IRAN's CONTRIBUTION TO PEACE
"My Secret Mission to end the Vietnam War"
by Fereydoun Hoveyda
American Foreign Policy Interests, 23: 243-252, 2001
Copyright © 2001 NCAFP
1080-3920/01 $12.00 + .08
A Contribution to History:
My Secret Mission During the Vietnam War
Fereydoun Hoveyda
On October 31, 1968, President Lyndon
Johnson announced a halt in the bombing of North Vietnam, which, he said, could lead to a
peaceful settlement of the unpopular war. This unexpected declaration, which came
only five days before the presidential election, surprised almost everybody.
It was generally construed as a last-minute effort to help Hubert Humphrey's faltering
campaign. Had the president made his move earlier that year, political analysts said
at the time, Johnson would have assured his own reelection. Most commentators and
historians affirm that until October 1968, he had fiercely sided with top military
officials and resisted all steps toward peace. Thus to mention only one recent
example, in the 1998 book Flawed Giant: Lyndon Johnson and His Time, 1961-1973,
Professor Robert Dallek contended that by late 1967, when he could have used antiwar
sentiment at home and political developments in Vietnam to cut his losses and end the
bloodshed, President Johnson instead "stayed the course," having become blinded
by his own rhetoric and wishful thinking about the progress of the war. Actually,
that judgement is not correct. I would feel remiss if I continued to withhold the
facts I know.
In 1967 I undertook a highly secret mission at
the behest of President Johnson in order to sound out the North Vietnamese government
about the possibility of an honorable settlement of the conflict. Thirty-four years
after this assignment, I believe that I am naturally relieved of my oath of secrecy.
I have therefore decided to recount here my 1967 delicate and adventurous foray into
behind-the-scenes diplomacy.
In 1965, after having spent 7 years as attaché
at the Iranian Embassy in Paris and 13 years as an international civil servant at UNESCO's
headquarters in the French capital, I returned to the Foreign Ministry in Tehran to head
the Division of International Organizations. As such, every fall I attended the
session of the United Nations General Assembly in New York. In 1967, I served as one
of the Iranian delegates mostly in the Third Committee (Humanitarian and Social
Affairs). The "Group of 77" (developing countries) asked me to act as
their chief negotiator with the Western powers for the completion of the two Covenants on
Human Rights.
One October afternoon, as I was addressing the
committee, my deputy entered the conference room and hurriedly sat down behind me.
He placed a piece of paper on the table before me. It read, "The foreign
minister wants you to join him immediately in his hotel suite for a very important and
urgent matter." This interruption up-set me, but I managed to wind up my
remarks and turned toward my deputy with some anger: "What the heck? I have
urgent things to do here. . . .What is it about?"
He replied, "I am just repeating what the
minister said. I really don't know what he wants to discuss, I asked his aides. . .
. They are ignorant about the matter. . . . The only clue is that the cypher officer
brought him a personal communication from his imperial majesty just before the minister
gave me the message for you."
I was flabbergasted because the minister
(Ardeshir Zahedi) rather disliked me. He rarely invited me to his large suite in the
Waldorf Towers. Every year he came to New York for two or three weeks to attend the
General Assembly of the United Nations, where he delivered the usual political speech and
met his colleagues from other countries. He was accompanied by his own staff and
entourage of sycophants. He seldom entrusted me with any particular task. That
suited me fine, freeing me to use evenings to indulge in extracurricular activities and
see my American friends who were involved in literature and the cinema, theater, and the
arts. I used to meet him only at official functions, and even then we barely spoke
to each other. His unusual summons intrigued me. I obviously could not
disregard it: As minister; he was my boss. I gave the necessary instructions to my
deputy about the matter at hand and wended my way to the Waldorf Towers.
Twenty minutes later I entered the luxury
suite. The minister was in the midst of a discussion with his personal staff and
some visitors. As soon as he saw me, he literally jumped from his armchair and
embraced me effusively, as if I was one of his closest friends. He then directed me
to his bedroom, saying, "We cannot speak in front of all these people." He
offered me a cup of tea and showed me the decoded cable: "Top Secret. To
Fereydoun: Board immediately Iranair's direct flight to Tehran. Necessary orders
have been issued to the captain and to Mehrabad Airport. Signed MRP (the shah's
initials)."
