2

The twenty-minute journey home took two hours.

Cautiously working his way through the clogged streets—and purposefully taking a circuitous route, checking constantly to see if anyone was following him—Charlie eventually made it back to apartment 902 in the upscale high-rise with the spectacular views of the Tehran skyline. He burst through the door, quickly locked it behind him, and hearing the AM radio still on in the bedroom, headed there to find his wife.

“Charlie, are you okay?” Claire said breathlessly, jumping up to embrace him.

“Yes,” he whispered, holding her close. “But what about you?”

“I’ve been terrified about you,” she whispered back, beginning to cry. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he said as quietly and lovingly as he could. “But I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’m all right, just a little shaken up.”

It was a lie. He wasn’t fine. He was scared and unsure what to do next. But as guilty as he felt about lying to the woman he loved, he worried for her and the precious life growing within her.

“Are you still bleeding?” he asked.

“A little,” she said. “But I’ll be fine.”

It was Claire’s first pregnancy, and it hadn’t been easy. She’d suffered with violent morning sickness for the first couple of months and had lost nearly twenty pounds from an already-slight frame. More stress wasn’t exactly what the doctor had ordered for her or the baby.

Claire took a few deep breaths and tried to steady herself. Then pressed harder against him and spoke into his ear. “They’re saying a firefight has erupted outside the compound; they’re saying several people are dead and that dozens more are wounded. Is that true?”

“I don’t know,” Charlie said. “Everything’s so chaotic. I wouldn’t know what to believe at this point.”

No sooner had the words left his lips than came a special bulletin over Radio Tehran.

“We have a woman on the line who claims to have important news on the student uprising downtown,” the announcer said. “Okay, you’re on the air. What is your name?”

“I am one of the Muslim Student Followers of the Imam’s Line.”

“Yes, I understand, but what’s your name?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is our movement.”

“Fine,” the announcer said. “Where exactly are you calling from, and what is it that you want to say?”

“I am calling you from inside the American Embassy.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The announcer seemed flustered. “What? Inside the . . . That doesn’t make any . . . Repeat what you just said. Is this a joke?”

“It is not a joke. We have occupied the American Embassy, the den of espionage. We have occupied every building. Every floor. I am presently standing behind the desk of the ambassador.”

“Come now,” the announcer said, incredulous. “We know the students have penetrated the outer walls and are protesting on the grounds of the compound. We’ve been reporting this for several hours. But we have no reports of any students getting inside one of the buildings.”

“Now you do.”

“But you cannot be in the ambassador’s office. You must be kidding.”

“I am not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I can prove it.”

“How?”

“Look in the telephone directory and find the embassy number,” the woman directed. “Then dial extension 8209 for the ambassador’s office.”

There was a long pause. Charlie turned to Claire to see how she was doing. But she didn’t return his gaze. She was fixated on the radio, almost as if in a trance. A moment later, the radio announcer could be heard flipping through a directory, then dialing the phone. It rang. And then . . .

“You have reached the United States Embassy in Tehran,” a woman’s voice said, first in English, then in Farsi. “The embassy is presently closed. Our office hours are from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., Sunday through Thursday. The consulate is open for visa requests from 9:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m., Sunday through Thursday. If you know the number of the person you are trying to reach . . .”

A moment later, the announcer had dialed through to the ambassador’s office and got the same woman back on the line.

“So it is true,” he said, astonished.

“So it is.”

“This is serious news. Okay, what is your message?”

“I have a communiqué,” the young woman said calmly.

“Very well, proceed. Let us hear it.”

“Communiqué Number One: In the name of God, the merciful, the compassionate . . .”

She then quoted from a statement Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini—the leader of the Islamic Revolution in Iran—had said just the day before. “. . . it is incumbent upon students to forcefully expand their attacks against America and Israel, so that America will be forced to return the criminal, deposed Shah.”

Then she read a lengthy statement prepared by the students. Several lines jumped out at Charlie.

“We Muslim students, followers of Imam Khomeini, have occupied the espionage embassy of America in protest against the ploys of the imperialists and the Zionists. We announce our protest to the world, a protest against America for granting asylum and employing the criminal Shah while it has on its hands the blood of tens of thousands of women and men in this country. . . .”

When the propaganda piece was finished, Charlie asked, “Where’s the utility box?”

“Why?” Claire asked.

He asked again, ignoring her question.

“It’s in the closet,” Claire replied. “But what do you need it for?”

He gently pulled away from her, headed into the closet, fished out a steel case about the size of a carry-on piece of luggage, and began to leave the bedroom.

“Where are you going?” she asked, a bit too loudly, an edge of panic now in her voice.

