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THE
MAN IN BLACK PAJAMAS
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"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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