The
Man Who Fooled SAVAK
By Douglas Roberts
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by
Outer
Banks Publishing Group
on Smashwords
The
Man Who Fooled SAVAK
By Douglas Roberts
Copyright © 2011 by Douglas Roberts
Smashwords Edition License Notes
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The Man Who Fooled SAVAK. Copyright © 2011 by Douglas Roberts. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Outer Banks Publishing Group – Outer Banks/Raleigh.
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All of the characters and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual events or actual persons living or dead, is intentional.
Smashwords Edition
eISBN: 978-1-4524-4281-5
June 2011
In loving memory of Erica Murray
From the Publisher
It is rare that a book comes along and reminds us of the some of the basic freedoms and human rights we take for granted living in a Democracy.
The Man Who Fooled SAVAK is such a book. Inspired by true events forty years ago, the book is as relevant today with the current events in the Middle East as it would have been if it were written in the 1970s.
Freedom is contagious and once it is unleashed there is no containing it. As the most quoted section of the American Declaration of Independence states:
“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”
We believe the story you are about to read is an inspiration to these principles.
We would like to dedicate this book to all people who aspire to freedom, who love freedom and for all those who died for freedom and to those who will continue to fight for freedom.
Anthony S. Policastro
Publisher
Outer Banks Publishing Group
http://www.outerbankspublishing.com
June 2011
A
Legacy of Revolution
– A short history of Iran
On April 29, 1951, the day my sister Debbie was born, our blessed event was outclassed by something momentous happening half way around the world. A man who had just won a land slide election to become Prime Minister of Iran formed a new government, a government championing freedom and economic independence for his people. His name was Mohammed Mossadegh and he became Time magazine’s man of the year.
Steven Kinzer, in All The Shah’s Men, said, “In his time, Mohammad Mossadegh was a titanic figure. He shook an empire and changed the world. People everywhere knew his name. World leaders sought to influence him and later to depose him. No one was surprised when Time magazine chose him over Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, and Winston Churchill as its Man of the Year for 1951.”
All the eyes of the world were upon him as Mossadegh issued his first decree. The Tehran police were ordered to stop harassing newspapers critical of the government. A new spirit of hope and freedom filled the air as Iranians took to the streets in joyous celebration of their new leader.
Fulfilling his chief campaign promise to achieve economic independence for Iran, he moved to nationalize British controlled oil holdings. Iranians had seen American oil companies pay Saudi Arabia an astounding 50% of all revenues for their oil while Iran got a mere pittance from the Anglo Persian Oil Company.
Like oil addicts in cahoots, Britain and Uncle Sam watched in horror as easy access to their drug of choice was reclaimed by its rightful owners. Freedom and economic independence be damned! Their course of action was obvious. They decided to simply undo the landslide election in Iran! Wasn’t it obvious that they needed oil more than Iranians needed freedom and independence? They needed to put a guy in there who would let them have it all!
So Churchill put up 1.5 million dollars to finance a coup. President Eisenhower ponied up another cool million smackers on the sole condition that Theodore Roosevelt’s grandson Kermit Roosevelt - the CIA Station chief in Tehran - be the man to orchestrate it (From Robert Newman’s History of Oil). The code name for this: Operation Ajax! So clean sounding it just had to be good, right?
And who did Roosevelt pick to lead the military action for this coup? - Former Nazi collaborator Fazlollah Zahedi, who took the helm as Prime Minister of a military government for the next two years. All in the name of justice and democracy.
And so it was that on August 19, 1953 the short beautiful dream Iranians had been living was replaced by a hellish nightmare that they have never awoken from. The coup was successful and it installed Mohammad Reza Pahlavi as Shah and absolute dictator of Iran. The first freedom to go - as always - was freedom of the press.
Kangaroo “courts” immediately imprisoned the country’s pro democracy leaders. Mossadegh was placed under house arrest for the rest of his life. Feeling his oats, the Shah didn’t stop there. The Shah quickly discovered that terror and torture were working pretty darn well for him. So, only one thing to do - institutionalize it!
In 1957 to help the solidify the Shah’s hold on power, the CIA along with Israeli intelligence officers provided organization and training assistance for the Shah to create his own intelligence organization: SAVAK. As the organization grew in power from 1963 through 1979 its reputation also grew to become one of the most brutal and feared secret police networks ever created. But don’t take my word for it. In 1975 no less than Amnesty International named the Shah the world’s worst human rights abuser.
My story, which starts 4 years earlier, will take the reader to a place in the story where my Iranian girlfriend and I are listening to one of the revolutionary Khomeini tapes being sold underground in Tehran’s main bazaar. She and I are trying to determine if he is going to be the one who will replace the Shah. We quickly decide NO!
Defenders of the Shah point out - with 20/20 hindsight - that things were so much better under the Shah. They have a point. With the Shah, Iranians were deprived of only one human right and it was political. And yes, women did fare very well under the Shah. Shahbanu, the Shah’s third wife saw to that!
With the current regime, all other rights were taken away too - expect for, um, one.
Iranians are supposed to proclaim with pride: they have the right to lavish all praise on the “Islamic” Republic. Anything less could get you imprisoned or killed. Under the current regime, even its harshest critics admit that it is egalitarian in one important sense. Everyone is made to suffer pretty much equally - except of course for high ranking mullahs who plunder the nation’s coffers.
While human rights atrocities in Iran are pretty much non-stop under the “Islamic” Republic of Iran, there have been three notable purges. The first occurred at the outset of the revolution in 1979 where anyone who so much as appeared in the Shah’s Rolodex was automatically executed. His number one henchman, hardest of the hard liners, the mad mullah Ayatollah Khalkhali, aka “Judge Blood” saw to that. To be more specific, “within 30 days of taking power the regime murdered 3500 officers in the Shah’s Army and within 2 to 3 years, 100,000 people were murdered for political reasons,” according to the recently released movie, Iranium.
