A TIME TO BETRAY

by REZA KAHLILI

  Kazem winked at me.

  “But Baradar Rahim,” I said, “I know this is a very sensitive time in our revolution. If I am needed here more, I would rather stay and serve my country and our imam.” I said this shrewdly, knowing Rahim had already made his decision and wouldn’t change it, but also knowing that he would remember my willingness to stay and therefore have no suspicions of my reason for going to America.

  All that was left now was for me to board the plane. The morning of my trip, the dawning sun cast a persimmon glow on the white marble of the Azadi (“Freedom”) Tower as I headed to the Mehrabad International Airport in Tehran. I felt a tang of bitterness in my throat, remembering that this beautiful monument was built to commemorate the twenty-five hundredth anniversary of the Persian Empire. The Ayatollah Khomeini changed the name after the revolution from Shahyad Tower, for the shahs of Iran. The original intention of the tower was to remind Persians of their great history—the history that made my grandparents so proud. I heard Agha Joon’s voice saying, “This is the land where Cyrus the Great ruled one of the largest empires the world had ever seen. He brought dignity and respect for all to this great civilization: a land where the first charter of human rights was introduced, a land where women were respected, where slavery was abolished, and a land where the Jews were free to return to their native land at the end of Babylonian captivity. This was the Persia where poets, philosophers, and scientists were the bedrock of national pride, where religion was based on three simple premises: good thoughts, good words, and good deeds.”

  Once on the plane, I had a moment of panic. How could I be thinking of doing such an insane thing? There was still time to change my mind; I hadn’t yet committed a single treasonous act. I could simply go to LA, help Aunt Giti as promised, and then return. But then I thought of Naser, Soheil, Parvaneh, Davood, Roya, and the countless others the revolution had stolen from us, and my resolve returned. As the Iran Air 747 climbed into the sky, I noticed that the cake-frosting snow spreading unevenly across the Alborz mountain range to the north looked vaguely like the San Gabriel Mountains that guard Los Angeles, except for the occasional distinctly Persian buildings that dotted the landscape. I knew that once I landed in Los Angeles, my life would change forever. Like thousands before me, I was going to America seeking help, seeking hope, and above all, seeking freedom. The freedom that the Islamic government had promised once and then so shrewdly taken away.

  In response, I had to commit treason against an outlaw regime, a thugocracy. I had made up my mind to deliver every secret I knew about the Guards and ask the American authorities for help. I could not allow fear or anything else to deter me.

  10

  CODE NAME: WALLY

  THE LONG APPROACH to Los Angeles International Airport started with our descent somewhere to the east and south of the great sprawling Los Angeles Basin, near San Bernardino. It had been a grueling twenty-hour trip with a few hours’ layover in Frankfurt, but a warm feeling came over me as I went through customs. The woman checking my passport asked why I hadn’t brought my family along, and this simple, friendly question was so devoid of political subtext that it soothed me. She probably extended this courtesy to everyone, but her generous smile made me feel truly welcome.

  I grabbed a shuttle for the short ride to the Sheraton hotel on Century Boulevard, arriving behind a line of limos dropping off members of a wedding party. Scenes like this had become rare in Iran since the revolution banned parties and alcohol. If the regime caught people committing these indiscretions, they laid them out in public, stripped off their shirts, and thrashed them with a whip.

  I couldn’t sleep that night, anxious thoughts cycling through my head. Was I doing the right thing? Would it make any difference? Would anybody care? Would the Guards catch me? Would they hurt my family? Was I losing my sanity? I needed to draw strength from my memories of the people who had suffered and the realization that so many continued to suffer.

  This is what you have to do for your country. This is the only way to bring democracy and fairness to your people. This is your duty, Reza!

  I tried to quell my uneasiness by thinking about the kind of information I would pass along. I knew of names and positions of the Revolutionary Guards’ commanders. I knew of their connection to other radical Islamic groups and their plans to export their dangerous Islamic beliefs beyond Iranian borders. I had taken notes in my head of all the meetings I attended with Kazem, and I could quote details verbatim.

  The long night finally ended with dawn over the Pacific Ocean. Before heading out, I contacted my aunt to let her know I was in town. She insisted I stay with her, but I told her that since I had plans to see some old friends, it was better for me to stay in a hotel. I promised I would take care of her while I was there, though. I knew I owed this to both her and my grandfather.

