On Wings of Eagles by Ken Follett Page B

Young
        teenagers threw Molotov cocktails--bottles of gasoline with blazing rag
        fuses-at cars. Their targets seemed random. We might be next, Bill thought.
        He heard shooting, but it was dark and he could not see who was firing at
        whom. The driver never went at less than top speed. Every other street was
        blocked by a mob, a barricade, or a blazing car: the driver turned around,
        blind to all traffic signals, and raced through side streets and back
        alleys at breakneck speed to circumvent the obstacles. We're not going to
        get there alive, Bill thought. He touched the rosary in his pocket.
        It seemed to go on forever-then, suddenly, the little car swung into a
        circular courtyard and pulled up. Without speaking, the burly driver got
        out of the car and went into the building.
        The Ministry of Justice was a big place, occupying a whole city block. In
        darkness-the streedights were all off-Bill could make out what seemed to be
        a five-story building. The driver was inside for ten or fifteen minutes.
        When he came out he climbed behind the wheel and drove around the block.
        Bill assumed he had registered his prisoners at the front desk.
        At the rear of the building the car mounted the curb and stopped on the
        sidewalk by a pair of steel gates set into a long, high brick wall.
        Somewhere over to the right, where the wall ended, there was the vague
        outline of a small park or garden. The driver got out. A peephole opened in
        one of the steel doors, and there was a short conversation in Farsi. Then
        the doors opened. The driver motioned Paul and Bill to get out of the car.
    They walked through the doors.
        Bill looked around. They were in a small courtyard. He saw ten or fifteen
        guards armed with automatic weapons scattered around the courtyard. In
        front of him was a circular driveway with parked cars and trucks. To his
        left, up against the brick wall, was a single-story building. On his right
        was another steel door.
        The driver went up to the second steel door and knocked. There was another
        exchange in Farsi through another peephole. Then the door was opened, and
        Paul and Bill were ushered inside.
    44 Ken Folleu
     
        They were in a small reception area with a desk and a few chairs. Bill
        looked around. There were no lawyers, no Embassy staff, no EDS executives
        here to spring him from jail. We're on our own, he thought, and this is
        going to be dangerous.
        A guard stood behind the desk with a ball-point pen and a pile of forms. He
        asked a question in Farsi. Guessing, Paul said: "Paul Chiapparone," and
        spelled it.
        Filling out the forms took close to an hour. An Englishspeaking prisoner
        was brought from the jail to help translate. Paul and Bill gave their
        Tehran addresses, phone numbers, and dates of birth, and listed their
        possessions. Their money was taken away and they were each given two
        thousand rials, about thirty dollars.
        They were taken into an adjoining room and told to remove their clothes.
        They both stripped to their undershorts. Their clothing and their bodies
        were searched. Paul was told to get dressed again, but not Bill. It was
        very cold: the heat was off here, too. Naked and shivering, Bill wondered
        what would happen now. Obviously they were the only Americans in the jail.
        Everything he had ever read or heard about being in prison was awful. What
        would the guards do to him and Paul? What would the other prisoners do?
        Surely any minute now someone would come to get him released.
    "Can I put on my coat?" he asked the guard.
    ne guard did not understand.
    "Coat," Bill said, and mimed putting on a coat.
    The