I was dumbfounded: The shah's orders were
usually transmitted and signed by his private secretary. The minister was looking
quizzically at me. He probably thought I knew what it was about. Actually, I felt
terribly worried. I thought that something might have happened to my mother or to my
brother. It was a deep-seated Iranian custom to hide bad news as long as possible
from close relatives. But if the message involved news of that kind, the minister
would also have known about it. He probably had already called his friends in Iran.
Obviously, he was as bewildered as I.
I told him that I could not decipher the
meaning of the message. He did not believe me but retained his extraordinarily
amicable attitude. Later on I learned from one of his secretaries that he had been
impressed by the fact that the shah had addressed me by my first name; actually, that was
normal: Our family name was reserved for my brother, who was the prime minister.
I glanced at my wristwatch: already 5:00
p.m. I had just enough time to go to my hotel, pick up what I needed, and proceed to
Kennedy Airport. The minister reassured me: "Don't worry. I have given
instructions to Iranair; they won't fly without you. Take your time." A
knock sounded at the door of the bedroom. One of the minister's aides brought a
sealed en velope that the minister gave to me: "This is a highly confidential
report. You'll give it to his imperial majesty in person. It is very
important." He hugged me and accompanied me to the door of his suite.
I hurried to my modest hotel room and packed a
small suitcase. My telephone rang: The concierge informed me that our ambassador to
the United Nations was waiting in the lobby. He too embraced me and said, "My
limousine is here. I'll accompany you to the airport." I tried to
dissuade him. I wanted to be alone and think about possible reasons for my sudden
recall to Tehran. But he insisted and forced his invitation on me.
The ambassador; a close friend and my former
brother-in-law, Dr. Mehdi Vakil, tried hard to worm out the "secret" of the
shah's message. He wouldn't believe me when I told him that I hadn't the slightest
idea. I told him about my worries concerning my brother and my mother. He had
telephoned to his own brother in Tehran: "Thank God nothing untoward has
happened. Your mother is in good health, and your brother is still in office and
aware of your sudden trip." Although they relieved my worry, his words deepened
the mystery.
In the VIP lounge most of my colleagues had
assembled to wish me a happy trip. While in my inmost thoughts I anticipated the
worst, they seemed rather optimistic. They generally surmised that I was to be
promoted: a cabinet position or an important posting to an embassy. Their expressions of
friendliness were carefully calculated: They probably expected that I would give them a
boost once I was secure in my new position.
I finally boarded the 747. The captain
greeted me on the gangway, and the stewardess took me to the first-class bar, which had
been transformed into a bedroom. This reception was a good omen. Nevertheless,
I reviewed all the possibilities, starting with the worst scenario. If some adverse
event had happened, the minister and the ambassador would have been primed, for Tehran,
like all societies without free information, functioned as a never-ending rumor mill. Then
what? A promotion? My brother was opposed to my inclusion in the cabinet: He
was wary about possible accusations of nepotism. As for an embassy, there was no
opening at that time. True, the shah could at any moment recall whomever he wanted to
replace. But all the important embassies were headed by trusted friends of his.
Had I provoked the ire of the authoritarian
ruler because of the way in which I negotiated the two human rights pacts? I knew
his extreme sensitivity to the subject. Amnesty International's constant criticism
incensed him. Did he intend to berate me? Or had some of my "personal
enemies" convinced him to relieve me of my present position in the Foreign Ministry?
But if so, why all this secrecy? Could it reflect a desire not to embarrass my
brother, his prime minister?
In fact, as in all undemocratic regimes,
anything was possible, and ruminating about the shah's message was useless. I
swallowed a sleeping pill after dinner and went to bed. I barely slept.
Worries continued to whirl in my mind and in my dreams.
At breakfast time, the captain informed me that
during the usual 90-minute stop at London's Heathrow Airport, I would stay in the VIP
lounge. But our ambassador to England was waiting on the tarmac and whisked me away
in his limousine. I thought he might have new information, but he seemed as puzzled
as I. He had just heard from Zahedi about the shah's cryptic message.
I tried to catch up on my sleep during the
three-hour flight from London to Tehran, but to no avail. As the trip approached its
end, contradictory ideas revolved more and more rapidly in
my mind, and my apprehensions increased. Finally, the Boeing landed, and as soon as
it came to a stop and its door opened, two officers of the Imperial Guard entered the
first-class section. They came directly to me and escorted me toward a police car on the
tarmac. My worries reached a peak: Was I being arrested?
"Where are we going?" I asked.