  Aware that there was a good possibility an Islamic agent would be watching me, I tried to act as normal as possible. I did not trust Rahim, my commander. How could I possibly trust him or anybody associated with the regime? Returning to my old stomping grounds from my college days, meeting up with old friends, and going to my aunt’s on a regular basis would provide the perfect cover for my travels around Los Angeles.

  I called my college friends Johnny and Alex to set up a time to get together with them at the Horse Shoe Bar of Tom Bergin’s Tavern in the Fairfax area of LA. We used to meet there after the USC football games on Saturdays. We always staked out the first booth to the right of the front door, as it was the best spot in the restaurant. When I got there this time, I discovered that “our” booth still featured paper shamrocks with our names on them.

  Chris, the bartender, surprised me when he recognized me. He pointed to the table where my old roommates, Johnny and Alex, sat.

  I felt an immediate rush of good old memories. The red Mustang with mag wheels, the LA girls, and my old girlfriend, Molly. How I had embraced that carefree life for a few years until my father’s death. How Naser and Kazem had brought me back to reality upon my return home. I wondered how different my life would have been if my father had lived and if I had stayed with Johnny and Alex and my American life. Would I have been a happier person if the revolution in Iran had been nothing more than a news item to me?

  “Reza, look at you, man,” Johnny said, interrupting this wave of thoughts with a smile as he hugged me. “What’s with the beard?”

  The question, and, in fact, the entire reunion, had a surreal quality to it. How could I reconcile the easy college life I shared with these men with all the changes in Iran that had caused me to grow the beard? Would Johnny understand if I explained it to him? I decided not to try. Instead, we reminisced.

  “It is the new thing. Everybody grows a beard these days in Iran,” I said as I hugged him back.

  We talked for a while about our lives after college. Johnny told me about his wife and his two-year-old twin boys, and about how being a father had changed him. Alex was still with Suzan, whom he’d been dating since our USC days. I told them about Somaya and showed them a picture of her.

  “Wow, she is beautiful,” Johnny said.

  “How’s everything back in Iran?” Alex asked. “We’ve been watching the news and it seems like a lot is going on.”

  As much as this was an invitation to talk about my true feelings, I did not divulge much. I said only that we were in the midst of a transition and that I believed things would get better.

  As we caught up, we fell into our old, familiar rhythms. It was as though no time had passed since we last saw one another. But I knew that wasn’t true. I’d gone through the equivalent of a lifetime since leaving California.

  I did nothing more than visit with my aunt and get in touch with old friends for a few days. Then it was time to contact the U.S. authorities. I wanted to reach out to the CIA. I found that thought intimidating, but I knew they would take my information seriously. They weren’t listed in the phone book, but the FBI was. I knew of their offices in the Federal Bui
lding on Wilshire in Westwood, a short distance from USC’s crosstown rival, UCLA, and not too far up the I-405 freeway from where I was staying. After looking at myself in the mirror and summoning up my courage, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

  Contacting the FBI was easy enough, but getting to the right person took some doing. “I’d like to talk to an agent in charge of international matters,” I told one person after another. “I have some confidential information about Iran that is important.” The experience was frustrating and was quickly becoming discouraging. Maybe, I thought, this isn’t such a good idea after all. Finally, after an hour of bouncing from one person to the next, I managed to schedule a meeting with two agents for that afternoon.

  I gave myself plenty of time to get to West LA. As the cab took me there, I looked out the window and remembered that the last time I took this ride up I-405, I was on my way to Westwood for a college party. I felt as though I were on top of the world then. Would I ever feel that way again?

  The streets outside the Federal Building brought back less happy memories. This had been the scene of several pro- and anti-Iranian demonstrations during the revolution. A few of us from the Islamic Students’ Association would join the demonstrations supporting Khomeini and clash with the shah’s supporters. There had always been a number of television cameras present. I now suspect that there were quite a few Islamic agent cameras present as well.

  I decided not to go directly to the Federal Building but instead maintained my deception by calling a friend and meeting him at the popular Mario’s Restaurant. From the entrance to Mario’s you could see down Gayley one way and down Weyburn Place the other. If anyone had followed me, I would know, since I kept careful watch on my way to Westwood. I finished my lunch, bid good-bye to my friend, left through the rear exit, ducked into the parking structure across the alley, and went out the other side onto Veteran Avenue. It was a long walk down Veteran to Wilshire, where the FBI building is located. It would have been impossible for anyone following me to remain hidden. Still, I didn’t go directly to the building, instead turning down Wilshire and coming in through the rear.