The second great purge occurred in 1988, now referred to by many as the regime’s “Golden Age.” Yes the golden age, when the Ayatollah Khomeini decided it was time to empty Evin Prison. Once he made his decision, he finished the task far more quickly than anyone imagined. But what to do with all the prisoners you’ve released? Easy. Bury them!
The third great purge is occurring right now as you read this but it’s been building since the time when the world saw millions of Iranians hit the streets to protest the second term “re-election” of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, a puppet to Iran’s Supreme Leader the Ayatollah Khameini. But as we know with the death of not just one but many Nedas, the green movement got snuffed out by an iron-fisted wave of repression and currently the execution rate is one every 8 hours.
(Neda was a young woman fatally shot while protesting in the streets of Tehran. Her graphic death was video-taped and placed on YouTube and she became a world-wide cause célèbre.)
To get permanent control of the nation the “Islamic” Republic recently came up with a new law. Well, it’s not just a new law. It’s the new Koran, the new Sharia, the new constitution, the new penal code. It is in fact the new everything! So elegant in its simplicity it can be summed up in three words: CRIMES AGAINST GOD.
Crimes against God offers the regime maximum flexibility, a virtual panacea of sweeping legal power! It’s amazing no one thought of it sooner. If you get slapped with that one it’s pretty certain you’ll soon be meeting your maker. I mean, that’s the reason for the name, right?
What I find most peculiar is that sex crimes seem to demand this sentence. Adultery? Death! Someone rat you out for being gay? Death! It’s enough to make you any sensible person want to switch religions. Convert to Christianity? Death! Or, maybe just keep your mouth shut.
About the only people who are sure to escape death now are Iranians who are just too famous to die. Jafar Panahi, the world renowned film maker, escaped the noose and will be cooling his heels for six years in prison for making a movie that merely suggested that the controversial 2009 election was not on the up and up.
Like anyone who knows of this man’s great films, I feel terrible about that. Who will be his voice for the Iranian people? A lot of us will have to come together collectively and try to fill the void. Let me throw my hat in the ring with this humble effort, my own personal story - based on many historical events. It’s a story that explores the time in Iran when things were better but the seeds of a revolution were starting to germinate and take root. I wish I were a great film maker like Mr. Panahi. And I hope he understands this is my first novel. But...I had to do something.
-
Douglas Roberts
June 2011
Why I wrote this book
How did this story, The Man Who Fooled SAVAK, come to be written?
I’d been sitting on it a long time. Thirty eight years! I always knew that my life in Iran was - compared to the rest of it - extremely interesting, to me at least. Every time something would happen in Iran, I would think about my time there. During the Iran hostage crisis, I was there in my head all 444 days.
After 9/11, I started thinking about it again. Anti-Islamic sentiment was rampant at that time. Sadly, there is still a lot. But I would always think back to my experiences in Iran. All my experiences with the people of that country were extremely positive and I had nothing but good associations with Islamic culture.
I knew mine was not the usual veteran’s tale. I saw no combat. In many ways my life in the military was extremely easy. But, because of my position in the Classified Message Center in the Supreme Commander’s Staff, and to a lesser degree when I was “moved” to Administration Services, I learned things about Iran that the outside world never saw.
As fate would have it, I made an online friend who wanted to know about my life in Iran. Her name was Erica Murray. She was battling leukemia. I would ask her why she wanted to know about my life in Iran. She was “just interested” she said. So, I started sending her emails about my time there. It was a wonderful excuse to safely tell someone things about my life there I had never told anyone. But when Erica died in early December 2008, I felt like a battle and a friend had been lost - and I lost interest in the project. At least I had gotten some of Iran out of my system because of Erica. I felt it was sadly ironic that though I was trying to support her, she actually did more for me than I ever did for her.
Early in 2009 I began thinking about the General I had given so many gray hairs to. General Ellis Williamson and I became unlikely allies of a sort as he courageously took on the task of purging our ARMISH/MAAG command of the Shah’s SAVAK agents, which had infiltrated the unit. Thanks to my boss, Captain Seaman, General Williamson was well aware of my own problems with SAVAK.
To my shock and sadness when I Googled General Ellis Williamson, I discovered that he had died in January 28, 2007 at the age of 88. I remember thinking jokingly, “Well, at least I didn’t send him to an early grave.” Then I found online and read his eulogy given by LTC Roy Lombardo, a long time friend. The paragraph about his command of ARMISH/MAAG reads as follows.
“After service in the Pentagon, he was selected as Chief of the Military Mission to Iran, a delicate task requiring sensitive diplomatic relations with the Shah, while overseeing the supply of military equipment and training in its use and maintenance.” Sadly this courageous dynamo almost destroyed his health in service to his country and was medically evacuated and then medically retired in 1973.
Though I had known that dealing with the Shah on a day-to-day basis made his job extremely stressful, until I read his eulogy I had not known that it had caused his military career to be cut short. With a deep sadness, I returned to pondering the gray hairs I felt I had given him and how genuinely kind he had always been to me. I wasn’t singled out. He was kind to everyone as far as I know. I couldn’t include it in my story but in the spring of 1972, General Williamson offered his cabin on the Caspian Sea to a few of us draftees: Barry his aide, Lou his cook, Joe my replacement in the classified message center, and myself. We eagerly took him up on his offer and had a great little vacation. I still have slides from that unforgettable trip.
