Guests Of The Ayatollah: The Iran Hostage Crisis (55 page)

On March 13, in a hotel room in Bern, Jordan wrote out a three-page letter to Bani-Sadr in his cramped handwriting, a blend of cursive and printing. He discarded the third page and rewrote the final three paragraphs to get them right.

Dear Mr. President,I am taking the liberty of sending you this personal and private message through a mutual friend, Mr. Hector Villalon. The only copy of this letter is in the possession of President Carter.Because we have reached a critical point in this process of trying to peacefully resolve the differences which face our countries, I thought it was important that I convey my thoughts to you personally and in complete frankness. I would welcome your reaction to these suggestions.…I believe that we share a single objective: to put an end to the present crisis and build a new relationship with your country and government based on equality and mutual respect. But, quite frankly, the possibility of having such a relationship in the future will not be possible unless all hostages are returned safely to our country at an early date.From the outset, President Carter had pursued a policy of patience and restraint…. However, the atmosphere of restraint…cannot last forever. A growing number of political figures and journalists who have supported President Carter…are now advocating extreme measures as a result of the commission’s departure from Tehran. Despite this growing frustration, President Carter has not abandoned his policy of restraint. As soon as we learned of the commission’s decision to leave Iran, [he] called on the American people and the Congress to be patient. He also conveyed to the UN Commission through Secretary General Waldheim and Secretary Vance his desire that the Commission not abandon their work and be prepared to return to Tehran under the proper circumstances.We believe the process negotiated by Misters Villalon and Bourget represents an honorable way to resolve our problems. We are prepared to renew our commitment to that process, but must have evidence of your government’s willingness and ability to abide by the process. The transfer of the hostages to the custody of the government would be evidence of Iranian good will.Beyond the present problems, I can assure you that our government will adopt a reasonable attitude in resolving the numerous bilateral issues we face.Finally, I appreciate the opportunity to be able to communicate directly with you. Please know that we will do everything possible to bring an early and honorable conclusion to the present crisis. I hope that you will accept my frank analysis and that time is working against U.S.I hope I have the honor of meeting you someday.Sincerely,

Hamilton Jordan

Chief of Staff to the President

It was not a bluff. The pressure was growing on Carter to act. His approval ratings had fallen sharply in polls, down to 40 percent, and Ted Kennedy had picked up several early primary victories. Indiana Republican senator Richard Lugar charged that the president was bungling the crisis and called for an immediate naval blockade of Iran and the mining of its harbors. Republican presidential candidate George H. W. Bush, a former CIA director, accused Carter of “pussy-footing around” with the ayatollah, and of “appeasement.” Ronald Reagan, the governor of California and front-runner among the Republican candidates, offered his own homespun analysis of the Iranians, suggesting that it was a waste to pursue diplomacy with such faithless negotiators: “They keep slicing the salami up. They lead us to believe that if a certain thing is done, the hostages will be released, and as soon as we say, ‘That’s fine,’ then they add another term, another condition. As long as we are willing to negotiate these additional conditions, then they’ve got a reason for keeping the hostages.” Asked what he would do instead, Reagan said he didn’t know, that he was “waiting for a miracle.”

Days after the UN commission returned to New York, Brzezinski, long an advocate for more forceful measures, suggested to the president that power in Tehran was so confused there was little point in continuing to work with Ghotbzadeh and Bani-Sadr. He found the plans of both would-be leaders, despite their official titles, had “an unrealistic quality,” because neither Iranian seemed to fully comprehend all the forces at work. Days later, Brzezinski complained further about Iran “diddling along” the United States, and urged the president to issue an ultimatum. The administration had considered blockading Iran and mining its harbors, but Carter was fearful that such a step would lead to a much broader conflict. So Brzezinski proposed another approach. Why not seize Kharg, an island in the northeastern Persian Gulf about sixteen miles off the Iranian coast that was the world’s largest offshore crude oil plant and the principal sea terminal for Iran’s oil industry? It would be a limited military strike, self-contained, and the island could be held until the hostages were released. That way, the decision to escalate the conflict would be Iran’s.

