'm new in town.'

Deep Throat looked around nervously. 'Let's go,' he said. 'Over there.'

Coburn got up and followed him to the back of the hotel. They stopped in a dark passage. 'I'll have to frisk you,' said Deep Throat.

Coburn raised his arms. 'What are you afraid of?'

Deep Throat gave a scornful laugh. 'You can't trust anyone. There are no rules anymore in this town.' He finished his search.

'Do we go back in the lobby now?'

'No. I could be under surveillance-I can't risk being seen with you.'

'Okay. What are you offering?'

Deep Throat gave the same scornful laugh. 'You guys are in trouble,' he said. 'You've already messed up once, by refusing to listen to people who know this country.'

'How did we mess up?'

'You think this is Texas. It's not.'

'But how did we mess up?'

'You could have got out of this for two and a half million dollars. Now it'll cost you six.'

'What's the deal?'

'Just a minute. You let me down last time. This is going to be your last chance. This time, there's no backing out at the last minute.'

Coburn was beginning to dislike Deep Throat. The man was a wise guy. His whole manner said: You're such fools, and I know so much more than you; it's hard for me to descend to your level.

'Whom do we pay the money to?' Coburn asked.

'A numbered account in Switzerland.'

'And how do we know we'll get what we're paying for?'

Deep Throat laughed. 'Listen, the way things work in this country, you don't let go of your money until the goods are delivered. That's the way to get things done here.'

'Okay, so what's the arrangement?'

'Lloyd Briggs meets me in Switzerland and we open an escrow account and sign a letter of agreement that is lodged with the bank. The money is released from the account when Chiapparone and Gaylord get out--which will be immediately, if you'll just let me handle this.'

'Who gets the money?'

Deep Throat just shook his head contemptuously.

Coburn said: 'Well, how do we know you really have a deal wired?'

'Look, I'm just passing on information from people close to the person who's causing you a problem.'

'You mean Dadgar?'

'You'll never learn, will you?'

As well as finding out what Deep Throat's proposal was, Coburn had to make a personal evaluation of the man. Well, he had made it now: Deep Throat was full of shit.

'Okay,' Coburn said. 'We'll be in touch.'

Keane Taylor poured a little rum into a big glass, added ice, and filled the glass with Coke. This was his regular drink.

Taylor was a big man, six foot two, 210 pounds, with a chest like a barrel. He had played football in the marines. He took care with his clothes, favoring suits with deep-plunging vests and shirts with button-down collars. He wore large gold-rimmed glasses. He was thirty-nine, and losing his hair.

The young Taylor had been a hell-raiser--a dropout from college, busted down from sergeant in the marines for disciplinary offenses--and he still disliked close supervision. He preferred working in the World subsidiary of EDS because the head office was so far away.

He was under close supervision now. After four days in Tehran, Ross Perot was savage.

Taylor dreaded the evening debriefing sessions with his boss. After he and Howell had spent the day dashing around the city, fighting the traffic, the demonstrations, and the intransigence of Iranian officialdom, they would then have to explain to Perot why they had achieved precisely nothing.

To make matters worse, Perot was confined to the hotel most of the time. He had gone out only twice: once to the U.S. Embassy and once to U.S. Military Headquarters. Taylor had made sure no one offered him the keys to a car or any local currency, to discourage any impulse Perot might have had to take a walk. But the result was that Perot was like a caged bear, and being debriefed by him was like getting into the cage with the bear.

At least Taylor no longer had to pretend that he did not know about the rescue team. Coburn had taken him to meet Simons, and they had talked for three hours--or rather, Taylor had talked: Simons just asked questions. They had sat in the living room of Taylor's house, with Simons dropping cigar ash on Taylor's carpet, and Taylor had told him that Iran was like an animal with its head cut off: the head--the ministers and officials--were still trying to give orders, but the body--the Iranian people--were off doing their own thing. Consequently, political pressure would not free Paul and Bill: they would have to be bailed out or rescued. For three hours Simons had never changed the