In June 2009, events in Iran would have me thinking about my time there once again. After the fraudulent Iranian “elections” the protest movement was a catalyzing force for me. I could see parallels between what was happening and the anti-Shah sentiment I had witnessed firsthand when I was in Iran. I began to think that perhaps I should begin writing about Iran in earnest. I used all the emails I had sent Erica to create the first six chapters. I quickly wrote six more chapters and after that I no longer felt as though I was merely unloading old baggage, but was feeling more like I had a real story to tell that might of interest to more than a few people, especially in light of the fledgling protest movement in Iran.
When I had completed some thirty chapters I discovered that I was writing the genre that is the hardest: romantic/suspense. I had not even thought about what genre the story was before that. I was just telling a story I felt needed to be told.
Is it a memoir? No, I have created some of the events - most notably, to say some things about human rights. But there are many core elements of the story that I have pulled directly from my life. I actually was in love with a woman named Fari. I experienced firsthand life in the Shah’s Iran, including SAVAK. I actually did work in the all the settings I describe in the book, from the message center at the Supreme Commander’s Staff, to the mail APO when I was “fired” to the Admin Services office working with Captain Seaman, Heidi Efteckhar and Dell. My relationship with Junior was very much like I have described it, embarrassed as I am to admit it. Without Junior, I think the story would be a lot less interesting.
That brings me to another important part of how the story got to be written. In an amazing coincidence when I had reached the point in the story where I start my new job in the Administration Services office, I discovered my old friend and co-worker from that time, Heidi Efteckhar and almost immediately after that (her recently divorced husband) my Army buddy Barry Silver who was the General’s aide. Those two people, Heidi especially, gave me some terrific ideas to include for the rest of the story. Heidi’s experiences and Barry’s tales of working under General Twitchel and then General Williamson, revived crucial memories and gave me some great creative elements to work with. My deepest thanks to both of them for helping me make my book a lot better than it would have been had they not shown up in my life almost as though on cue.
Recently I had been showing some friends photos of Barry and Heidi, and then followed that with a photo of our travel expert Daveed and how he was instrumental in helping them both leave Iran when SAVAK made it so difficult for them. Barry and Heidi were forced to take a military flight out of Iran after they got married. I explained to my friends that SAVAK investigated Barry for being a spy.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” my friend said. “What did he do?”
“He wasn’t a spy, but I think one reason why SAVAK made it so hard for Barry and Heidi to leave the country was a heroic favor they did for me. I imagine it really pissed SAVAK off.”
“My God man, what kind of favor could it have been?” asked my friend dumbfounded.
“They helped me fool SAVAK,” I replied. “It’s a really involved tale.”
And so, without further delay, the story.
Chapter 1
On The Ground in
Tehran
Friday, March 12, 1971
As I stood in front of the luggage carousel somewhere in the Mehrabad Airport terminal, my mind felt almost completely numb I was so tired from my 12 hour flight. With the greatest effort I forced myself to look for my green duffel.
“Specialist Roberts?” I heard a voice behind me say. I turned around to be face to face with a very large man, heavily pock marked with old acne scars. His red nose with inflamed pores told me immediately that he drank too much. His name tag read Sergeant Brumfield, an Air Force Sergeant.
“Yes sir.”
“Good. Come with me. I’m driving you to the Teamhouse where you’ll be staying.” He helped me load my bags and once in the car, I noticed the cold dreary March rain, which seemed to match my mood very well. Once underway, Sergeant Brumfield proceeded to regale me with how much he hated the country. “Nobody speaks English here. Can you believe it? Whole country’s just a bunch of ignorant rag heads…yada…yada…yada. The only thing to do here is drink…yada…yada…yada. Sometimes we go boar hunting…yada…yada.”
I’m thinking, “Yeah, anyone could see you drink too much after just one glance.” But I kept my thoughts to myself even though my mind continued. “Oh great!” I thought. “I am totally screwed. I’m going to be living with a bunch of redneck assholes. I’m not going to fit in here.” Now I was not just lonely, I was getting very depressed.
We finally made it to the Teamhouse at some wee hour in the a.m. Mostly what I noticed was the smell of kerosene, as that was the source of heat. Sergeant Brumfield led me up to my room where my roommate to be was sound asleep, or so I thought. I found my bed and tried to slip into the sheets as quietly as possible when I heard a voice, “Is that Roberts? Welcome aboard. See you in the morning.”
Well that sounded friendly enough, and I drifted off to sleep for needed rest and recovery from jet lag. The next morning was Saturday and sometime around noonish I heard the same voice. “Hey Roberts. Don’t sleep too long.”
I opened my eyes to see a tall lanky fellow with a small handlebar mustache looking down. “I’m Larry Hamilton. Get dressed. We’ll go down to the restaurant and I’ll getcha up to speed.”
After I got dressed we headed downstairs past the swimming pool, through the courtyard and into the restaurant. Once breakfast of a western omelet was ordered and I’d had some much needed coffee, Larry started filling me in. I learned that there were basically two groups in the Teamhouse Bachelor Quarters and they didn’t mingle very much. There were the lifers and the draftees.
Larry explained that the Army draftees all hung out together, usually visiting in each other’s rooms where they got stoned on hashish and listened to music. The lifers all hung out in the bar where they would drink. The draftees were mostly college educated. The lifers, um, were not. At this point I was feeling a little better. I didn’t know about the hashish. I had smoked a little pot in college. I knew hashish was pretty strong. I’d deal with that later.
