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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