Webb Odyssey Pas Duex

Search for Neville

Outside the US Embassy

Tehran, Iran

November 4, 1979

The young photographer could not believe his luck. His heart was pounding. The mob was shouting in his ears, and he had never been so afraid in his life. Neither had he ever been more thrilled.

He was on the edge of the churning mob, across the street from the US Embassy. They had been here for days, chanting in English and Farsi, holding their signs, waving flags, and burning effigies of US President Carter, or Uncle Sam, or just Americans in general. He had taken pictures of all it. Some had turned out, and some had not, but he didn't care. He was here, now, while it was happening, and wasn't that what being a photographer was all about? One of these pictures was bound to capture something…unique and exciting and important. They just had to.

He had his large camera in the bag, slung over his shoulder. The feeling of the mob today was too scary; he didn't dare take it out. He had seen other photographers' cameras smashed to pieces by the mob before, if they found out they were a westerner, or if they got too close. He was using his smaller one instead. It had only black and white film, it was just his back up, but it seemed safer to him somehow, and he felt in his gut this was the better choice.

He was snapping away, at young men his age or younger, trying to make a difference in their lives, in their country. Zealots. He respected them for that at least. He didn't care about the why, or politics, or any of that, he didn't have time for it. He was trying to do his job.

As he clicked away at the mob, he did not notice the car that had pulled up close to the edge of the mob, without disturbing it. He did not see the two men who got out of the car, but made no move to leave the flimsy shelter of the car, as they looked at the shouting people, and the building behind the fence in front of them.

'How are we going to get in there?' the taller one asked.

His companion was watching the building too, and looked sideways at his partner in surprise. 'We are not going to get in there Neville. It is too late.'

'It may be too late, but we have to try. We have to help get the rest of them out.' Neville replied in a very determined voice.

The shorter man looked back at the building, clearly imagining the chaos inside. Then he again surveyed the mob outside the building in front of him, and looked doubtfully back at his partner.

'No Neville. It is too late. We have to get ourselves out….'

Neville interrupted him, 'Marty, we can't just walk away.'

'Do you have any idea what they would do to us if they caught us and found out who we are?' Marty shouted back. 'We can't do anything to help them inside any more. And this mob could storm the building at any moment!' he stopped abruptly here, looking around nervously to see if anyone had overheard him.

'They won't find out about us. We have to try.' Neville insisted.

But Marty shook his head, and pulled on the sleeve of his partner's jacket. 'We have to get ourselves out, Neville, before it is too late.' He paused, looking at the frustration in the face of his long time friend. 'Think of Porter and Clay. You owe it to them to get out while you can.'

At the mention of his family, whom Neville had not seen in a long time, he started to give in to Marty's suggestions. It had been too long since he had seen his wife and son, again. Neville relented. He knew there was not much he could do now anyway. He nodded reluctantly and let Marty guide him into the car.

Marty said, 'We will go home, and continue the fight from there. We are no good to anyone if we are captured.' He followed Neville into the back seat of the car, and told the drive to get moving.

'Where will we go? How will we get out?' Neville asked.

'We are going to Canada.' Marty said, and the car slowly made its way through the people in the street, away from the Embassy.

The young photographer did not notice the two men beside the car who were on the edge of his frame. He snapped the picture while they were looking at the building, before they re-entered the car, and the motor on his little camera began to whirl as the film began to rewind. The last shot.

He kept it in his hands until the motor stopped, looking over the scene one last time. He thought he had gotten some good shots. He hoped one would be good enough for publishing, maybe even a front page. Maybe there was one that would make a difference.

The mob seemed to be getting uglier, and larger. Better pack up, and get the hell out of Dodge, he thought to himself. While he still can. He moved away from the scene, tucking his camera into his bag, then he pulled it in front of his body, putting his arm protectively around it, and began moving down the street toward his hotel, and home.

Twenty-five years later,

Smithsonian Institute

Museum of American History

1103 hours local time

Clayton Webb slowly walked through the display of enlarged photos and newspaper articles the chronicled the Iranian Crisis. It was a special display the Museum had put together to mark the 25th Anniversary of the taking of the US Embassy in Tehran, and the Hostage Crisis.

The history buff in Clay was marginally interested in seeing this collection. It was really the history fanatic he was married to that had begged that they come and see it. It was a rainy cold Saturday, things had been slow in the office, and Amy had been cooped up all week indoors because of the late fall weather with the baby, and she insisted they get out and do something. Taking Claudia along in the stroller was not that hard, and it gave her a little change of scenery too. Since they couldn't walk and play in the park as they normally did, this seemed an easy second choice. Clay planned on taking his two girls out to lunch, and getting home in plenty of time for a nap. He smiled at himself inside, thinking how such a tiny person as his daughter can change his whole life and schedule. Home in time for naps indeed. But he didn't mind a bit, and wouldn't change a thing.