Larry had vanquished my major fear. It looked as if I might survive this. The weather cleared and after I unpacked, I spent the rest of the afternoon at the pool, catching the sun’s warm rays on a lounge chair, where I catnapped. The contrast between the cool air and the warm sun felt wonderful. After an hour of sunbathing, I decided I’d had enough lounging around, and headed back into the Teamhouse. As I passed by the telephone we all shared on the first floor in the hallway, it started ringing. I was the only one around so I picked up the receiver.
“Hello…Teamhouse Bachelor Quarters…Specialist Roberts speaking.”
‘‘Alloh? Amrikai? Alloh?”
It was a female voice. I knew Amrikai meant American.
“Yes, I’m American.”
“You...soldier?”
“Yes.”
“You want date?” What the? Someone was calling for a date?
“Who do you want to talk to?” I asked.
“Amrikai.”
“Let me get number. Someone call you back,” I said in simple English, hoping she would understand me.
Click. Dial tone.
I immediately went looking for Larry. He was in our room heating a can of soup on a hot plate. “Hey Larry, the weirdest thing just happened. The phone rang and some Iranian chick sounded like she wanted a date. What’s with that? Is she a hooker?”
Larry laughed. “We get those calls all the time. No she wasn’t a hooker. There are a lot of Iranian women out there who know the number of the Teamhouse BQ and they’ll call here wanting to meet a G.I. It’s not a bad way to meet women. You have to be careful though. A lot of these girls have very protective brothers. These girls are slipping out of the house to meet guys without their parent’s knowledge. They’re breaking a pretty strict social code. If they get caught, they’re in big trouble. But they risk it because they think all Americans are rich and fantasize marrying them.”
We laughed. “Rich...Right!”
“Basically you’ve got three options for meeting women. You can date the American gals who teach at the Tehran American School. There aren’t that many, so pickins are slim. Most are pretty good looking. Usually they’re attached to some guy back in the states, but they get horny just like the rest of us and want someone to trim their horns,” he grinned.
“Or, you can hang out at the International Hotel and meet stewardesses. Good luck! But if you want to date locals, going out with someone who calls here is pretty easy.” He gave me a few Iranian words to use.
“So, what do I do when someone calls?”
“What I do is arrange to meet them at the International Hotel around the corner. Wear your civvies. When you’re approached, you’ve got an instant to size ‘em up and acknowledge that yes you are who they’re looking for or not - if you don’t find them attractive.”
“And how often do they call here?”
“All the time! All the damn time. I mean sometimes we just leave the phone off the hook for some peace and quiet.”
With Larry’s coaching on the dating scene, I was feeling like Iran was a place I’d enjoy exploring. Later on that same evening the phone rang as he’d promised. I was reading some magazines Larry had purchased at the Embassy Commissary. I looked up at him.
“Go for it!” he said laughing.
So, I shuffled downstairs and lifted the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Amrikai?”
“Bali.” (Yes)
“You G.I.?”
“Bali.”
“You want date?”
“Bali.”
“You want meet?”
“Bali Khanum June! Bali!” (Yes my dear! Yes!)
“Where we meet?”
“International Hotel. Tonight six o’clock,” I said.
“Amrikai. I see you there.”
“Bali. Khoda Hafez.” (Yes. Good bye.)
“You smart G.I. Bye.”
I went back upstairs to the room. Larry was grinning. “See. That was pretty easy wasn’t it?”
“Too easy. What if she has a brother?”
“Watch for cars that seem to be following you. Take her to Shariati Park on Shimran where you can walk around. It’s just a 10 or 15 minute walk north on Shimran from the hotel. Cars can’t get in there.”
With that I showered. I borrowed some of Larry’s aftershave and put on some casual wear. As the International Hotel was within walking distance, I headed out the door of the Teamhouse and strolled past flat bread vendors, children playing soccer, and finally to Tehran’s busiest street, Shimran Blvd.
Standing outside the hotel, I watched the comings and goings of tourists, locals, and a group of Pan Am stewardesses. “Damn. Out of my league,” I thought. Taxis pulled up, loaded their passengers, then pulled away. A man leading some camels ambled up the street carrying bags of what looked like dates. Old Mercedes buses wove in and out of traffic fouling the air with diesel fumes.
I realized then I didn’t know if my blind date would show up in a car or on foot. So I started watching the sidewalk too, left and right. Soon my eye fell on an attractive young woman with bouncy dark shoulder length hair and bangs walking briskly in my direction. I could tell even at a distance she had quite a curvaceous figure. I noticed her enticing jiggle while she walked, almost missing her other large feature. Iranian women often have quite big eyes, and this woman was no exception. Soon she was upon me and smiling.
“Amrikai?”
Her smile seemed to cover her whole face and I couldn’t help but smile back, giving myself away. Too late even if I’d wanted to say no.
“Bali. Amrikai.” She took my hand and held it, still smiling.
We exchanged names. She said her name was Farzaneh. She repeated my name back, “Dugh!”
Close enough.
“Doug. I am happy we meet.”
“I’m happy too. You’re very pretty.”
She blushed flirtatiously.
She is quite easy to describe even after all these years later. Very simply she looked like a very young Joan Baez, - the famous 1960s folk singer and activist. She was wearing her hair in bangs, just the way Joan Baez wore her hair on her first album Joan Baez, a compilation of 13 traditional folk songs. My blind date was definitely cute enough to be quite adorable, especially when she smiled.
“Do you have a nick name Farzaneh?”
“What means, nick name?”
I didn’t know how to answer her.
“Um. Can I call you Fari?”
“Yes. Fari. Many peoples call me Fari. How you know that?”
It had been a guess.
“Fari, you want to walk to the park?”
“Yes Doug. We go walk there.”