One of the officers said, "We are not at
liberty to tell."
"What about my luggage?"
"It is being taken care of by our people
on the ground."
A minute later I found myself wedged between
the two officers on the back seat of the car. Four policemen on motorcycles preceded
the car, whose siren wailed regularly. It moved at neckbreaking speed while
motorists slowed down and drove on the sides of the road. Was I being given the full
VIP treatment, or being whisked away toward a secret place of detention? The car took the
highway leading to the northern suburbs. When I saw a sign indicating the village of
Evin, the location of an infamous Secret Police prison, my heart pounded until the car
raced past the sign.
A few minutes later it stopped at the entrance
of the shah's Niavaran palace. The iron gate opened, and the car proceeded slowly
toward the main palace. I was ushered into a kind of library. It was past
10:00 p.m., and the hubbub of conversation coming from the living room indicated that a
dinner reception was going on. Almost immediately, the Shah appeared and invited
me to sit on a couch beside him. His voice was solemn: "What I am about
to tell you is an absolute secret between me and the president of the United States.
It should remain so because the slightest leak might provoke an international crisis. You
have to swear that you'll remain discreet. . . even tight-lipped, no matter what
happens."
He shouted: "Come," the way
high-society people used to summon servants. Immediately, as an Arabian Nights genie
might have morphed into being, suddenly and mysteriously, a butler appeared and
bowed. The shah ordered him to bring a Koran, on which I took an oath of
secrecy. Although very secular in his daily life, the shah was deeply religious and
believed that one of the twelve Shiite imams protected him.
He lit a cigarette, inhaled a few puffs, and
then resumed talking: "The Americans are tired of the war in Vietnam. We (he
always used the first person plural to refer to himself) have often told them that this
war is a mistake. . . . Now President Johnson is terribly upset by the in creasing
number of casualties. Contrary to the assessments of his military advisers, he is
con vinced that no side can win the war. But at the same time, because the United
States is a super power both economically and militarily, it can, in the long term, bleed
Vietnam to death. President Johnson does not want to bear the brunt of widening the
operations and increasing the number of dead both among the combatants and the
civilians. He now favors peace, but an honorable and an acceptable one.
"Officially he cannot announce such a
reversal of policy before necessary and significant steps have been taken. With the
American 'open system' and the media's attention riveted on the White House, secret or
even quiet diplomacy on the part of the president and his aides is impos sible. That
is why he has asked me to undertake on his behalf an exploratory initiative with the
Vietnamese.
"To that end we must first and foremost
establish a very discreet contact with North Viet nam. Now that our relations with
the Soviets have dramatically improved, we can obviously use the North Vietnam Embassy in
Moscow. But the Kremlin is in competition with Washington all over the world. . . .
Moscow might leak the whole affair in order to enhance its position in Asia, the Middle
East, and elsewhere, and so the Soviet capital is out of the question. We cannot go
to Hanoi either. Even if they accepted to receive an Iranian envoy, the press would
become curious. The only place outside the Communist world where they have a
representative is Paris.
Because de Gaulle is our personal friend, the French would not try to spy on us or leak
our moves. Therefore, I want you to go immediately to Paris in order to establish
contact with the North Vietnamese representative."
I was about to say that the man would certainly
not agree to see me, but the shah frowned, and I kept silent. He lit another
cigarette and, as was his wont, continued his monologue.
"At this stage we should not enter into
the details of our proposal. We should only make it clear that the Americans are
ready to pursue the war and intensify their bombings for as long as it is necessary.
But we Iranians, as fellow Asians, are weary of the continuous sufferings of our
Vietnamese brothers . . . and what not. Therefore, we thought that if they would
accept the idea of an honorable armistice in which neither side would be considered victor
or loser, we Iranians would be ready to play the role of honest brokers and bring the
parties together in negotiations. Do you understand what I am saying?"
I was beginning to feel the effects of jet lag
and the fatigue of the long voyage. I nevertheless fought back my exhaustion and
tried to show a sense of alertness. I said, "Yes, your majesty. But if
you would allow me to make a remark. I doubt that the Vietnamese representative in
Paris would accept to receive me."
The shah smiled and interrupted me: "If
you knock at his door and present your card as deputy foreign minister in charge of
international organizations, the chances are that he won't open the door. But you
were a leftist in your youth and lived more than 20 years in Paris. As a writer and
film critic in the French capital, you have had many liberal and even Communist
friends. No, don't protest. I have received regular reports about your
activities."