Brzezinski’s dramatic idea was not adopted, but clearly the mood in the White House was testy. When Deputy Secretary of State Warren Christopher worried that daring Khomeini to broaden the conflict might just feed into the Shiite “martyrdom complex,” Harold Brown, the defense secretary, noted, “A man with a martyr complex rarely lives to be seventy-nine.”

In a long Saturday meeting at Camp David, with participants dressed casually before a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, the president approved a secret, very risky reconnaissance trip into Iran to put the final piece in place for a rescue mission. Brzezinski and General Jones, chairman of the joint chiefs, both argued that the rescue mission could work, provided no word of it leaked in advance. When Secretary of State Vance objected to further discussion of military action, which he had adamantly opposed from the start, Carter’s shifting mood showed.

“Should we wait another year then?” he asked Vance.

Vance agreed to support the reconnaissance mission because it made sense even from his perspective; if it ever became necessary to rescue the hostages, if Iran started show trials and executions, the better prepared Delta Force was, the more likely it could succeed.

On March 23, the ailing shah flew from Panama to Egypt, despite administration efforts to prevent it. President Anwar Sadat of Egypt offered the shah permanent sanctuary. The official reason for the move was that he needed surgery to remove a cancerous spleen. A Cairo newspaper reported that he had fled Panama when he learned of a secret American plot to poison him.

On March 19, Richard Queen and Joe Hall were told that they were going to be moved later that day.

“We are going to move you to a better place,” the guard said. “This is a good thing. You should be very happy.”

They were not very happy. Like the others, both men found that change flung them into fear and uncertainty. Both dreaded the move, especially when they were told they were going to be separated.

“You are going to be with some very important people,” Queen was told. “I don’t want to go with any important people. I want to stay with Joe. We get along well. We want to stay together.”

They packed up their small stash of toiletries, letters, books, and Queen’s Civil War game that Hall refused to play—one look at the thick book of rules and instructions and he had backed down. Later that day they were led outside with blankets over their heads and placed in a car. They were driven around for about half an hour, mostly in circles. Both Hall and Queen knew they were still on the compound when they were let out. They were led inside a building and told to sit on the floor. From beneath his blanket Hall could see feet moving back and forth, shod guard feet and sandaled hostage feet. Then he was moved and told to sit someplace else, then someplace else. At last he was taken to a room and the blanket was removed…and standing across from him was Queen. They had not been separated after all. The room was on the top floor of the chancery, one that had been trashed on the day of the takeover and left that way. The smell of tear gas still clung to its walls like a bad memory. They asked for some supplies and set about cleaning. The guards gave them two big leather chairs, perfect for reading, and a table with a lamp. But no matter how bright and clean and pleasant the room was—they were both especially thrilled to have a window and actual sunlight—the lingering tear gas continued to sting their eyes. It got worse and worse until finally the guards moved them out to another room down the hall, a nicer one, which they promptly cleaned and arranged to their liking, hanging their snapshots and keepsakes on the walls. Then they were moved again.

This time they were placed in a basement chancery office that had belonged to Bruce German, the embassy budget officer. It was an ugly space with walls that had been stained by a burst pipe. This was where marines Jimmy Lopez and Steve Kirtley had given the guards such fits months earlier. They had drawn and painted slogans all over the walls. Lopez had written out patriotic lines in Spanish and drawn a giant eagle. Hamid the Liar brought them a big gum eraser and instructed the new tenants to remove the drawing, which had been done in thick pencil. Hall went to work on it, but found that the eraser wasn’t doing the job.

“Do it yourself,” he told Hamid.

“If you don’t remove it, you will be taken back to the Mushroom,” he said.

“In the warehouse there’s lots of paint and brushes,” said Queen. “Could you bring us some?”

They were given buckets of white paint and they went to work. They applied several coats, and before long the room looked clean and bright. The guards gave them a vacuum cleaner. They were given back the big leather chairs and a desk with a glass top with some shelving on it. Guards got into the spirit of the redecoration and supplied a few paintings they had earlier taken off the walls. Queen asked for a poster of Alaska he had hung in his office months earlier and they even found and delivered that. A table lamp provided soft light in the evenings. They had windows to let in sunlight and fresh air. They could hear birds outside. When spring came they left the window open to let in cool air at night but discovered that Tehran bred swarms of nasty mosquitoes. Killing them became a nightly competition.