As my good fortune would have it, I learned she did not have a brother. She lived with an extended family crammed into a small urban apartment off Shimran in an area north of the park where we were now headed. The entire household shared one old VW Beetle for transportation. For Iranians they were considered pretty well off.
I could see we were approaching the park Larry recommended. It’s a narrow, roughly rectangular park tapering at the south end.
(With its distinctive shape Shariati Park was one of the few old familiar landmarks I was able to find easily using Google maps as I was starting to write this story. When I frequented it, I don’t believe it even had a name. Street names have changed. What used to be the corner of Nezam and Parto streets - Fari’s address - are now listed as Vasipur and Shahim. The International Hotel is gone and in its place now is Tehran’s main post office.)
Entering Shariati Park we strolled through public gardens then found a bench to ourselves. I took her hand, sitting facing her. My mind was racing. Now what? Neither one of us knows the other’s language. How is this going to work? She put my mind at ease.
“Doug. We no talk. We just watch.” She pointed to couples and families enjoying the evening.
“Okay. No talk.” People watching is always an enjoyable pastime for me. So I was content with that. I think we just sat there until well after the sun went down. I was so happy not to feel like a total stranger in this new country. When it was dark, she said she needed to get back home. So we headed further north on Shimran near to her family’s apartment which was only a few blocks away. She wouldn’t take me to the door. We said goodbye at the corner. She simply looked up at me, expectantly.
“Kiss Fari?” I asked.
“Yes Doug. Kiss Fari.”
I was expecting a good night kiss. But we just stood there kissing and hugging for a while until she felt it was not safe to be so close to home making out with an American G.I.
“Fari, you call me. Okay?”
“Yes Doug. I call.”
The irony of it. In such a conservative country, the rolls were totally reversed. If I had called her, the family would know she was dating an American G.I., and without their consent. I would have to wait until she called me if I was to see her again. Now I knew how women felt.
For the next several days I’d practice looking in the mirror, or silently repeating on my way to work, or on the job at the Iranian Pentagon, “Shuma ishk sohbat mifahmi?” a phrase Larry taught me that means “Do you speak the language of love?”
Then one evening late into the week, the phone rang and it was Fari. “Doug. You want to meet me? We go to the park tomorrow night?”
Of course the answer was, “Yes, Fari.”
“I see you there.”
The meeting the next evening was again at Shariati Park, and it went exactly as the first one. By the time our 4th date arrived, I was feeling just a bit frustrated. All our dates so far had been exactly the same: walks in the park holding hands, kissing on a park bench or in the shadows on a side street. This was due to Fari’s caution about not wanting anyone her parents knew to see her out with a G.I.
After our usual stroll through the park with some people watching, and enjoying the long shadows of the evening sun and the special light that makes flowers look somewhat magical at that hour, Fari asked me if we could take a little walk. I knew she meant that we would stroll to a shady area and make out.
I said I didn’t want to do that right now. Wouldn’t she like to go to the disco with me for a bit? No, no she insisted emphatically. Well, how about the local Chelo Kababi for a little sweet rice dessert? Again the answer was an annoyed no. And I could tell she knew what I was driving at. Maybe we could go bowling I suggested.
“Doug”, she exclaimed, “you know I can’t go those places.”
I took her hands in mine. I could tell by the way she looked at me she knew I was not happy. In my frustration I knew what I was about to do next would put her on the spot and I knew I would be on the spot as well.
“Fari June?”
“Bali?”
“Shuma ishk sohbat mifahmi?” (Do you understand the language of love?)
Fari jumped up off of the park bench and stood before me her eyes blinking wide in astonishment. She was breathing fast as if in a panic.
“Oh shit” I thought to myself. “She’s really upset.”
Finally she spoke. “Doug, how you know these words? Someone teach you this!”
“Uh, I’ve been taking Farsi lessons at the Embassy,” I replied skipping over the fact that my roommate Larry had been the one to actually teach me that phrase.
Her face screwed up and she turned red. Tears started flowing. Then she lunged forward and pressed her face into my chest sobbing. “Mifahmam Doug.” she would say over and over through her tears. “Mifahmam Mifahmam” (I understand.) “Doug, I just don’t know what to do.” she eventually said through her sobs.
I felt like a complete jerk. This was probably the end of our relationship and it was totally my fault. I was so sorry now and kept repeating how sorry I was. After we’d both been crying and hugging for a while she brought me back over to the park bench and we sat down with my right arm around her shoulder and her head leaning against mine. I was feeling horrible that I had put her on the spot the way I had.
After a long time Fari suddenly sat up smiling. It was a huge smile.
“What?” I asked.
“Doug, I know! My cousin marry in two weeks. She marry G.I. You be at the wedding. You meet my family. Okay?”
I loved the way she would say Okay. It was like OKaaaaay. I always laughed when she said it and I knew she did it on purpose. Her little attempt to sound American. It took a while for me to decipher all the details but I eventually understood that I was to pose as the soldier’s good friend. Her cousin was marrying a fellow G.I., also in the Army, who worked in the north part of the city at the same receiving post from which I would pick up messages that had come in during the night. There were some large details to iron out. Her cousin would have to agree, and perhaps other family members as well. Oh, and my “good friend” would also have to agree. Would he?
Chapter 2
To say it was a long two weeks would be a huge understatement. Fari didn’t call the upcoming weekend and when the next week started and I had not heard from her I was on pins and needles. It seemed to me, she and her cousin had a lot to arrange. Would their little ruse work? Finally on a Wednesday night she called.
“Doug! We did it. You come wedding Saturday afternoon.” I felt tension drop away in my body. This would seal my relationship with Fari I thought. We would be able to go places in public. And, I was eager to experience what a Persian wedding was like.