Although I was aware of the authoritarian
nature of "oriental" regimes and of the secret surveillance of citizens, I felt
shocked: Even as an obscure international civil servant interested in film and literature
and writing reviews in Cahiers du Cinema, I had been spied on by the regime. The
shah understood my reaction and continued in the same friendly spirit.
"You know a lot of people who enjoy
cordial relations with North Vietnam and its Paris representative. You stand,
therefore, in good stead to find a reliable person who has maintained close ties with the
Vietnamese representative there. In fact, that's the reason I chose you for this
mission. . . . I know that you have always been a patriot and an idealist. I
have confidence in your commitment to your country and to our present independent
policies. Moreover; keep in mind the many thousands, if not millions, of lives that
can be saved. I am sure that you'll succeed and will maintain the necessary
secrecy. You'll also have to ascertain the reliability of the French friend you
choose. He must keep the whole thing under his hat."
My eyelids drooped; it was past midnight.
The shah added, "You must be tired. Go home and have a good rest. Do you
want me to give you some Valium?" (He was taking high doses of Valium at that
time.) "Think about your Parisian friends, and come to my office tomorrow
morning at 9:30 sharp for further instructions. And be ready to leave for Paris on
the first afternoon flight."
* * * *
After making a thorough review of my many
French friends, I decided that the Bourdets would be the best people to carry out the
secret mission. They belonged to the non-Communist liberal layer of Parisian high
society (what the French dub the Tout Paris). Claude Bourdet, an outspoken
intellectual, had led the Resistance movement Combat during World War II. The Ge
stapo arrested him in 1944 and sent him to the Nazi concentration camp at
Buchenwald. Son of a prominent dramatist, Edouard Bourdet, and the former Catherine
Pozzi, a poet, Claude had married Ida Adamov, a Russian emigre and a tennis
champion.
The Bourdets had contacts with all sorts of
third-world liberation movements. During my years in Paris, I met in the Bourdet
home officials of the Algerian FLN, the Palestinian PLO, the Peruvian Shining Path, and a
host of other more or less important groups as well as indi vidual exiled intellectuals.
Both Claude and Ida were liberal leftists
without being identified with the Communist line. During the occupation of France,
Claude had founded the underground paper Combat, for which Abert Camus became an
editorialist. After World War II, Claude launched the leftist, non-Communist weekly
L'Observateur. He and Ida were rich and generous. Their duplex apart ment near
the Etoile and Champs Elysees was the meeting place of liberal politicians and intel
lectuals from all over the world. Morally strong and stringent, Claude opposed
compromises with Communists as well as rightist reactionaries. The American
government had refused him a visa at the height of McCarthyism because he was critical of
American foreign policy. He also had served for some time as an elected member of
the Paris City Assembly. Over the years we had become very close friends.
As soon as my plane landed at Orly, I called
him on a pay telephone and, before checking into a hotel, I paid him a visit. The
idea of my mission enthralled him: He was against the Vietnam War and all the human
sacrifices it entailed. He immediately telephoned the Vietnamese representative,
whom he knew quite well. Mai Van Bo, Hanoi's man in Paris, agreed to see him after
lunch at his Montparnasse town house. Claude and I lunched at the nearby celebrated
café-restaurant La Closerie des Lilas (where, in the 1920s, Ernest Hemingway, among other
American expatriates, spent a lot of time).
After the meal, I waited with Ida while Claude
went to his nearby rendezvous. He returned after almost one hour. As I had
expected, Mai Van Bo was afraid to receive the envoy of the pro-American shah of
Iran. But on Claude's insistence, he promised to send a message to Hanoi and ask for
permission to see me. I went from the café to a hotel near the Bourdets and called
Tehran. The shah instructed me to return to Tehran. I arrived on the eve of his
"coronation" ceremony.
Muhammad Reza Pahlavi became shah in August
1941, after the British and the Soviets invaded Iran and forced his father; who admired
Hitler and insisted on Iran's neutrality, to abdi cate. They claimed they needed to
control the Trans-Iranian Railway in order to send military supplies to the Red
Army. It was hardly a time for celebrations, and the coronation ceremony had been
postponed sine die. In fact, the incumbent shah liked celebrations and feasts.
In 1965, the parliament bestowed on him the title of Aryamehr (literally, "The Light
of the Aryans") on the 25th anniversary of his reign. Almost immediately he
staged the ceremony of coronation.
