BOOK TWO                                      
JANUARY, 1953

THE MAN IN BLACK PAJAMAS
"Let me tell you a story, Ambassador," Mossadeq said with a serious look on his face. He sat on the edge of a small couch in black pajamas and a purple robe. His shoe-button eyes, which could glimmer with joy, were now moist and sad. The Iranian premier made no effort to disguise the fact that he had been weeping before the American ambassador was ushered into his residence.

"You wanted to see me about some urgent matter, Your Excellency?" replied Ambassador Steer. Steer, a tall, gaunt diplomat, had served America in some of the most difficult trouble spots in the world Moscow during World War II, Athens at the time of the Greek civil war, Belgrade at the time of Tito's break with Stalin, and New Delhi at the time of India's independence but he found the situation in Iran especially trying. He couldn't help liking Dr. Mossadeq, a prince who had entered politics at the age of seventy-four and who had become a living symbol of nationalism to the Iranian people. But on the other hand, he knew from the Embassy's intelligence reports that Iran could remain solvent for only another few months without oil revenues. Something had to give way: either Mossadeq or the oil companies.

"My story will take only a minute of your time," Mossadeq whispered in a frail voice, "and I think it will help you understand why the prospect of negotiating with the British makes us ... how shall I put it? ... uneasy."

Steer obligingly sat down across from the Premier. He could hear a crowd shouting something in Farsi through the closed windows. He noticed that Mossadeq clutched a bottle of heart stimulant in his left hand, as if he were expecting an attack at any moment.

"Twelve years ago my nephew, Ali Reza, received his commission in the Iranian Navy. Of course, we only had three ships, but he was made the captain of a small vessel, the Palang." Mossadeq pronounced Palang with a heavy nasal twang. "The Palang had little to do. It simply sailed back and forth in front of the British refinery at Abadan to protect it from any surprise attack by the Germans."

"This was in 1941, I assume," Steer said knowingly.

Mossadeq's face was perfectly divided by a long vertical line. "It was a time when Iran was neutral in the European war, and looked on the British as friends. Of course, we didn't understand the politics of oil in those days. In any case, the Palang was at anchor in front of the refinery at Abadan, at peace with the world, and my nephew was at watch on the bridge. Through his binoculars, he saw a British cruiser approaching. It was the H.M.S. Shoreham. He waved to the British officers on the deck and they waved back. Why shouldn't he think the British were friendly?" Mossadeq asked rhetorically, then continued. "When the Shoreham was practically next to the Palang, its gunners opened fire with five-inch guns. Some of our sailors' arms were blown off while they were still waving to their British friends. The Palang sank in less than five minutes."

"What happened to your nephew?" asked Steer, thinking instinctively of his own son.

"His body was found washed up on the beach a week later. By that time, British paratroopers had our oil fields, and, together with the Russians, they had divided our country, but you know all this."

"I can't say that I understand it, except that it was wartime and the British were afraid that Reza Shah would collaborate with the Germans."

Mossadeq shook his head. "But why sink a ship without warning?" "Perhaps the British feared that the Palang would fire on the refinery at Abadan when they landed troops in Iran." Steer chose his words carefully.

"So the lesson is that the British will go to any length in order to keep control of their oil supply in Iran. When it comes to oil, Iranian lives don't mean a damn thing. Do you disagree, Ambassador?" "My interpretation of history is not particularly relevant now. The problem, if I may put it bluntly, Dr. Mossadeq . . ."

"Please be candid. It is the quality I respect most in Americans."

"You're right in saying that the British desperately need Iranian oil but Iran also desperately needs the money from the British purchase of your oil. You cannot survive without it. Therefore, there must be an accommodation."

"Yes, we need the money that is ours," Mossadeq interrupted, thrusting his arms in the air like a prophet. "The oil is Iranian. We will compensate the British for their investment, and sell them as much oil as they want at a fair price."

"They have a lease that runs for another forty years. They will not accept nationalization as a matter of principle. There must be some middle ground."

"We will not compromise if it means giving away an inch of our sovereignty. They will never again find Iranian sailors waving to them when they come to invade our country."

"They do not have to invade Iran. They can prevent Iran from selling any oil. They know that you cannot let Iran collapse into bankruptcy .. ."

"Nor can you," Mossadeq said, with a dry smile on his face. He changed instantaneously from a demagogic prophet railing against British imperialism to a cunning diplomat finessing a difficult point. "If the British were to succeed in destroying my government, who would pick up the pieces? It might be the Communists, then the Soviets would move in. You can't allow that, can you? just imagine, if the Soviet Union controlled the Persian Gulf, where would Europe get its oil from then? No, America could not allow Iran to collapse." He had played his trump card.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Your Excellency. The United States is caught in a complicated situation among allies. The British might prefer to take their chances with another Iranian government. There are other Iranian leaders. . . ."

Using an old shepherd's cane for support, Mossadeq propped himself up and walked to the window. "I want you to hear something, Ambassador." With a burst of strength, he flung open the double windows and stepped onto the balcony. Again, he was the prophet.

Steer could feel the room shaking as the crowd shouted "Mossadeq zindabad!' "Long live Mossadeq!" Mossadeq bowed humbly to his supporters and the crowd fell silent. Steer couldn't understand what Mossadeq was saying, but there was no doubt in his mind that the hearts of the people of Iran belonged to Mossadeq.

The Prime Minister, now standing erect, stepped in from the balcony and closed the doors. "Don't count on another leader, my friend. The young upstart who calls himself Shah has no following in this country. I keep him around only because he is a symbol, and at this point Iran needs symbols. I am the man with whom you must deal. If I go, it will be the Soviets who take my place."

"President Eisenhower wants peace in the Middle East," Steer said, trying not to sound pious.

"Everyone wants peace. The Britain wants a piece of Iran itself, its oil fields."

"As a friend and a man I respect, let me warn you, Dr. Mossadeq, that President Eisenhower will never betray the British. That must be the assumption on which you base everything else."

"Are you suggesting that he might even collaborate with them to replace me?"

"I said nothing of the kind." Steer turned away from Mossadeq. He wondered how much the old fox already knew.

" Nor did you say anything about your CIA. Any United States intervention into our internal politics would be disastrous, as you must realize. Iranians consider the Americans our friends. We still wave to your sailors when they come into our ports. We don't expect treachery."

"What do you expect?" Steer interrupted. He could feel that the moment was right to press Mossadeq. "We expect American aid. I am writing a letter to Eisenhower asking for a loan of one hundred and fifty million dollars to see us over the next six months. By that time, if the British don't accept our terms, we can arrange to sell the oil to American companies." He made a few hasty calculations with his fingers. He was now acting like a businessman in the bazaar.

"Oil is a very complicated business, Your Excellency. The international oil companies might not want the American independents to have the oil."

"We can't worry about their problems, can we, Ambassador? I want this letter to be delivered to your new President. Mossadeq took a typed, three-page letter out of his briefcase and handed it to Steer.

Steer diner in the residency that evening with his son Brixton and his very attractive English girlfriend, Arabella. Just as dessert arrived dates from the oasis of Bam a marine guard handed appeared with an EYES ONLY cable for him. He excused himself and went to the code room for it to be decrypted. It was from Secretary of State, John Foster Dulles. Dulles was sending Kim Roosevelt to Iran as his ' personal representative, He would be arriving February first. Steer was to furnish him with whatever assistance he requested, even if was "unconventional."


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