As the hour approached on Saturday afternoon, I finished putting the final touches of a spit shine to my shoes and adjusted the hat of my dress uniform.
I was eager to try out my newly learned Farsi skills as the driver dropped me off in front of the house. I pressed the buzzer. In a moment the gate opened and I was greeted by a woman. I could see the resemblance and knew it was Fari’s mother. “Khanum Khazaneh? (Mrs. Khazaneh?) I saw her face brighten and smile. “Salaam alaikum.”
I announced myself as Sergeant Roberts instead of specialist, to keep things simple. With only a few words spoken in her native language I could tell she was impressed, as I had hoped she would be. She brought me inside to meet other family members, notably her sister Parvin, and Parvins’ husband Amin. She was a henna haired and plumpish woman, older than Fari’s mother, who apparently spoke no English but made up for it by smiling a lot. Amin was short and slight of build, sporting a stubble of white chin whiskers. He spoke no English either, seemed shy in my presence, and generally acted as though he would be glad if everyone would simply leave. I would eventually learn that there was a disturbing reason for his behavior.
Fari later told me that - except for dinner time - I wouldn’t see either of them all that much as they mostly kept to the other side of the residence.
After many salaams to several other family members and friends, I could tell Fari’s plan was working. It was smiles all around as everyone beamed at me.
I didn’t see Fari though. Was she with her father somewhere else in the house? And where were the bride and groom?
What I did see was impressive. The living room had been festively decorated with flowers and a beautiful and an elaborately decorated spread on the floor called “Sofreh-ye Aghd.” I noticed that on the wall above this was a beautiful Persian calligraphy in an ornate gold frame.
As I stood there with the others, I heard the kitchen door open and out came the Mullah. He stood a Koran up opened to a certain page behind a mirror he set down - this to symbolize the influence of divine providence on the mirror of fate - something that Fari had explained to me earlier. (It would not be until many months later that I would begin to appreciate the personal significance of its symbolism.)
Next, in came my “good friend” and fellow G.I., who I was actually seeing for the first time. The Mullah motioned him to sit in front of the mirror. As he sat down I noticed he had his eyes closed.
Now came a rush of excitement as the bride, dressed in a traditional western style white wedding dress complete with veil, walked in and sat down beside her husband-to-be. Fari walked closely behind her and stood off to the bride’s left. Fari’s cousin removed her veil. I heard her whisper something. The man opened his eyes, looking into the mirror. They were smiling as they saw their reflections beaming at each other. Suddenly the symbolism of the Koran standing open behind the mirror made some sense.
I heard the Mullah saying what must have been blessings for them. Then the Mullah asked for Allah’s blessings and the couple exchanged rings. Finally, the Mullah raised his hands smiling and pronouncing, I presume, that the ceremony is complete. The couple rose to kiss, embrace, and there was a profusion of kissing and hugging all around.
This was my cue. I looked over at Fari. I smiled and she smiled back shyly. I walked over to her. “Salaam Khanum June” I said as I introduced myself. She then introduced herself and we exchanged names and pleasantries as though meeting for the first time. I remember watching her mother out of the corner of my eye. I looked around for her Dad, but couldn’t determine who it might be.
Fari’s mother came over to us. In simple English, she told me how wonderful Fari is and putting her hands on our shoulders, invited me to partake of the many delicious dishes, pastries and cakes that were lavishly spread out on a table in the kitchen.
After loading our plates, we headed outside to a quiet corner of the compound to enjoy the meal and each other’s company - now officially sanctioned by the family. In quiet voices we celebrated how well the entire plan worked and discussed what we wanted to do on our first official date. Rather than planning something celebratory, Fari told me she simply wanted to our “first date” to be rather simple.
With that out of the way, I looked at my empty plate and excused myself to load up on some of the mouth watering deserts I’d seen. When I returned with several pastries and cakes I noticed Fari looking at me very intently to the point that I was becoming self conscious. Had I taken too many pastries? I checked my fly. It wasn’t down thank goodness.
“Fari, you should try the halva. It’s really great,” I said nervously.
But she just continued staring rather impolitely I thought. Finally Fari spoke. “So, Doug what was favorite part of wedding for you?”
“My favorite part? Um, gee I really liked all of it.”
“But you like some part best. No?”
I searched for something more to say. “Um, I liked the mirror. You know, in front of the open Koran. I thought that was really cool. Is that to symbolize grace or something?”
“I not know Doug,” said Fari. Now she looked down at her nearly empty plate with her eyebrows knitted together. She wasn’t looking at me as she slowly moved a bite of food around with her fork. “What was next favorite?” she asked frowning.
“My next favorite?” I asked, growing more nervous by the second. Why was I suddenly feeling like a contestant on the “The $64,000 Question”? “Oh um, I uh...really enjoyed meeting your family, your mother especially.”
She seemed suddenly sad. Surely it had been the correct thing to say. I felt like I was picking up undercurrents but I couldn’t put my finger on them.
“What else?” Fari still wasn’t looking at me.
“Well, I um...couldn’t help but notice how beautiful you looked standing there beside your cousin. Even more beautiful than she did.”
Fari lifted her head then brought herself fully erect and smiled broadly. Her eyes were glistening. Now I was feeling even more self-conscious than before and confused about the strange vibes I was picking up.
“So Fari, what was your favorite part of the wedding?” I asked.
Without a moment’s hesistation she enthusiastically responded, “That you came to see it.”
