Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History (10 page)

O
n the morning of Tuesday, November 6, the Americans at Gholhak Gardens awoke feeling better about their prospects. The grounds were nice, the house spacious, and knowing they had the protection of the British government gave them peace of mind. They had heard from an English diplomat
that Prime Minister Bazargan had just resigned, and it was beginning to dawn on them that the crisis was likely going to escalate. Knowing they had found a relatively secure place to hide out, however, mollified their concerns. Of course, they were worried for their colleagues down at the embassy, but at this point word had yet to reach them about how poorly the hostages were being treated. Being diplomats, they assumed that the Iranian government would eventually figure things out and free the hostages. Beyond that, they realized there was little they could do. They made a hearty breakfast and settled in to what they hoped would be a tranquil existence amid the chaos that was unfolding around them.

It didn’t last long. A little after noon, Tomseth called to tell them that they would have to move. As it turned out, their relaxing night had nearly been a disaster and they didn’t even know it. After the British embassy had been attacked, a second crowd had shown up at Gholhak Gardens. The guard told the crowd that everyone was down at the embassy so there was no one left to capture. It was simple luck that they believed him, and there was no guarantee they wouldn’t come back. And the British no longer felt they could keep the Americans safe. (Khomeini eventually ordered the attackers out of the British embassy.) Tomseth received a call from the British chargé d’affaires, who told him that the presence of the Americans was too dangerous for his own people and so they had to move.

It was an immense letdown for everyone. After all their efforts, they were now back to square one. Tomseth hadn’t revealed to them that the crowd of Iranians had shown up at Gholhak Gardens the night before, so to the Americans it just felt like they were being kicked out.

At the foreign ministry, meanwhile, things had gone from bad to worse for Laingen, Tomseth, and Howland, who in the wake of the Bazargan resignation felt less like guests and more and more like prisoners. With no living quarters in the ministry, the three spent their time cloistered in the building’s diplomatic reception area, a ballroomlike space filled with Czech chandeliers, Persian carpets, and easy chairs. They spent their time watching TV, listening to the radio, reading newspapers and magazines, and doing laundry, which they hung from the chandeliers to dry. Occasionally an Iranian servant would bring in tea. On the morning of November 6, they were told by the chief of protocol, Ali Shokouhian, an old-school Iranian diplomat who sympathized with the Americans’ plight, that they should be careful not to make too many local calls. Tomseth had suspected that their phone conversations were possibly being monitored from the beginning, and Shokouhian’s warning confirmed his suspicions. From now on they would have to be careful about whom they called, which would complicate things immensely for his communication with the escaped Americans.

Tomseth, however, hit upon an ingenious solution. Thanks to a previous posting, Tomseth could speak Thai, a language he was pretty sure the Iranians wouldn’t be able to understand. It just so happened that Kathryn Koob’s cook, Somchai “Sam” Sriweawnetr, was a Thai national. Speaking in Thai, he called Sam and the two hatched a plan. Sam’s wife worked for John Graves, the embassy’s senior public affairs officer who had been captured in the early minutes of the assault. Graves’s house was in a relatively quiet part of northern Tehran, far from the embassy, and Sam thought it might be a good place for them to hide out. At the minimum,
Tomseth reasoned, Sam and his wife would be there to help look after the fugitive Americans, which would be a big help.

When the Lijeks, Staffords, and Bob Anders heard about this solution, they were far from thrilled. Once again they would be going back to a house belonging to an American embassy employee. To Mark, it seemed only logical that it wouldn’t be long before the militants started searching the houses of the Americans for fugitives or other contraband that could be used as evidence for spying. And yet they had no other choice but to go.

That night they ate dinner at the house of a British diplomat, said good-bye, and were driven by the British over to Graves’s house. Sam had told them that there was an old man in the neighborhood who belonged to a komiteh, and as they approached the house they saw someone on the street who happened to get a good look at them. Was this the guy? They couldn’t tell for sure.

