BLACK PRESIDENT, Chapter 43. A glimpse into the life of CIA chief William Casey- Middle East contacts helped stall release of the hostages taken in Iran, to insure win by Reagan.

<https://newrepublic.com/article/172324/its-settled-reagan-campaign-delayed-release-iranian-hostages>

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

July 14, 1980

William Casey’s rented Mercedes passed the familiar Moorish landmarks and he couldn’t help thinking how much he loved Madrid. It was one of those ancient European cities that had the old weathered veneer, but offered 20th century accommodations – great hotels, the finest cooking, plus sexy and affordable women whenever he was so inclined. His wife would certainly never be the wiser if he indulged, and he definitely had, upon occasion. Sex was a great tension-reliever and his high-up foreign operatives provided professional call girls said to be “clean and trust-worthy.” After all, he convinced himself, it was impolite, even improper, to turn down a gift in a foreign culture. He couldn’t risk slighting any one of the important contacts he did business with, whether in Syria, Iran, Jordan, Egypt or elsewhere. The woman he had bedded the previous night in Paris had been exceptional. She had resembled a typical American college girl from Iowa or some other small mid- west town, but she had been thoroughly professional in every way.

Tires squealed as the car turned a sharp corner, and Casey’s daydream got cut short. He began paying more attention to the numbers above the doors of buildings that flew past. The facades seemed more weathered as they approached the old section of Madrid, near the main bull ring. He knew the landmarks well, and when the car broke out of narrow streets into the grand traffic circle of Monument de la Rehoes he called out to the driver, “Here! RIGHT TURN HERE!”

Casey’s guard, Manuel, riding in the front passenger seat, kept a tight grip on his Uzi, but let it dangle low between his right leg and the door so that even a pedestrian standing right against the car could not easily have spotted the weapon. Fernando, who shared the back seat with Casey, exited first, his heavy semi-automatic .45 in shoulder holster pressed against an elbow as he swung around to shut the car door.

Before leaving, Casey gave orders to the driver. “Back here at 1800, OK? At this same corner. If we’re not here, then circle one more time.”

“Yes sir,” said Donatello, a career diplomat and CIA operative, who spoke five languages. “Will do!”

Casey and Fernando didn’t hang around to watch the car pull out into traffic. They walked the twenty feet along the uneven sidewalk and mosiac-dotted walls, then cut through a narrow alley to the next street over, quieter, with no name and no traffic. Somewhere, high above street-level there was a sign, but it was so dirty and weatherworn that the letters remained unreadable even to slow- moving pedestrians. In less than a hundred feet, Fernando turned and led the way into a long corridor. When they reached a staircase he paused, holding Casey back with his arm. Sometimes, Fernando had learned, a person can detect evil in the air and avoid it if it is not his fate. He closed his eyes and listened carefully for several long moments, sensing the four flights of space above them. He believed his spirit could soar high above, detecting the vibes all the way up through Hotel Caroke’s walls and into the one-room office of Mr. Mehdi Karrubi. When it felt safe he nodded, and the two men started climbing the rock-faced stairs.

Casey made good time behind the younger man, still feeling fairly fleet as they hit the top step and headed over to the wooden door marked “407.” The Caroke had been his safe-house-away- from-home for previous meetings in Madrid. The hostage crisis in Iran had put things on a need-to-know basis, soured some contacts, but despite present tensions, Hashemi, the CIA’s best contact man there, had been helpful in bringing both parties together. And, of course, Karrubi, ostensibly a dealer in Western Antiquities, stood to make many hundreds of thousands of dollars – a strong incentive for helping men of different cultures behave themselves and interact with the utmost civility.

Fernando reached the massive door, which looked solid enough to withstand a frontal attack by Alexander the Great himself, and gave the special coded knock. After a few seconds, Karrubi peeked out through a concealed eye-hole and began unlatching the numerous locks. To visitors of his Persian antiquities collection he repeated his logic for such thick “privacy” doors: In a building over a thousand years old one must be even more prudent, he would explain, which is why the hotel supplied the densest of woods–imported madrone–for my office. Of course, the door was neither the property nor inspiration of the hotel, but simply a CIA installation, to protect its own people while on assignment.

As soon as Karrubi welcomed Casey with an American military style salute and greeted Fernando with a handclasp, he slid a heavy cross-beam through the thick metal stirrups attached to the door and walls, then lowered a thick round steel bolt into the floor.