Chapter 3
We met at our bench the next day late in the afternoon for our “first date.” Fari very much wanted our first official date to actually look like a first date in the eyes of her family. A wild night out on the town would not be completely appropriate in her mind. She was eager to hear how and why I was in Iran, so it would be my story.
“So Doug, how you come to Iran? You tell me now. Okaay?”
I laughed. “Where to begin. Um, as you know the U.S. Army drafted me to get more soldiers for the war in Vietnam.”
“Yes, I know this Doug. And you not there. You are here, in Iran.”
“Okay, I’ll get to that. First I had to get drafted. After I graduated from Kent State in Sept. 1970, the draft board sent my official draft notice and by October I was inducted.”
“Doug, I bet you were so scared.”
“Yeah, I was nervous as hell. You see Fari, I’d been an anti-war activist on the Kent State campus, and in daily contact with many hippie radical types.”
“Doug, I know all about hippie radicals. Why you no go to Canada?”
“Good question. I thought, rather stupidly, that when when I told the Army of my very anti-war past at Kent State, they would want to avoid me, and that they would think I would make a very bad soldier for them.”
Fari was looking at me frowning. “Doug, were you on Kent State campus when students were killed?”
“Yes. My dormitory was very close to where the shootings happened.”
“I see now. I see why you not want to be drafted.”
A young couple walked by us laughing and holding hands. Fari and I watched them so at ease and comfortable with each other. Here we sat getting to know each other on our first official date. I silently hoped that what I told her would not put her off. Fari’s attention returned to me as the young couple moved into the distance. “So, you wrong about Army. You got drafted anyway.”
“Right. I got drafted anyway. I figured I could still go to Canada if I had to. But then I found a book that changed my mind.”
“Doug, what book? You get religious book?” She smiled mischievously.
“Well, no not exactly,” I chortled. But the book is a kind of a Bible for me. It’s called G.I. Rights and Army Justice, The Draftees Guide. It was written by an attorney, Robert S. Rivkin. It outlines in great detail every known trick on how to behave in a non-military way, how to defend one’s self against abuses, and spelled out in elaborate detail all the legal rights that a G.I. has. F ari, that book saved me. I am ashamed to admit this, but I purposely planned to fail some key basic training elements. Not only was I a horrible marksman, I used the fact that I am left handed to good effect. By putting the rifle on my left shoulder and cocking my right shoulder inward slightly, I knew that at some point during rifle practice a hot shell would fall into my open shirt. Suddenly jumping up from the firing pit screaming “hot shell! hot shell!” got me noticed very quickly.
“Doug, you so sneaky! I am shocked.”
I looked at her face carefully. She was smiling and teasing me, much to my relief. “Yes, I admit it. I was a bad soldier. Very bad.”
“Doug not a bad soldier. A bad boy maybe,” she laughed. “But they didn’t kick you out.”
“No Fari, they didn’t. I think that the Army knew they didn’t have a fighting machine with me. But they did still have some use for me. With basic training over they sent me to clerk school. I had been given a battery of tests and discovered that I had done quite well on all of them.”
“So, you smart and sneaky G.I.!” Fari laughed. She suddenly looked puzzled. “So Doug, I am not understand something. You work in Supreme Commander’s Staff with the Generals. Is like Iranian Pentagon, no? You work in Classified Message Center there. You tell me this. Why they let you do that?”
“Fari, I am as baffled about that as you are. Given my anti-war past, I really have no right to be working there, or so it would seem. Yet, everyone seems nice enough, so far at least.”
“Doug, I want you to promise me that you be very careful there. Okay?”
“Okay Fari, I promise.”
“No, Doug. Listen to me. You really do this. I want you to tell me you’ll be very careful. Watch what you say. Don’t tell anyone about your past. It’s important.”
“Fari, I think I understand what you’re saying. I’m aware that I really don’t fit into that kind of job, and perhaps there’s been some kind of mistake in placing me into it. I promise I will be very careful in everything I say and do.”
“No Doug. Actually, you not understand. You know who Supreme Commander is?”
“General Twitchell I guess.”
“No Doug. Supreme Commander is the Shah. You on his staff now. I can’t tell you more now. But you need to promise me.”
“Cross my heart! I swear.”
“Thank you Doug. I feel better - a little.”
Maybe she felt better but at that moment I didn’t know that I did.
Chapter 4
To say that Fari had made me a little uncomfortable about my position in the Classified Message Center would be a gross understatement. What did she know that I didn’t? Why didn’t she tell me all of her concerns so that I would understand better what she was trying to warn me about? I was getting along with Colonel Delahanty, who worked under General Twitchell. Where could there possibly be a problem?
The job had perks! I was very much enjoying having a car to use. When not using it to pick up messages, I would take Fari to all the hot spots in Tehran: restaurants, discos, the Shukoofeno Night Club, theaters, bowling, and of course our park. In spite of our limited options for finding places to get amorous, having that car allowed us to get pretty creative.
As great as our relationship was becoming, there was something troubling me about Fari. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It was during lulls in conversation that I would sometimes briefly sense an underlying sadness it seemed, about what I did not know for sure. I had an inkling of what it might be. I was aware that I had not yet met her father. It was obvious from the day of the wedding that he was not in her life, where one would have expected his presence. She never mentioned her father and I was a little hesitant to broach the subject.
Then there were times when she would seem to freeze up briefly as if in fear of something. Once we were eating a simple meal of chelo kabob at a small neighborhood restaurant near the Teamhouse BQ and a man stopped in front of the window where we were seated and looked in. It didn’t seem to me that he was looking at us necessarily, but Fari froze staring at him wide eyed until he moved on. I asked her if she knew that person and she said no.