On its surface, Graves’s house seemed like a perfect place to lie low. For one thing, it was a large three- to four-bedroom multilevel structure with servants’ quarters, all of it surrounded by a wall. It was also set back from the street far enough that they could move about freely without having to worry about being seen. They were also pampered, in a way. In addition to Sam and his wife, there was an elderly Thai housekeeper who worked at the house, and the three did all the cooking and cleaning for the Americans, which saved them the hassle, and risk, of having to go outside. Since there was no TV or books, in order to pass the time they played poker and slept.

One day, while looking for something to do, they found a 16mm film in one of the closets. Since Graves was the press officer at the embassy, it wasn’t out of the ordinary that he might have a
projector to show such films. Once they got it up and running, though, they realized that it was a film of the shah’s coronation.
This is perfect,
thought Mark.
A group of komiteh is going to come bursting in here and find us all watching a movie about the shah.
They quickly turned off the projector and hid the film in a hole in the ceiling.

After two days, concerns that the militants were right on their heels began to eat at them, and they hatched a plan in case anyone came to the door. Kate Koob’s house was only three blocks away, so at the first sign of danger they’d all hurry out the back door and over the wall and try to make it to her house. None of them were familiar with the neighborhood, however, and Anders worried they’d quickly get lost and captured.

To make matters worse, the elderly Thai housekeeper had become more and more irrational as the days wore on. She accused the Americans of drinking all the wine in the house (one bottle), and eating all the food. “What will I say to Mr. Graves when he gets back?” she asked them. It wouldn’t do any good, they realized, to tell her that Mr. Graves wouldn’t be coming back for quite some time. When she became progressively more difficult, they contemplated locking her up in the basement, but quickly realized that it would only add to their problems.

At night they could hear the old komiteh guard continually passing by the house blowing his whistle, seemingly just to remind the Americans that they were trapped inside. The guard made it almost impossible to relax.

On Thursday, November 8, Laingen called from the foreign ministry to tell them that the Iranian government was cutting off the phone lines and that they wouldn’t be able to make any more
calls. The Americans were now on their own. “Good luck” was all Laingen could tell them before signing off.

By this time, the tension was beginning to grow unbearable. In addition to Laingen’s final call, by this time news of Koob’s capture had reached them, causing their morale to plummet. They felt cut off, abandoned, helpless. There was no doubt in their minds that the militants were right outside waiting, biding their time before they came bursting through the front door.

And just when they thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. Sam came home on November 9 and told them that their worst fears had been realized: the militants knew where they were and were coming to get them. Sam had gotten the news from a gardener at one of the apartments of an American who was being held in the embassy. The gardener had been working that morning when a group of militants showed up and ransacked the place. It was Mark’s worst-case scenario coming true. Sam told the Americans they had to be ready to move. If anyone showed up, the plan was still to try to make it over to Koob’s.

That night, everyone slept in their clothes, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. Kathy and Cora shared the bedroom, while Mark, Joe, and Bob stayed up most of the night in the living room, talking and thinking. Mark was especially worried about Cora. He thought about the events leading up to his wife’s coming to Iran. They’d been college sweethearts and had gotten married soon after she graduated. Initially, once Mark had arrived in Iran and seen how bad things were, he had second thoughts—officials at the State Department, he thought, had painted a much rosier picture than the reality. Cora had told him he was overreacting. Now he wished he’d stood his ground and persuaded her not to come.
Along with Joe and Kathy, they were the only married couples at the embassy in Iran, and his main concern was that he and Cora would be captured and the militants would use them against each other. He thought about the ways they could mistreat her, harm her—anything they wanted to get to him, and vice versa. It made him feel very vulnerable. This wasn’t some Hollywood movie, but life. The stakes were high.

As the Americans sat in the living room, outside the lonely komiteh made his nightly rounds, his whistle piercing the calm with its shrill wail. The noose was tightening around them and they knew it. And it felt like there was not a single thing they could do about it.

5

CANADA TO THE RESCUE

Just before sunup on the morning of November 10, the fugitive Americans had already made up their minds. Graves’s house just wasn’t safe enough anymore. It was time to leave.

