Read Online On Wings of Eagles by Ken Follett - Free Book Online

guard handed him his coat.
        A little later another guard came in and told Bill to get dressed.
        They were led back into the reception area. Once again, Bill looked around
        expectantly for lawyers or friends; once again, he was disappointed.
        They were taken through the reception area. Another door was opened. They
        went down a flight of stairs into the basement.
        It was cold, dim, and dirty. There were several cells, all crammed with
        prisoners, all of them Iranian. The stink of urine made Bill close his
        mouth and breathe shallowly through his nose. The guard opened the door to
        Cell Number 9. Paul and Bill walked in.
        Sixteen unshaven faces stared at them, alive with curiosity. Paul and Bill
        stared back, horrified.
    The cell door clanged shut behind them.
    TWO
     
        1
     
    Until this moment life had been extremely good to Ross Perot.
        On the morning of December 28, 1978, he sat at the breakfast table in his
        mountain cabin at Vail, Colorado, and was served breakfast by Holly, the
        cook.
        Perched on the mountainside and half-hidden in the aspen forest, the "log
        cabin" had six bedroorns, five bathrooms, a thirty-foot living room, and an
        apr6s-ski "recuperation room" with a Jacuzzi pool in front of the
        fireplace. It was just a holiday home.
    Ross Perot was rich.
        He had started EDS with a thousand dollars, and now the shares in the
        company-more than half of which he still owned personally-were worth
        several hundred million dollars. He was the sole owner of the Petrus Oil
        and Gas Company, which had reserves worth hundreds of millions. He also had
        an awful lot of Dallas real estate. It was difficult to figure out exactly
        how much money he had-a lot depended on just how you counted it-but it was
        certainly more than five hundred million dollars and probably less than a
        billion.
    . In novels, fantastically rich people were portrayed as greedy, power-mad,
    neurotic, hated, and unhappy-always unhappy. Perot did not read many novels.
    He was happy.
        He did not think it was the money that made him happy. He believed in
        money-making, in business and profits, because that was what made America
        tick; and he enjoyed a few of the toys money could buy--the cabin cruiser,
        the speedboats, the helicopter; but rolling around in hundred-dollar bills
        had never been one of his daydreams. He had dreamed of building a
        successful business that would employ thousands of people; but his greatest
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    46 Ken Follen
     
    dream-come-true was right hem in front of his eyes. Running around in
    thermal underwear, getting ready to go skiing, was his family. Here was Ross
    Junior, twenty years old, and if there was a finer young man in the state of
    Texas, Perot had yet to meet him. Here were four-count 'em, four--daughters:
    Nancy-, Suzanne, Carolyn, and Katherine. They were all healthy, smart, and
    lovable. Perot had sometimes told interviewers that he would measure his
    success in life by how his children turned out. If they grew into good
    citizens with a deep concern for other people, he would consider his life
    worthwhile. (The interviewers would say: "Hell, I believe you, but if I put
    stuff like that in the article the readers will think I've been bought off!"
    And Perot would just say: "I don't care. I'll tell you the truth-you write
    whatever you like.") And the children had turned out just exactly how he had
    wished, so far. Being brought up in circumstances of great wealth and
    privilege had not spoiled them at all. It was almost miraculous.
        Running around after the children with ski-lift tickets, wool socks, and
        sunscreen lotion was the person responsible for this miracle, Margot Perot.
        She was beautiful, loving, intelligent, classy, and a