BOOK THREE                                       
AUGUST, 1953

THE FINAL COUP

Brixton Steer, who had returned to Cambridge to attend summer school, squinted in disbelief at the headline of the August 21st edition of New York Times, ROYALISTS OUST MOSSADEQ. He read it aloud to twice to his fiance, Arabella, who was sprawled out on the leather couch at the other side of his dorm room in Adams House. Arabella's mind was elsewhere. For the past half-hour, she had tried to read a boring book about the American Constitution to prepare for a make-up exam, but her mind had floated elsewhere the Mediterranean. She thought enviously of Christina cruising in a bikini, or less, on some mysterious yacht, which she had refused to identify in her post card. Why was her exhibitionist sister free to wander the Mediterranean, while she was stuck in Adams House on an eternal study-date with her fiance? Life seemed unfair.

Steer, carrying the newspaper over to her, forced himself onto the sofa. He read aloud, "Iranians loyal to Shah Mohammed Reza Pahlevi, including Teheran civilians, soldiers and rural tribesmen, swept Premier Mossadeq out of power today . Mossadeq, disguised as an old woman, was arrested in his home. Can you believe it, Bella?"

She answered without looking up from the book that she was pretending to read. "No. I can't believe it."

"But it says so, right here in the Times," he raised his voice and repeated, one word at a time for emphasis, "ROYALISTS OUST MOSSADEQ."

"I believe it says that in the Times. I don't doubt there was a coup d'etat in Iran. But I don't believe that is was the work of royalists, or 'Teheran civilians, soldiers and tribesman.' You took Foxx's course on coup d'etats".

"It was pretty convoluted."

"You got an A+."

"You got a B-."

"And you got an A+, even though you missed his final exam. I don't understand that."

She knew exactly why she, a heavily petted teacher's pet, got an A+, but, preferring deception to truth-dumping, replied innocently, "Perhaps he like the point I made in class."

"I never got his point."

"His point was that coup-makers control the flow of information. So you can't believe anything you read about a coup d'etat."

"The New York Times publishes facts. What do you think happened?"

"The American CIA pulled the coup." She turned back to the book in her hand.

"That is crazy. My father is Ambassador. He would have known..."

"Maybe it was kept secret from him. You remember Foxx's lecture about Venezuela. Even the President didn't know."

"Foxx is a conspiracy theorist. There couldn't have been a secret conspiracy in Iran. Too many people would have known about, including my father." "Whatever you say, Brixton".

He took the book from her hand and pointed to its title. "This book is called American Constitutional Democracy. Why? Because America is a democracy. It is governed by laws. It does not overthrow friendly governments. It does not engage in secret conspiracies. You do not really understand how America works."

"You are right, dear" she said, twisting her body towards him, putting her right hand behind his head and kissing him on the lips. She slipped her left hand under his T-shirt and then southward to a more exciting region, thinking to herself "He believes in his country, his father and the New York Times. He doesn't believe in secrecy, betrayal or conspiracy. He doesn't even suspect why he got the A+ from Foxx. I may have found the ideal husband."

After a long wine-laden lunch with two former OSS colleagues at the F Street Club, Tracy crossed the Washington Mall to a group of alphabetically-labeled buildings that temporarily housed the Central Intelligence Agency. He entered L Building and was about to enter his corner office,” when his secretary told him the Director had called twice from Switzerland. While he waited for her to call him back on a secure line, he grew progressively more apprehensive. Allen Dulles rarely called his operation officers, and he never called when he was on vacation. Tracy assumed something must have gone terribly wrong: was it Foxx? Had he resurfaced? Was it the blackmail photographs? Before he could even count the possible disasters, the red light flashed on the intercom. He picked up the phone." "Great show, Tracy," Dulles began. "I wanted to personally congratulate you. On the Q.T. I'll tell you what Boy Scout said when he got to the palace. This is an encrypted phone, of course?" "Of course, Sir" Tracy answered. He knew that Dulles used the phrase "of course" as a tacit interrogative.

"Boy Scout said he owed his peacock throne to the great Allah, his loyal subjects and to Kim Roosevelt. That is a debt America will collect on."

" As well as the $5 million bucks we gave to Zahedi." Tracy added.

"Boy Scout didn't know you were the brains behind it all. He didn't have any need to know that you planned the Ajax Scenario. It was your work, of course."

"You're being much too generous, Sir. There was also a professor ..."