They organized themselves quickly, agreeing that it would be better if they made the trip before it got light. They were in such a hurry they even forgot a load of laundry in the washing machine. Sam called an Armenian taxi driver friend, who came over and picked everyone up. Kate Koob’s home was the logical choice.

At Koob’s house, they sat uneasily in the darkness, too afraid to turn on any lights. When it was finally bright enough to see, they did a quick tour of the house and realized immediately that they wouldn’t be able to stay. It was located on the corner and right up against the sidewalk. It also had large floor–to–ceiling windows without any drapes, and they wouldn’t even be able to enter the kitchen without the whole world knowing. Despair set in once more; they had to find yet another hideout, and fast. Luckily, Anders had a plan.

Two days earlier, on November 8, after Laingen had called to tell the Americans they were on their own, Anders, who had a few numbers with him, phoned a good friend at the Australian embassy. Delighted to hear that Anders was fine, the friend readily agreed to take him in, but when Anders mentioned the others, the friend begged off, saying he just didn’t have the room. Anders then remembered John Sheardown, a colleague at the Canadian embassy whom he’d gotten to know well over the previous months. The two had met at one of the many Western-embassy functions that had become so popular in the absence of any nightlife in the city. They had a lot in common. Like Anders, Sheardown had served in World War II, and at fifty-five he was considered to be an old-timer among the Canadian diplomats in Iran. A distinguished balding man with a penchant for smoking pipes, Sheardown was the chief of the immigration section at the Canadian embassy. Since Bob had been in Iran without his family, John had frequently invited him over to his house for dinner. John’s wife, Zena, was not a Canadian citizen but was originally from British Guiana (now the independent nation of Guyana). This meant she didn’t have diplomatic immunity. A warm and vivacious person, she loved to entertain but rarely left the house.

After striking out with his Australian friend, Anders picked up the phone again and dialed the Canadian embassy. Sheardown, of course, knew about the attack on the U.S. embassy and had just assumed that Anders had been taken along with everyone else. He was amazed to hear that his friend had gotten out. “Where
are
you?” he asked with incredulity.

Anders tried to explain but gave up after a few minutes. The streets in Tehran were complicated enough, and to make matters
worse they’d all been renamed after the revolution. “I don’t know where I am exactly,” he said.

Sheardown asked him what he needed. This was on Thursday, before the Americans knew they would soon be moving to Koob’s house. Anders told him that they were okay for the moment but that they might need to find another place soon. “We’re in a bit of a bind,” he said.

Sheardown didn’t hesitate. “Why didn’t you call me before?” he said. “What took you so long?”

Anders explained that he was with four other Americans and that they had decided to remain as a group. Because of this, they’d been reluctant to impose on anyone for fear of putting lives in unnecessary danger. Despite not having official permission to do so, Sheardown told Anders that he’d be happy to help in any way he could. Like most Western diplomats in Tehran, he was incensed when Khomeini had endorsed the embassy takeover. The diplomatic community in Tehran was a tight-knit group, and not only did Sheardown know many of the people who were now being held against their will, but the entire exercise went against the conventions of international law and diplomacy. The fact that it was Anders who was calling only made him all the more willing to break with conventions. “We have plenty of room here,” Sheardown said.

Anders thanked him and they agreed to keep in touch if the situation ever changed.

As soon as he had gotten off the phone with Anders, Sheardown walked upstairs to see his boss, Canadian ambassador Ken Taylor. At forty-five and sporting a salt-and-pepper 1970s perm and mod-style glasses, Taylor was a bit of an iconoclast among the senior diplomats in Tehran. Born in 1934, Taylor had entered the Canadian
Foreign Service in 1959 and made his way up the ranks as a trade counselor. Eventually he had become the director of Canada’s Trade Commissioner Service in 1974. Taylor had always had a bit of an unorthodox working style that sometimes rubbed the more genteel types in the Canadian diplomatic corps the wrong way. He worked at a table instead of a desk, and refused to use in/out boxes. But whatever his style, he got results. He was a tireless worker and a good manager, and his employees enjoyed working for him.