The Oil Minister

…  We had just finished breakfast in front of the hotel when two disguised men in black Kurdish dress drove up on an off-road motorcycle. The man on the passenger seat had a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. They inquired after the man who wanted to speak to Sheik Akar Ahmad, and I answered, but resolved that all three of us would ride to the Kurdish leader, mainly because I didn’t want to let my traveling companions out of my sight. “Have you got a car?” the Kurds asked.

I pointed to the Datsun. The pickup truck had a front bench seat for three people, as well as the cargo bed. I didn’t have to worry about who would sit where. The Kurds peremptorily decided that one of them would drive while the passenger with the Kalashnikov would ride in the bed with us. However, there was still a minor matter that they could not dispense with: we all had to wear black blindfolds, so that we would be unable to take note of the route to the tribal chieftain.

Ali and Hassan began panicking. Both the Shah as well as Ayatollah Khomeini had led their opponents to their deaths wearing black blindfolds. I asked for a moment of quiet and did some thinking. A trap could not be ruled out, but was rather improbable. What worried me more than the blindfolding was the notion of leaving Ali and Hassan alone, because I was afraid that upon my return, Ali would be on his way home and Hassan would be walking around the market, undisguised.

Then I suddenly thought of the “naked man trick,” which had stood me in good stead right at the outset of my career. I had Ali give me the car key, asked the Kurds to wait a moment, and went up to our room with Ali and Hassan.

“If you refuse to wear blindfolds—something I can certainly understand—then I’ll ride to the sheik alone. I’ll be back in a couple of hours. But under no circumstances do I want either of you to leave the room. Do you both understand that?” Both men nodded in relief. “If you’re quite definitely not leaving the room, then you won’t be needing any clothing. Kindly strip down to your underwear and stuff everything in your pillowcase!” I told both men.

“Why? We’ll stay in the room anyway, just as we are,” Hassan said, outraged, while Ali concurred with him. “Because I’m not taking any chances! And because our lives are at stake! There isn’t any more time for debate. Either you two do what I say right now, and make it snappy, or I’ll drive off in the pickup truck and never see either of you again,” I threatened sharply. As the two of them stood before me in their underwear and handed me the filled-up pillowcases, I ordered them to crawl under the bedsheets and hand me their underwear as well. I tied up the pillowcases and took them along with me. After closing and locking the hotel room door, I shoved a wooden match between the door and its frame, a few centimeters from the upper right-hand corner. That way, upon returning I could tell whether the door had been opened during my absence.

The bags of clothing landed on the pickup truck’s bed, and the seating arrangement was clear: one of the Kurds drove the pickup, I sat blindfolded in the middle, and the Kurd with the Kalashnikov sat on the other side, next to me.

Sheik Akar Ahmad somewhat resembled a prince from one of the fables in A Thousand and One Nights. He was wearing a white turban, white bloomers, a crimson belly sash and a crimson vest trimmed with gold brocade. His reception room could have competed with a number of museums specializing in oriental art: heavy Persian rugs on the floor and on the walls, delicately carved furniture, a samovar, tea tables, tea glasses, silver spoons, a large bowl full of dates, and tiny porcelain equestrian figurines.

The man, whom I estimated to be in his mid-forties, asked me, in perfect English: “Who are you and what can I do for you?” Meanwhile, one of his servants set about pouring me a glass of tea. “My name is Thomas Freeman. Are you Sheik Akar Ahmad?” I wanted to affirm. The sheik nodded.

“Then I’d like to talk with you frankly. I am supposed to accompany an acquaintance over the border into Türkiye, and I am requesting your assistance. It goes without saying that if you can and wish to help me, I shall reciprocate.” “Is the man we’re talking about here Ali Reza Khan?” inquired the sheik.

Startled, I attempted to conceal my surprise, replying, “Please understand that I cannot mention any names.” “Oh, you’ve already done that! I read it in your eyes,” the sheik replied. He continued, “Last week, an Ameri249 can embassy employee—presumably a CIA agent — recruited a taxi driver, who was supposed to drive the former head of the National Iranian Oil Company into Türkiye, along with an escort. The taxi driver is a traitor and wanted to squeeze money from both the CIA as well as Khomeini’s people. They’re already expecting you both at the checkpoint!” “How do you know this?” I asked, as emotionlessly as I could.

“Two of my men are working undercover as Revolutionary Guards, one of them at the checkpoint.” “What do you propose?” I asked. “First off, you’ve got to get rid of the taxi driver. Either execute him or put him safely out of commission for the next thirty-six hours!” the sheik replied. “I didn’t hire the taxi driver you’re talking about. I told him I would still need more time to procure the money he was demanding, and that I would get back to him. We’ve arrived with another driver, one who enjoys my confidence.”

“That sounds very good. Still, you shouldn’t trust anyone except yourself,” the sheik lectured me. Those were the exact words they had constantly drilled into us during the training at the CIA camp. “Where are Ali Reza Khan and your driver now?” asked the sheik.

“Esteemed Sheik. You have just now given me good advice, advice that I shall gladly heed. Please tell me first how you can assist me. Then I will tell you where the two men are to be found.”