(A few years later; in 1971, he organized the
Persepolis extravaganza, attended by approximately 80 monarchs and heads of states to mark
the 2,500th anniversary of the founding of the Persian Empire by Cyrus the Great. In
1977, he presided over festivities celebrating the 50th year of the Pahlavi dynasty.
Such celebrations were one of his most serious weaknesses.)
Circumstances forced me to don my ambassadorial uniform (which I loathed) in order to
attend the ceremony. The foreign minister; who had returned from New York, was
stunned to see me there. He was upset that I had gone back to Tehran without
informing him. I told him that the shah had summoned me directly. He glared at
me and suddenly asked, "Where are your deco rations (medals)?"
I replied bluntly, "Look, sir. This
uniform cost me almost $1,000. The medals are too heavy and would tear the
fabric. I cannot afford to spend another thousand dollars to replace it."
The minister dismissed my excuses: "These medals were bestowed on you by his imperial
majesty. It is an insult to him not to wear them."
I retorted, "The shah saw me like this a
moment ago. He made no such remarks."
He did not insist on an answer but asked nevertheless, "Why didn't you report to me
on your arrival?"
I explained, "You remember a few days ago
in New York? You yourself told me that the shah had ordered my return. Well,
he has entrusted me with a secret mission concerning his private office and ordered me to
report only to him personally"
The minister didn't like my defiant tone but at
the same time couldn't berate me. He tried to no avail to worm out of me some
indications of the nature of my mission. Finally, he asked, "How long are you
going to stay?"
"I don't know for sure," I
answered. "I am waiting for a message from the people I contacted abroad for
his majesty. But in the meantime, I am doing my work as usual at the ministry."
I must add that I childishly relished the
quandary of my "boss," who could not question the shah's direct orders.
But at the same time I felt uneasy about the undemocratic nature of the regime I was
serving. Even my brother was kept in the dark, despite his high position and
responsibilities. While watching the coronation ceremony, I wondered what would
happen if the shah died suddenly. His was personal rule personified. Even a
tyrant like Stalin shared at least part of his authority with an inner circle, the
Politburo. I often longed for my days in Paris and cursed myself for having agreed
to return to the Foreign Ministry.
To some extent this secret mission boosted my
failing spirits: Trying to open the way for possible peace in Vietnam was a positive
undertaking. Also, I felt satisfaction at the way I had conducted the negotiations
on the human rights covenants on behalf of the group of developing countries.
Despite the shah's orders, I engaged in very close relations with Amnesty International,
whose then secretary general, Martin Ennals, had been a colleague of mine at UNESCO in the
1950s.
Because an answer from Hanoi had not been
transmitted, the shah authorized me to return to my work at the United Nations. The
discussions concerning the covenants were at an almost total standstill. My
colleagues from both the West and the third world welcomed my return, and I resumed
private negotiations in order to remove the remaining stumbling blocks.
One morning, after a staff meeting at our
embassy, I found the following message from the Bourdets on the telex machine: "We
miss you. What about joining us for a celebration?"
In our agreed "code" these words
meant that the Vietnamese representative in Paris would receive me.
Our ambassador, who had seen the note, looked
quizzically at me. I told him, "The Bourdets, as you know, are very close
friends of mine. This week they are celebrating their 30th wedding
anniversary. I have to ask the shah's permission to go to Paris for a couple of
days."
The ambassador frowned: "Instead, you
should send a cable to the foreign minister, who is your immediate superior."
I felt embarrassed and trumped up an excuse:
"That would take too long. The dinner party is for tomorrow. I shall call
the shah's office if you allow me to use your phone. You can listen on your
extension if you wish."
As soon as my name was mentioned to the shah's
secretary, to the amazement of the am bassador, the secretary said, without asking any
questions, "I'll connect you immediately to his imperial majesty."
When the monarch's voice sounded in the
receiver, the ambassador instinctively stood up. I said, "Your majesty, the
Bourdets have invited me to a celebration in Paris."
The shah responded without hesitation:
"Very well, go immediately to Paris and proceed without delay to Tehran after the
party. Good luck!"
The ambassador was stunned by the fact that the
sovereign knew the Bourdets. "But why does he want you to go to Tehran?"
I invented a more or less plausible lie:
"Oh, you know, my involvement as a former member of UNESCO's Secretariat in the
literacy program, one of the priorities of the shah. He wants to consult me on the
subject."