The only downside was the protesters. All light and sound had been shut out of the Mushroom Inn, but now, restored to the surface world, the protesters, somewhat less in number but with no noticeable diminution of zeal, remained outside. It was as if the students needed to have a massive audience at all times. The demonstrations were supplemented by audio-tapes of earlier gatherings, and sometimes the tape would get stuck and the sound level would drop, revealing the relatively small size of the crowd. The guards hustled to fix it as though they were all living in a balloon that had just sprung a leak.

Hall and Queen were at last allowed to speak. They spent days going over everything that had happened since the takeover and every scrap of information they had about what was happening in Iran and the world. They reviewed all the things they and the others had done, or hadn’t done, and critiqued everything and everyone, including themselves.

With the holidays gone, there was nothing tangible to look forward to. The holidays had carried the hope of release, and once they were over their captivity stretched open-ended into the future. The change of scenery and the freedom to converse helped Queen rally from his post-Christmas depression, even with the worsening numbness of his left arm and side. He started an exercise program, walking around the room and doing calisthenics as well as he could, taking a cold shower afterward, and then plunging into his books.

Hall and Queen argued—no two men locked in the same room for months together could be entirely free of discord—but their disagreements never ran deep enough to last. With some of the hostages the arguments got ugly and occasionally turned into out-and-out fights and deep-rooted bitterness. Given the cramped and overall unsettling circumstances, and the constant discomfort, Hall and the gangly, bearded, ailing consular officer got along famously. After dinner each evening was the smoking hour. Hall had never been a pipe smoker, but Queen gave him one of the pipes Akbar had brought from his apartment and now Hall was hooked. When the lights went out they would switch on a soft lamp on their table and sit smoking and sipping tea and talking into the night.

Their pleasant routine was haunted, however, by Queen’s mysterious illness. Ever since the day when he dropped the tea, his symptoms had gradually worsened. He lost sensation in his left hand completely, and then his legs grew weak. They would wobble when he walked. Hall had to help him button his shirt. Then his vision began to go. He was so dizzy that whenever he stood it would make him nauseous.

Queen felt himself slipping further and further into a kind of dream world. At the Christmas party he had been given a songbook, and on the back was stamped “The Brooklyn Savings Bank”—he guessed the books had once been a bank giveaway. His father had been born in Brooklyn and he had fond memories of the place. Inside the book was the hymn “We Three Kings,” which he set about memorizing. He would sing the song to himself, realizing that this was not behavior he would consider normal under other circumstances. But he found himself increasingly, and with increasing comfort, retreating from the basement room, from the discomfort and uncertainty of his illness, into his own rich inner world. He stopped straining to overhear conversations and the radio. He felt better off for it. He felt calmer and more accepting, even more charitable toward the guards. He knew the situation wasn’t improving; in a letter home in late January he told his parents he was living “in a timeless void of a world,” but he was coping better.

He brushed aside Hall’s concern for his worsening physical symptoms.

“I’ll get over it,” he said. “It’ll go away. At least I’m still alive.”

Hall thought Queen was remarkable, and was increasingly influenced by him. Queen was quietly but devoutly religious, and that, too, began to rub off on his roommate. Hall’s parents had not raised him to be a regular churchgoer and he had grown up considering himself agnostic, at least as he understood the term; he did not believe in a God who listened to men’s prayers or in divine justice being meted out in an afterlife. But in this open-ended confinement, with the threat of execution lurking offstage, he began trying to pray. He read two or three chapters of the Bible each morning. He went through the entire book once, then started a second time. He had some bad feelings about it. He knew he was only flirting with religion as a way of covering all bets—hey, if there is a God, maybe He could get him out of Iran. He assumed the traditional posture, down on his knees, and clasped his hands together as he saw Queen and the others do. He knew it would greatly please his wife, who was devout and distressed that he was not. If only for her sake, he wished he could believe. But Hall never felt anything or any closer to God. At night he would sometimes pull the blanket over his head and “talk” to his wife, whom he missed terribly, and there were times when he felt that he had actually made a connection with her. He definitely felt closer to her in those moments than he’d ever felt to God.