Sheik Akar Ahmad smiled appreciatively and explained: “There are two options for safely circumventing the checkpoint. One is to use horses. That takes around ten hours, and all of you would have to be experienced riders. One of my men will accompany you. He’ll spend the night in Türkiye and come back with the horses the following day. The second option is to take three off-road motorcycles. My men will drive. You’ll sit on the pillion seat of one motorcycle, and Hassan will take the pillion seat of the second one. The third motorcycle will carry drinking water, gasoline for the return trip, reserve ammo, and emergency repair and first aid kits. The journey will take five to six hours for the two of you, and my men will come back the same day.” “I like the motorcycle option better. How quickly can you organize that, and how much will it cost me?” I asked.

“My men can depart tomorrow morning at dawn. What can you pay? What is this man’s life worth to you?” the sheik asked.

“$10,000 U.S. in cash,” I replied. “$10,000? That isn’t much for a human life. And it isn’t much when you’re familiar with the CIA’s budget. But if we Kurds help, we’re not doing it for the money, but rather for ideological reasons. Something much more preferable than money, though, would be a gift you can make to me,” the Sheik said.

“Tell me your wish, and I shall attempt to fulfill it, insofar as it is within my power to do so,” I offered him. “We had a sand-colored Datsun pickup truck exactly like the one you rode in. Until the Revolutionary Guards stole it from us. We really miss this vehicle,” said the sheik.

“The truck belongs to my driver,” I replied. “Perhaps I can persuade him to sell it. Ali Reza Khan and my driver, by the way, are currently lying naked in our hotel room, covered with nothing but a sheet. That way, they can’t run off. Their clothing is packed in pillowcases, sitting in the bed of the pickup truck.”

The sheik liked the story so much, he had to laugh out loud. It’s probably a rare occasion that anyone has heard a sheik laugh so loudly. It was an opportune moment for me to sum up the situation.

“Your men will come to the hotel with three motorcycles at 5:00 am tomorrow morning,” I said. “Your people ought to prepare a document for the sale of the Datsun. If my driver is willing to sell, I’ll pay him, one of your men can sign the contract, and he’ll get the keys. If my driver doesn’t sell, we’ll have to respect that, and I’ll give one of your men $10,000 U.S. in cash. Then we’ll get going. Where in Türkiye will your men drop us off?” “In Gever. The Turks call the place Yüksekova. It’ll be easy for you to continue along from there.” The sheik sealed our negotiation with a powerful handshake, instructed his people to drive me back, then called out, “Once you get to the edge of town, you can take off his blindfold!” When we reached Urmia, I asked both Kurds to go to a restaurant of their choice and get three roast chickens, a substantial portion of saffron rice, three large bottles of water and a large Coke.

In front of our hotel, both Kurds switched to their motorcycles, while I took the provisions and lifted both pillowcases, which were full to bursting, from the truck’s bed and marched up to the room. The match was still wedged against the upper right corner of the door—a good sign. My two pals were lying there obediently, covered only with a sheet, and snoring — one of them louder than the other. The only reason to wake both of them would have been the freshly roasted chickens, but even those could wait. I decided to go to bed as well. Staring at the ceiling, I pondered what could still go awry, what I had overlooked or insufficiently thought through. Nothing occurred to me. Except for one prank—namely, I had no idea what Iranian humor was like, and it was time to find out. I locked both pillowcases filled with clothing into the room’s only wardrobe, and yelled, “Wake up, people, food!”

Ali and Hassan were sleeping so deeply that I had to repeat my announcement, a lot more loudly, and shake both men by the shoulder. “Where are my clothes?” asked Hassan, groggy with sleep. Ali was also looking at me inquisitively. “People,” I said with a serious face, “your clothes were incredibly filthy and reeking of sweat. So I took them to the laundry first. They’ll be ready tomorrow.” Hassan’s face grew red with fury. “Whaaat the hell? I want my clothes—now!” Ali, a bit depressed, added, “That wasn’t a good idea at all, Thomas. So how am I supposed to go to the reception desk to call my wife?”

“Aren’t you guys hungry at all?” I asked. “Without my clothes, I’m not eating a thing!” Hassan protested. Ali was likewise shaking his head. I allowed myself a little time before announcing, “I’ve got one piece of bad news and two pieces of good news for both of you. Which do you want to hear first?” “The bad news!” Ali asked.

“The bad news is, none of us will be leaving this room until tomorrow morning. At most to take a leak or for a quick phone call. It’s too dangerous, and it’s putting too much at risk.”

Once again, I made a kind of pregnant pause and waited until Hassan asked, “So what’s the good news, then?”

I opened up the wardrobe, gave each man his pillowcase stuffed with clothes, and said, “The first piece of good news is, you can put on your clothes again, but they’re just as unwashed and full of sweat as when you handed them over to me.”

Ali immediately shot me his mischievous grin, the one that had endeared me to him from the moment we had first met. Even Hassan managed to crack a smile. Both men were so happy that they didn’t even demand to hear my second bit of good news, namely, the successful negotiations with the sheik.

…