Charlie turned quickly and motioned for Claire to lower her voice. Then he took her by the hand and proceeded to the kitchen. There, in the tiny, windowless room, he moved aside a pitcher of pomegranate juice and several glasses sitting in the center of their table for two and set down the utility box. He dialed in the lock combination and opened the case. It was the first time Claire had ever seen what was inside, and she gasped as Charlie pulled out a sidearm and ammunition.

“Charlie, what—?”

“It’s just a precaution,” he tried to reassure her. “I’m sure this will all be over soon.”

She didn’t look convinced. And why should she be? Claire Harper was no idiot. She held a master’s degree from Harvard and had graduated summa cum laude from the business school; Charlie had managed only cum laude honors from Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government. Though Claire was presently on sick leave because of her challenging pregnancy, she had been assigned to serve as the embassy’s deputy economic attaché. Her Farsi wasn’t as fluent as Charlie’s, but everyone they knew at the embassy was impressed with how much progress she had made in such a short time. She wasn’t ready to give a speech yet, but she was certainly conversational. Indeed, she was already building a friendship with, swapping recipes with, and learning to cook from the wife of the Iranian cardiologist who lived in the apartment next door—the woman who made such mouthwatering Persian stew. Claire and Mrs. Shirazi had made a pact to speak only Farsi when they were together. It was challenging, but it was already paying off.

Charlie now removed from the utility chest a small box that looked like an alarm clock along with a set of simple headphones.

“What is that?” Claire whispered.

“It’s a radio.”

“We already have a radio.”

“This one’s different.”

“How?”

Charlie paused. There were secrets in his job he wasn’t authorized to share, even with his wife. But with events moving so rapidly, it was time to loosen the restrictions a little.

“This one lets me listen in on the frequency the Marines are using inside the embassy.”

Claire had no poker face, and her eyes betrayed the fears rising inside her. She wasn’t a fan of secrets. He wasn’t much of a fan either. But the simple fact was that his position in the Foreign Service was decidedly different from hers, and that difference just might keep them alive.

Charlie set up the specialized radio, plugged in the headphones, and began listening to the cross traffic. His pulse quickened instantly as he immediately heard gunfire, cursing, and shouting.

“Bravo Six, this is Tango Tango; what’s your twenty?”

“Main vault, Tango.”

“How many?”

“I’ve got nine with me—there’s ten of us total.”

“You guys okay?”

“Negative, Tango. I’ve got one with a bullet wound to the leg. Several with serious lacerations on their faces and hands from shattered glass.”

“Bogeys?”

“Dozens, sir.”

“What are they doing?”

“Pounding on the door with sledgehammers, sir. They’re demanding I let them in or—”

“Can you hold your position, Bravo Six?”

“I don’t know, sir. We have no food or water.”

“What about the documents?”

“Shredding them now, sir. But it’s going slow.”

Suddenly Charlie felt the color draining from his face.

Claire saw it. “What is it?”

He just stood there shaking his head in disbelief.

“What? What’s happening?” she pressed.

“There was just a massive explosion,” he whispered. “People are screaming. I’ve never . . .”

“Who? Where?”

“Rick, Phil, Cort—I’m not sure who else. They’re hiding in the main vault, in the chancery. But I think the students just blew the doors off.”

Charlie slowly took off the headphones and handed them to his wife, but she refused to put them on. She had neither the training nor the stomach for this.

“It’s all going to be okay, isn’t it, Charlie?” Claire asked. “Like February. It’s going to be like the Valentine’s Day thing—short and done, right?”

Charlie said nothing. He knew in his gut this wasn’t anything like the February 14 event, dubbed the St. Valentine’s Day Open House by the other Foreign Service officers. Just nine months before, a much smaller group of students—a few hundred, perhaps—had briefly jumped the embassy’s fence, stormed into a few buildings, held them for a couple of hours, made a fuss, made their point, and then gone home after the Khomeini regime insisted that they do so.

Claire was right; the Valentine’s Day incident had been short-lived. It had all happened before they’d arrived, but it was obvious that the effect on the decision makers in Washington had been enormous. Rather than inserting more Marines and engineers to harden and defend the American Embassy—thus sending an unequivocal message that such an assault against American sovereign territory in the heart of Tehran would never be tolerated again—the bureaucrats back at the White House and State Department had panicked. They’d reduced the embassy’s staff from nearly a thousand to barely sixty. The Pentagon had shown a similar lack of resolve. The number of U.S. military forces in-country had been drawn down from about ten thousand active-duty troops to almost none.

The only reason Charlie had been sent in—especially as green as he was—was because he happened to be one of the few men in the entire U.S. diplomatic corps who was actually fluent in Farsi. None of the three CIA guys on site even spoke the language. How was that possible? The whole notion of State Department and CIA personnel being inside a country whose language they didn’t speak seemed ludicrous to Charlie. How could one government understand another—much less build a healthy, positive, long-lasting relationship—without at least being able to talk in the other’s heart language? It couldn’t, Charlie knew, and now Washington was about to pay the piper.