On Wings Of Eagles (1990)

"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 tone of his voice, never offered an opinion, never even moved from his chair.

But the Simons ice was easier to deal with than the Perot fire. Each morning Perot would knock on the door while Taylor was shaving. Taylor got up a little earlier each day, in order to be ready when Perot came, but Perot got up earlier each day, too, until Taylor began to fantasize that Perot listened outside the door all night, waiting to catch him shaving. Perot would be full of ideas that had come to him during the night: new arguments for Paul and Bill's innocence, new schemes for persuading the Iranians to release them. Taylor and John Howell--the tall and the short, like Batman and Robin--would head off in the Batmobile to the Ministry of Justice or the Ministry of Health, where officials would demolish Perot's ideas in seconds. Perot was still using a legalistic, rational, American approach, and, in Taylor's opinion, had yet to realize that the Iranians were not playing according to those rules.

This was not all Taylor had on his mind. His wife, Mary, and the children, Mike and Dawn, were staying with his parents in Pittsburgh. Taylor's mother and father were both over eighty, both in failing health. His mother had a heart condition. Mary was having to deal with that on her own. She had not complained, but he could tell, when he talked to her on the phone, that she was not happy.

Taylor sighed. He could not cope with all the world's problems at one time. He topped up his drink, then, carrying the glass, left his room and went to Perot's suite for the evening bloodbath.

Perot paced up and down the sitting room of his suite, waiting for the negotiating team to gather. He was doing no good here in Tehran and he knew it.