“Gentlemen, so good to see you. May I offer some tea and breads,” said Karrubi, bowing in the polite manner suitable for the occasion. He had purchased an array of the baked goods that morning, which he’d been told Bill Casey so ravenously devoured, on his last visit with Mr. Hashemi in 1979.

“Thank you, Mehdi,” smiled Casey, selecting a large, bear-claw- shaped pastry with white frosting. After taking a big bite followed by aromic tea chaser, Casey exclaimed, “Lovely,” and got down to business.

“So it’s understood, that we can offer everything...except the Stingers.” Casey, wiped his mouth with a napkin. He knew he was on a short leash for such an off-the-record “unscheduled” meeting. Of course there would be nothing written down to give proof that the gathering ever took place.

“I know that was a pre-empt, but you must consider how easy it is to trace that weaponry back. The others, the intercons, Jacks, the ammo and such can be used without the risk of political fallout. Surely this, along with the pledge for continued oil, will be acceptable. Israel is ready to move on this now. I’m set to meet with them either tonight or in the morning, depending on these results. That is, as soon as we have assurance that the hostages will not be released until after January 22.”

“If we lose that timetable then there is just no reason to proceed. We must be assured that the release of hostages will take place only under a Reagan-Bush administration. You know Carter will stop the arms deal dead in its tracks. He’s all over us, all over every detail at CI. We just can’t move an inch on this.”

Casey took another bite of the pastry, chewed, swallowed, and waited for a response. Karrubi smiled broadly, as was his custom regarding whatever good or bad news was being translated. Sometimes his Persian-speaking mind refused to hear the English words, got confused with all its gibberish. He felt comfortable with Casey’s southern-drawled American dialect and wanted to give him the “yes” that would make Karrubi himself a rich man by most people’s standards. Of course he would only accept the commission as a gift from Allah, one to further the revolution and bring praise and love to Ayatollah Khomeini. If he did receive the influx of cash, he would need to first show it to Khomeini, actually hand him the wads of currency. Only if Khomeini then handed it back, returned it to his hands, could Mehdi Karrubi keep the funds without great danger to himself and his extended family. Karrubi had set his sights on becoming a high government official in his beloved Iran, a man of respect and dignity, and would not let unpurified money compromise his chances.

“Without Stingers it is less likely this schedule will be met,” said Karrubi. “We must be clear here. You carry the word of your boss, Mr. Reagan, and we believe that. And I can carry the words back to my esteemed Ayatollah...and he will believe me. But until the arms can actually be seen, touched by him, he cannot grant you this favor. You must trust that, foremost. The Ayatollah will never lie to me or to you. It is forbidden in all ways. If you can begin, perhaps, with the small arms, show us that this transfer is actual, then a trickle can become a stream, and then a river. It is this river that will make happen that which you request.”

Casey was prepared for such Middle East hardball. He had experienced the manner of doing business before, but not for such high stakes as determining the next President of the United States. He was ready to enact step #2.

“I meet with men tonight who will arrange the transfers. You know we are insuring the return of Iran’s frozen assets. That is, President Reagan, when he is President, agrees to return the assets. But he must be elected to carry this promise out and...that depends heavily on your understanding of our position.”

Casey paused to clear his head, took a small sip of tea and continued. “There will be massive pressure on your Ayatollah to free the hostages earlier than our January date. Can he resist that pressure? The Stingers could be part of the deal, but we will only have access to that hardware after Ronald Reagan is elected and formally installed in office. Do you understand?”

Mehdi Karrubi sat back in his comfortable chair. As he lifted a pastry and brought it to his mouth he wondered if the deal could stay the course. Success meant the revolution had succeeded. His Ayatollah would be a hero to all Iran. The money, those regained frozen assets, would incur favor from much of the ruling class. Praise be to Allah. The reforms would be bargained into law. And he, Karrubi, would be elevated to high stature, bringing honor to the history of his family, to be remembered and sung about for a thousand years. While the American was not an elegant man by any stretch of the imagination – jowly face, stooped posture, baggy clothes – he was clearly a smart man. Very smart...and very deceptive. This Casey sitting before him looked like a man who could get things done. He was the kind of man that rulers of nations must ultimately trust.

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https://newrepublic.com/article/172324/its-settled-reagan-campaign-delayed-release-iranian-hostages