I arrived in Orly the next morning and called
Claude Bourdet on a pay telephone. He told me that the Vietnamese representative
would receive me at 2:00 p.m. We lunched at the Closerie des Lilas, but this time
Claude stayed there to wait for me.
Mai Van Bo, a short man in his 50s, had white
streaks in his black hair. He wore a gray suit and a black tie. The neatly
kept town house and its cheap carpets and furniture were reminiscent of lower-middle-class
taste. A blown-up portrait of Ho Chi Minh presided over the foyer from the wall
facing the entrance door. Nothing there bespoke revolution or war.
My host ushered me into a sitting room whose
armchairs were covered with blankets. To the right of the fireplace stood a rolling
table containing a half-empty bottle of scotch and glasses. A maid in black Chinese
pants shuffled into the room with a tray and offered us cups of perfumed tea. After
a brief exchange of greetings, I described to Mai Van Bo the shah's proposal, emphasizing,
as I had been instructed, the words honorable peace. All the while the Vietnamese
diplomat took notes. He thanked me and promised to inform his government. He
then extracted a folded paper from his pocket, put on his eyeglasses, and started to
read. His French was correct but heavily accented. His remarks began with a
rapid history of Vietnam's struggle for independence.
"The Vietnamese people," he
concluded, "prefer to die to the last man and woman rather than live under foreign
domination."
I tried to discuss with him the present and the
future of Asia in general and his country in particular. But he dodged my remarks
and kept repeating parts of the paper he had refolded and buried in his pocket. He
promised to let me know ''in time'' Hanoi's reaction to the shah's proposal.
As I explained afterward to Claude on the
terrace of the restaurant, the man seemed to be a low-ranking member of the Vietnamese
Communist party with no authority to speak on behalf of his superiors. Like most
diplomats who represented Communist countries, he avoided expressing any personal opinion
and did not ask for clarification of the shah's message. He was a "pure and
perfect" bureaucrat of the Communist party, almost playing the role of a
receptionist, receiving a letter and transmitting it to his superiors.
* * * *
The next day I boarded the first available
flight to Tehran, where I arrived around 4:00 p.m. local time. I was whisked away by
a colonel of the Imperial Guard to the shah's office in Niavaran. I reported on my
meeting with Mai Van Bo. There was no reason for me to stay in Tehran; consequently,
I was authorized to go back to New York and resume my work on the human rights
covenants. I paid a courtesy visit to the Foreign Affairs minister, who did his best
to try to hide his displeasure. Indeed, our ambassador to the United Nations had
already informed him about my excursion in Paris. The minister tried to tease out
some information from me. I told him that the shah knew the Bourdets from the time
he had been a student in Switzerland.
My whole trip to Paris and Tehran lasted less
than four days. I resumed my duties in the Third Committee. In Washington,
there was no talk of ending the Vietnam War. The Pentagon voiced confidence in
victory, while antiwar demonstrations continued in all 50 states, especially on university
campuses. Columnists accused Johnson of "blindness" to all geopolitical
implications because he was afraid of being labeled as a president who lost an Asian
country to the Communists. Not only the war but also his Great Society programs
suffered attacks even from members of his own party.
Like the Foreign Affairs minister, our
ambassador often tried to make me blurt out the secret behind my trips to Paris and
Tehran. But I remained on the alert and dodged his questions. A week or
perhaps a little longer passed without news from my Parisian friends. Finally, on November
10, the following message appeared on the embassy's teletype: "Good news for further
celebrations. Please join us. Love, Ida and Claude."
Before I could ask him, the ambassador phoned
the shah's office. The monarch instructed me to fly immediately to Paris and from
there to Tehran.
Claude told me that our ambassador in Paris had
invited him to dinner and had tried to make him speak about my mission. I understood
that he had done so on the instructions of the Foreign Affairs minister. Ida,
Claude, and I laughed a lot. I spoke briefly on the telephone with the ambassador
and told him that the Bourdets appreciated his hospitality very much.
My appointment with Mai Van Bo had been fixed
for noon. Claude accompanied me as far as the Closerie des Lilas, where he waited
for me. In contrast to our last meeting, the Vietnamese representative was less
formal and even showed some cordiality. He took a rather thick file from a small
table, leafed through it, extracted a paper, and translated the text into French: Hanoi
warmly thanked the shah for his initiative to end the sufferings of the Vietnam
people. The Vietnamese government had thoroughly studied the proposal and agreed to
enter into immediate discussion with the "other party" at any convenient
place. It proposed as a possible venue their embassy in Moscow, which was better
equipped than their representation in Paris. It also agreed with the shah about
total secrecy. Any premature leak, it was underlined, could have an undesired effect
on the "morale" of servicemen.
