On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

The man looked at it. 'Still, that one American does not look like the picture in his passport.'

'I told you, he has been sick!' Rashid yelled. 'They have been cleared to the border by the revolutionary committee! Now get these bandits out of my way!'

'We have our own revolutionary committee,' the man said. 'You will all have to come to our headquarters.'

Rashid had no choice but to agree.

Jay Coburn watched Rashid come out of the hut with the man in the long black overcoat. Rashid looked really shook.

'We're going to their village to be checked out,' Rashid said. 'We have to go in their cars.'

It was looking bad, Coburn thought. All the other times they had been arrested, they had been allowed to stay in the Range Rovers, which made them feel a little less like prisoners. Getting out of the cars was like losing touch with base.

Also, Rashid had never looked so frightened.

They all got into the tribesmen's vehicles, a pickup truck and a battered little station wagon. They were driven along a dirt track through the mountains. The Range Rovers followed, driven by tribesmen. The track twisted away into darkness. Well, shit, this is it, Coburn thought; nobody will ever hear from us again.

After three or four miles they came to the village. There was one brick building with a courtyard: the rest were mud-brick huts with thatched roofs. But in the courtyard were six or seven fine jeeps. Coburn said: 'Jesus, these people live by stealing cars.' Two Range Rovers would make a nice addition to their collection, he thought.

The two vehicles containing the Americans were parked in the courtyard; then the Range Rovers; then two more jeeps, blocking the exit and precluding a quick getaway.

They all got out.

The man in the overcoat said: 'You need not be afraid. We just need to talk with you awhile; then you can go on.' He went into the brick building.

'He's lying!' Rashid hissed.

They were herded into the building and told to take off their shoes. The tribesmen were fascinated by Keane Taylor's cowboy boots: one of them picked up the boots and inspected them, then passed them around for everyone to see.

The Americans were led into a big, bare room, with a Persian rug on the floor and bundles of rolled-up bedding pushed against the walls. It was dimly lit by some kind of lantern. They sat in a circle, surrounded by tribesmen with rifles.

On trial again, just like Mahabad, Coburn thought.

He kept an eye on Simons.

In came the biggest, ugliest mullah they had ever seen; and the interrogation began again.

Rashid did the talking, in a mixture of Farsi, Turkish, and English. He produced the letter from the library again, and gave the name of the deputy leader. Someone went off to check with the committee in Rezaiyeh. Coburn wondered how they would do that: the oil lamp indicated there was no electricity here, so how could they have phones? All the passports were examined again. People kept coming in and going out.

What if they have got a phone? wondered Coburn. And what if the committee in Rezaiyeh has heard from Dadgar?

We might be better off if they do check us out, he thought; at least that way somebody knows we're here. At the moment we could be killed, our bodies would disappear without a trace in the snow, and nobody would ever know we had been here.

A tribesman came in, handed the library letter to Rashid, and spoke to the mullah.

'It's okay,' Rashid said. 'We've been cleared.'

Suddenly the whole atmosphere changed.

The ugly mullah turned into the Jolly Green Giant and shook hands with everyone. 'He welcomes you to his village,' Rashid translated. Tea was brought. Rashid said: 'We are invited to be the guests of the village for the night.'

Simons said: 'Tell him definitely no. Our friends are waiting for us at the border.'

A small boy of about ten years appeared. In an effort to cement the new friendship, Keane Taylor took out a photograph of his son Michael, aged eleven, and showed it to the tribesmen. They got very excited, and Rashid said: 'They want to have their pictures taken.'

Gayden said: 'Keane, get out your camera.'

'I'm out of film,' said Taylor.

'Keane, get out your fucking camera.'

Taylor took out his camera. In fact, he had three shots left, but he had no flash, and would have needed a camera far more sophisticated than his Instamatic to take pictures by the light of the lantern. But the tribesmen lined up, waving their rifles in the air, and Taylor had no option but to snap them.

It was incredible. Five minutes earlier these people had seemed ready to murder the Americans: now they were horsing around, hooting and hollering and having a good time.

They could probably change again just as quickly.

Taylor's sense of humor took over and he started hamming it up, making like a press photographer, telling the tribesmen to smile or move closer together so he could get them all in, 'taking' dozens of shots.

More tea was brought. Coburn groaned inwardly. He had drunk so much tea in the last few days that he felt awash with it. He surreptitiously poured his out, making an ugly brown stain on the gorgeous rug.

Simons said to Rashid: 'Tell them we have to go.'

There was a short exchange; then Rashid said: 'We must drink tea once more.'

'No,' said Simons decisively, and he stood up. 'Let's move.' Smiling calmly, nodding and bowing to the tribesmen, Simons started giving very sharp commands in a voice that belied his courteous demeanor: 'On your feet, everybody. Get your shoes on. Come on, let's get out of here, let's go.'

They all got up. Every man in the tribe wanted to shake hands with every one of the visitors. Simons kept herding them toward the door. They found their shoes and put them on, still bowing and shaking hands. At last they got outside and climbed into the Range Rovers. There was a wait, while the villagers maneuvered the two jeeps blocking the exit. At last they moved off, following the same two jeeps along the mountain track.

They were still alive, still free, still moving.

The tribesmen took them to the bridge, then said goodbye.

Rashid said: 'But aren't you going to escort us to the border?'

'No,' one of them replied. 'Our territory ends at the bridge. The other side belongs to Sero.'

The man in the long black overcoat shook hands with everyone in both Range Rovers. 'Don't forget to send us the pictures,' he said to Taylor.

'You bet,' said Taylor with a straight face.

The chain across the bridge was down. The two Range Rovers drove to the far side and accelerated up the road.

'I hope we don't have the same trouble at the next village,' said Rashid. 'I saw the head man this afternoon and arranged everything with him.'

The Range Rover built up speed.

'Slow down,' said Simons.

'No, we must hurry.'

They were a mile or so from the border.

Simons said: 'Slow the goddam jeep down. I don't want to get killed at this point in the game.'

They were driving past what looked like a filling station. There was a little hut with a light on inside. Suddenly Taylor yelled: 'Stop! Stop!'

Simons said: 'Rashid--'

In the following car Paul honked and flashed his headlights.

Out of the corner of his eye Rashid saw two men running out from the filling station, locking and loading their rifles as they ran.