On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

He heard the sound of a car. A pair of headlights approached from the direction of Rezaiyeh. A Land Rover pulled up and three men got out. One of them was dressed in a long black overcoat. The tribesmen seemed to defer to him. He addressed Rashid. "Let me see the passports, please."

"Sure," said Rashid. He led the man to the second Range Rover. Bill was in the first, and Rashid wanted the overcoat man to get bored with looking at passports before he got to Bill's. Rashid tapped on the car window, and Paul rolled it down. "Passports."

The man seemed to have dealt with passports before. He examined each one carefully, checking the photograph against the face of the owner. Then, in perfect English, he asked questions: Where were you born? Where do you live? What is your date of birth? Fortunately Simons had made Paul and Bill learn every piece of information contained in their false passports, so Paul was able to answer the overcoat man's questions without hesitation.

Reluctantly, Rashid led the man to the first Range Rover. Bill and Keane Taylor had changed seats, so that Bill was on the far side, away from the light. The man went through the same routine. He looked at Bill's passport last. Then he said: "The picture is not of this man."

"Yes, it is," Rashid said frantically. "He's been very sick. He's lost weight, his skin has changed color--don't you understand that he's dying? He has to get back to America as quickly as possible so he can have the right medical attention, and you are delaying him--do you want him to die because the Iranian people had no pity for a sick man? Is this how you uphold the honor of our country? Is--"

"They're Americans," the man said. "Follow me."

He turned and went into the little brick hut beside the bridge.

Rashid followed him in. "You have no right to stop us," he said. "I have been instructed by the Islamic Revolution Commandant Committee in Rezaiyeh to escort these people to the border, and to delay us is a counterrevolutionary crime against the Iranian people." He flourished the letter written by the deputy leader and stamped with the library stamp.

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.