The meeting ended at 1:30 p.m., giving me just
enough time to catch a 4:00 p.m. flight to Tehran. I asked our ambassador to inform
the shah's secretary of my imminent arrival. I had a quick bite to eat with Claude
Bourdet and took a taxi to Orly. My plane landed in Mehrabad Airport after 10:00
p.m. A helicopter was waiting for me and took me immediately to the shah's palace.
The monarch received me in his bedroom
suite. He was wearing a kimono over his light blue pajamas and was sipping herbal
tea. I knew that he suffered from insomnia. My report seemed to please
him. He got up and paced the room. He suddenly stopped and said, "I don't
very much like the idea of using their Moscow embassy as a channel of communication.
But I understand their problem. This is apparently one of the very few places where
they have full facilities. . . . I hope that your French friends will continue to remain
discreet until the end of the whole affair."
I assured him on this matter: "He never
revealed anything to the Gestapo interrogators during the occupation of
France." I recounted the story of our ambassador's dinner and the way in which
he had tried to extract information about my mission.
The shah laughed. Then he congratulated
me: "You have done a very good job. I would like to keep you on it. But
now I have to involve our man in Moscow until Johnson decides about the place for
'substance' negotiations. That will probably be Geneva. . . . Are you returning to
New York?"
As I nodded, he smiled and said, "Very
well. . . . As a reward, take a few days' vacation in Paris, where you must know more than
one beautiful lady. Also, thank the Bourdets on my behalf and give them the present
I will send to your mother's house in the morning." (This was a medium-sized Isfahan
silk carpet.)
The next day I visited the foreign minister and
informed him that my special assignment for his majesty was over and that I had been
instructed to return to New York.
The minister said, "I know. His imperial
majesty has informed me about your performance. He is satisfied and ordered me to
add in your professional file a word of appreciation on his behalf. I want to
congratulate you. You have honored the Foreign Ministry."
To my amazement, he got up and embraced me.
* * * *
I did not hear about the follow-up meeting in
the Vietnam negotiations. I discovered only that our ambassador in Moscow traveled
three times in December to Tehran. I never discovered the channel the shah used to
communicate with President Johnson. Our ambassador in Washington was left in the
dark. I surmised that President Johnson must have had a special man (or, for that
matter, a woman) in Tehran.
At any rate, in 1968, President Johnson
suddenly decided not to run for another term. His October 31 announcement of a halt
in the bombing of North Vietnam was certainly linked to secret talks following the shah's
initiative. The next American administration (President Nixon's) did not pick up the
thread of those negotiations. I was terribly disappointed to see that the Nixon
administration decided to continue the war and even to expand it. The casualties on
the American side almost doubled before the administration put an end to the
conflict. Even now I cannot understand why new administrations do not pursue the
efforts of their predecessors in foreign policy matters.
In any case, after my stint in connection with
Vietnam, I met the shah often on other matters, but he never mentioned my secret mission.
I have decided to recount this episode of my
diplomatic activities to set the record straight about President Johnson's quest for
peace.
About the Author
Fereydoun Hoveyda, senior fellow of the National Committee on American Foreign Policy, is a member of the NCAFP's Executive Committee and its Board of Trustees. He is also the director of the NCAFP's project on the Middle East: Islamic Law and Peace. Ambassador Hoveyda's latest books are The Broken Crescent: The "Threat" of Militant Islamic Fundamentalism (1998) and The Hidden Meaning of Mass Communication: Books, Cinema, and Television in the Age of Computers (2000), both published by Praeger.
Note
1 In 1998, on the recommendation of Professor Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., I sent a first draft of this memoir to the Lyndon Baines Johnson Library. After a while I received the following letter from the library's director, Harry J. Middleton:
This is to thank you for the highly interesting memoir of your 1967 experience with a Vietnam peace initiative. We believe this is the first revelation of this particular incident and we are pur suing it in our archives to see what more may be learned about it. We know that the timing was right: the shah visited the United States in August 1967, and he had indicated to the State Department that he would be interested in doing something constructive about the Vietnam situation.