"Foxxy or something. Kim told me about him. But he was only a part-timer, of course"

"Of course, sir." Tracy decided that the truth, at this point, was his best lie. "Kim is absolutely right, Sir. Foxx wasn't involved in the final round. He went on vacation in France. No need to over-involve him"

"As I said, it was entirely your show. Why be modest, I need a man who can plan these little enterprises on my personal staff. Are you game?"

"Yes, Sir"

" You'll be called Deputy Director for Contingency Planning but the title is code-word classified, of course. "

Tracy had one more task to take care of before he joined Dulles' staff. He called in McNab. "Take a chair, John. There is something we need to discus. Any progress on the Foxx hunt?"

"Its not good. The French liaison told me that SDECE able to track Foxx as far as a Patisserie in the port of Cannes. He bought 6 croissants, put them in a paper bag, walked to the harbor and..."

"And?" Tracy repeated, wondering where McNab's detective story was headed.

"Vanished, like a puff of some, into thin air. SDECE had 100 agents comb the area. They checked every hotel, every boat in the harbor. Not a trace. How can a Harvard professor just disappear? Doesn't make sense."

"Or the French took care of him discretely for us."

"Do you mean..." McNab stopped himself short, he didn't want to use the M word. He knew that SDECE was known for their "wet work".

"I mean it would be better for us if we didn't pursue this matter further. I am shredding all the records bearing on Foxx's work at the Gaming Center." Tracy had calculated, wherever Foxx might be, it was a good career move to expunge the contributions that he had made to Ajax.

On Tuesday 3 PM on August 25, 1953, the short-term tanker charter market in the Persian Gulf, had reached a record high. In less than a week, prices per ton had soared thirty fold. That same day, the first three independently-owned tankers arrived in Abadan. They had been chartered a week earlier to FOXX CRUDE in Zug, Switzerland.

The Hotel Sireneuse, built on a hillside above the Italian fishing village of Positano, had six separate levels. Foxx was on the fourth level, seated at an 18th century desk in the serenely quiet lobby. He had left his Harvard clothes behind, as a symbolic act of rebirth, and now wore linen slacks, a raw silk shirt with epaulets on each shoulder and blue-tinted sun glasses. He carefully reviewed the brief letter he had just written to Professor W. L. Lock, the Chairman of the Government Department at Harvard.

" I regret to inform you that I will not be returning to Harvard this Fall," it began. " I have discovered recently that Pathological Politics is not a subject that can be, or should be, taught in a political science course. I no longer believe that power is the corruption of politics. It is the essence of politics, the reason that it exists. At its deepest level, it involves not just the control of the government but the control of information. At this level the level that interests me this power thus furnishes it own camouflage. Attempting to penetrate this camouflage with tools in the academic arsenal, like books, journals, newspapers, empirical studies and interviews is, in my view, an exercise in futility. In keeping with this view, I have decided to excuse myself from the academic world. Please respectfully accept my recommendation. Yours truly, Jacob Foxx."

He placed the note in an envelope and tipped the bell boy 5,000 lira post it. He then had the hotel operator put through his call to the Gerhard Kretch. With his inside information now public, he had decided it was time for the final transaction.

Kretch, a savvy charter broker in Zug, had been waiting for Foxx's call. Foxx had come highly recommended from Onassis himself. Without wasting time, he gave Foxx the number he sought in dollars. It was the latest quote per ton for available tankers in the Persian Gulf.

Foxx could feel the adrenaline rush as he calculated his potential profit from selling his charters. It would be just over $6 million, after repaying Onassis' loan. He told Kretch, "Sell all three charters."

"Done," Kretch reported three minutes later. "Where do you want the proceeds cabled?"

Foxx provided Kretch with his new numbered account at the Credit Suisse. He hung about the phone. It had taken him less than five minutes to become a multimillionaire.

He walked up the stairs to the sixth level of the Sireneuse. The tiled terrace was shaded by an exquisite expanse of purple bougainvillea. Under it, there were pairs of discretely placed white wicker chairs separated from each other by groves of lemon trees in ceramic pots. Two waiter in white jackets stood behind the bar, pouring tea. Foxx sat in the furthest chair, he wanted to be alone. In the blue waters of the Bay of Amalfi, he could see the receding white hull of the SS Christina. It passed Li Galli island, the legendary home of the Sirens, and headed out to sea. In its wake, a school of dolphins gamboled.

Suddenly, a straw hat flew through the air and magically descended in his lap. He immediately recognized it. It was the hat he had brought with him from Harvard and had left behind on the Christina. He turned around.

"You're redeemed," Christina said, holding out to him a glass of bubbling Champagne.


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