Amy was behind him a little way, reading almost every display completely. He looked back to check on her progress with the stroller, then moved on to the next picture.

It was a large blow up of a photograph he sort of recognized. It was rather famous, having been taken in front of the Embassy just a few minutes before the mob stormed in and took control of the building and the people remaining inside. It was the beginning of the hostage crisis.

Clay stood there, looking over the picture when something in the lower corner caught his eye. He moved closer, but since the photograph had been blow up for the display, the item only became more distorted. He stepped back instead and bumped into a low bench. He squinted his eyes; blinked a few times to try and clear them, but the image stayed the same.

It couldn't be, he thought. 'No, it can't be.' He whispered. Slowly he sat down on the bench, staring in disbelief at the photograph.

Amy came up beside him and looked at the photograph that seemed to have caught her husband's attention. Clay was staring intently at it, and did not seem to notice she was there beside him. She looked down at him, and saw that his face was completely white. 'Clay are you all right?' she asked. 'You look like you've seen a ghost. What is it?'

'I have.' He replied quietly. Then he blinked, and asked. 'Read the card beside the picture.'

'What?' Amy asked.

'Read the card. The card there, beside the picture!' he almost shouted.

'Ok.' And she moved to the wall and read the description of the photograph.

'Outside the US Embassy, November 4, 1979. Less than an hour before the take over.

Photographer: Malcolm Graham, The London Seer.

It first appeared in The London Seer then was bought by the Associated Press and appeared in newspapers around the world. Mr. Graham was awarded the Times Circle Award for Outstanding Photo Reporting for 1979 for this photograph.' Then she looked at Clay, who was still staring at the picture. 'Does that mean anything to you?' she asked.

'No.' Clay replied. 'I've never heard of him.'

Amy moved back to the bench, maneuvered the stroller to the side, and sat down beside Clay. 'What's the matter?' she asked. She was relieved to see that some color was coming back to his face, and he let out a big breath, as if he had not realized he had been holding it. Then he abruptly stood up.

'I have to get a copy of that photograph.' He said, and began looking around for a museum employee.

Amy stood up too, and tried to get his attention. 'Why? What is it about this photograph?'

Clay looked at Amy, 'He is in that photograph, right there.' He pointed. 'It puts him in Tehran 6 months before he died!' he said excitedly.

'Who Clay? You are not making any sense.' But Clay wasn't listening; he was looking all over for some employee. Where were they? Where was security when you needed them?

Amy gently grabbed his arms and made him look at her. 'Clay please explain to me what is going on here.'

'That's my father.' He moved over to the edge of the photograph and pointed to a fuzzy figure in the corner. 'That's him. He was there. I never knew what he had been working on, or where he was the last year of his life, it had all been sealed up. But that is him, and it puts him in Tehran when the Embassy was taken over, which was just 6 months before he was reported dead.' He said.

Amy couldn't quite believe it. She knew that Neville Webb's disappearance and death was a mystery to his family, but she was not sure the figure in the photograph could be exactly identified as Clay's father. She moved over to stand next to the photograph with him.

'Clay how can you be so sure? The picture is not very clear, it could be any one of 100 men.'

'It's him. I'm sure. I recognize the jacket, and the profile.' He looked at Amy. 'It sounds crazy. But if I can get a smaller copy, a clearer one, I could prove it to you.' He said.

'But Clay, that picture must have been printed a thousand times in newspapers and magazines, and history books. I recognize it myself, it is a famous picture. Why haven't you seen your father in it before?' Amy asked.

'Maybe this corner had been cut off. If you remember the picture so well, do you remember it covering this much area? Most of the time, isn't it just part of the mob, and the Embassy building and not the street?'

Amy looked again at photograph and thought maybe Clay had a point. She did remember seeing the picture before, but it had not included that much of the street, had it?

'I've got to find someone that can help me get a copy of this photograph. I've got to talk to a curator. Please Amy, I'm not crazy. I will prove it to you.'

Amy looked back at her husband, and knew she had to believe him. 'Ok, let's find the someone and ask for a copy.'

He smiled down at her, and the moved off to find the curator, or director or someone who could give them a copy of the photograph. As they started off, Clay thought that maybe he had just found the one piece that could help him find his out what had happened to his father. The one piece that could make the difference.