“You seemed so startled by him. Did he frighten you?” No. No. She insisted she was fine and we continued the meal as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t get her reaction out of my mind, and what was behind it. I would soon find out during one of the longest days of my life.
I had overslept and the Teamhouse servant was knocking on my door to announce that it was time to get up. I hurriedly threw on my uniform and rushed downstairs, through the Teamhouse lounge and signed out the black Chevy wagon. My driver was already waiting for me with my leather brief case that I carried messages in. The sun was shooting its first rays over the top of majestic Mt. Damavand, but it was already hot. I was sweating as we sped up Shimran Blvd. to the northern part of Tehran. We arrived at the receiving post only a few minutes late. To our dismay and consternation, the barbed wire gate was shut and we had to stop and announce ourselves to the Iranian guard posted there. He checked our IDs and let us through. A little irritated, I signed for the morning’s messages and grumpily asked the specialist on duty why the gate was closed.
“High alert today, Roberts. The Shah’s shutting off any media reports critical of his régime.”
I noticed that my stack of messages was a lot larger than usual. Several dealt with the Shah. On one message in particular, I noticed that there were copies of it going to every officer in every branch of service in Tehran, plus officials at several different embassies. After logging everything in, I would have to deliver these in person. The messages said that the Shah had ordered the removal of all weekly news magazines from all news stands in the country.
But even more curious there would be no announcement of the Shah’s censorship actions. All news magazines were simply quietly removed from all newsstands.
I had only been logging the messages for a few minutes when I heard the clump clump heavy-footed walk of Colonel Delahanty moving quickly down the hall from General Twitchell’s office. I could tell by his pace he was “on it.” I jumped up from my seat to press the electronic buzzer on the counter that would open the security gate. It was open by the time he reached the doorway and I had returned logging messages.
“Roberts, log those messages later. I need you to get over to the Embassy and give them to the duty officer ASAP. Here’s additional briefing material on how we want this handled.” He shoved a large orange envelope onto my desk.
“Yes Sir Colonel Delahanty. I’m leaving right now sir.”
“Roberts, have someone at the Embassy notify the Tehran American School so that they know what’s happening. We’ve got to keep a lid on this thing.”
“Got it, Sir.”
As quickly as he came in Colonel Delahanty did an about face and marched down the hall. I could hear him cursing. “Goddamn Shah. Now he’s done it. $*#@!^!!!
I put the Embassy messages along with the envelope in my leather brief case and headed down stairs to meet my driver. As I appeared he jumped up and saluted.
“Abas, you don’t have to do that,” I admonished as I settled into the passenger seat.
“You my boss Sergeant Roberts. Where we going?”
“U. S. Embassy. Zud Bash.” (Hurry)
“Yes, Sergeant Roberts.”
We crawled through traffic and so little breeze was generated inside the car. When we arrived at the Embassy, my arm pits were soaked in sweat and I was feeling very uncomfortable. At least there was no humidity. I showed my pass to the guard at the gate and he let us through. As I walked inside, I was mercifully greeted with cooler air and headed down the hall to the duty officer. As I entered his office he looked up.
“Roberts! To what do we owe this visit?”
“Hi Ron. I’ve got some high priority messages for you. Apparently the Shah is a little upset about some media reports that portray him in a less than flattering way. He’s blocked the entry into the country of anything negative about him.”
Ron signed for the messages and without looking up replied, “Do you get the feeling the Shaw takes himself way too seriously?”
“Well, I’m kind of new in town but I couldn’t help notice that his majesty’s photo is absolutely everywhere, in every shop, government building, billboards…”
With a wry grin he looked at me, “If you’re the Light of the Aryans, having your photo everywhere is pretty much a necessity don’t you think?”
My eyes widened. “The Shah’s the Light of the Aryans?” Referring to people of Indo-Iranian heritage.
“So he says.”
“I never knew that,” I replied with quizzical smile.
“Well, welcome to Iran Roberts!”
“Yeah, welcome to Iran,” I said almost under my breath. “I suppose this is better than Vietnam though, right?”
“You’re not going to get shot at. And as long as the Shah doesn’t get too paranoid this should be a good time to be stationed here with all the 2500th anniversary celebrations going on.”
“Oh, um Ron, I’m sorry to have to do this. Colonel Delahanty wants you have some additional material on how to handle this, in case any Americans living here are affected.”
Ron groaned. “You know, I think that we at the Embassy are more than capable enough to know how to handle a situation like this.”
“I know Ron. I’m sorry. I’m just the delivery guy.”
Ron rolled his eyes.
“Let’s see…there’s one more thing.”
“WHAT?”
“Colonel Delahanty wants someone on the Embassy staff to inform the Tehran American School,” I said cringing.
“Delahanty is not running this Embassy!” he roared. After a few seconds then, more quietly, “I’m sure someone will notify the school. Is there anything else?”
“Um, thankfully, no.”
“Then get your ass out of here.”
“Until next time!” I said with mock cheerfulness.
Ron lifted his middle finger and glared.
Chapter 5
When I finally finished logging all the messages I was whipped. I rushed down the stairs to find Abas.
“Sergeant Roberts, you look tired. Hard day?”
“Bali Abas. Long and hard.”
By the time we got back to the Teamhouse it was around 3:00 p.m. I felt I should call Fari with this extraordinary news. I told her I was going to let her in on something no one knew about, that the Shah had ordered all news magazines removed from newsstands and that...Well, I had barely even finished and she really exploded. I had never known Fari to express such fury before or since. She was yelling into the phone and telling me in no uncertain terms must I ever talk about such things with her on the telephone - that someone could be listening. I found myself apologizing profusely and assured her I would not do it again. This calmed her down some.