  Once I registered at the front desk, two officials escorted me to a twelfth-floor conference room. One man introduced himself as Special Agent Cully Madigan and the other as Al Mancini. I gave them my name and immediately wondered if I should have used an alias. They offered me a cigarette, which I declined, and water, which I accepted. Strangely, I was not in the least nervous. I think my hosts were more anxious than I was, which made me realize that mine was not the kind of call they fielded every day. I was, after all, Iranian. The FBI, I would come to realize, was not an international agency. Most of the people they dealt with were Americans or foreign nationals from Eastern bloc countries. Men of my color were not yet their main concern. Little did they know how much that would change.

  After exchanging pleasantries, we finally got around to discussing my reasons for contacting them. It was awkward at first, because they seemed confused about what I was telling them. I told them I held a position in the Revolutionary Guards in Iran and had access to information that was critical to both of our countries. To my astonishment, they kept calling the Revolutionary Guards “the Red Army,” obviously confusing the mysterious Iran with the more familiar Soviet Union.

  Again, I had misgivings. If these agents weren’t even aware of what was going on in my country, why would they care about any information I had to give them? They jotted down everything I said, but it was obvious this was not an area of their expertise. When they asked if I could show anything to prove my claims, I took out the documents I’d brought with me. The documents, embossed with the official Revolutionary Guards’ emblem, included a payroll list with the names of high-ranking officers and internal orders from several base commanders. Some of these orders had my name on them. I explained each, and they nodded as I did so, but the documents were all in Farsi and neither agent spoke the language.

  I also had a picture of Mohsen Rezaei, the commander of the Guards, in his uniform behind a podium speaking to a large crowd. Armed guards stood in the corners, and behind him stood Kazem, Rahim, and me. The agents’ interest sharpened when they saw this, and they started asking more questions. They asked if they could keep the documents to verify them. I told them I was worried about confidentiality, about where the documents were going, and about whether I would get them back. Madigan assured me that the entire matter would receive only the most top-secret treatment and then suggested that I keep a low profile.

  “We’ll get back to you in a few days,” Madigan said. “We need to sort a few things out. There are some people we need to talk to.”

  “What people?” I asked innocently enough.

  Madigan locked my documents in his attaché case. “We’ll contact you in a few days, Mr. Kahlili.”

  They escorted me out, thanked me for my time, and took note of my hotel on Century Boulevard.

  “The Sheraton? Yeah, I know the one,” Agent Mancini said. “How about you move out of that hotel into another one? Let me suggest the Shutters in Santa Monica. It’s right on the beach and has several exits. Take a couple of cabs to get there. We’ll call you very soon.”

  The next few days were full of uncertainty. On the one hand, I knew there were Islamic agents in the U.S. watching Iranians who entered the country. Kazem had told me once that the Guards had their agents keep an eye on the members of the opposition outside Iran and closely monitor the Guards members traveling abroad, as they knew that foreign intelligence services were looking to recruit operatives. On the other hand, I was worried about getting myself into some difficulty with the FBI if they didn’t believe my story.

  Trust between Americans and Iranians ceased to exist after the embassy takeover in Tehran. I had been at that takeover—though I certainly didn’t have anything to do with the taking of hostages—which meant that they could have had pictures of me there. The FBI could have received my overture to them in any number of ways. The worst possible scenario was that they and their counterparts in the CIA would view me as an Iranian spy attempting to infiltrate their ranks by walking right through their front door with some preposterous proposal about giving them the Guards’ secrets. I could only hope that the documents I gave them would prove that my intentions were the ones I stated.

  Mancini’s suggestion to move to the Shutters hotel did a great deal to persuade me that they believed me. If they thought I was lying to them or if they thought I was trying to spy on them, they wouldn’t have made any effort to protect me. The room overlooked the beach, which provided diversion. For the next few days, I stayed in this pleasant room, but the hours couldn’t pass fast enough. One minute I would call myself crazy, the next a hero for trying to figure out a way to help Iran. I tried to distract myself by watching TV or spending time on the beach, occasionally ordering room service. But the waiting was nerve-racking. Whenever my anxiety rose to the point where I thought I couldn’t take it, I reached into the left-side pocket inside my jacket where I kept Roya’s letter wrapped around Naser’s picture. Without unfolding it, I pressed it to my heart and reminded myself of why I was there.

  Finally, four days later, Madigan called and directed me to a Holiday Inn a few blocks away. I could have walked there, but I chose a cab instead, irritating the driver who had waited over an hour for the fare just to drive a few hundred yards. He started complaining, so I had him drive a circuitous route just in case someone was following me and then gave him a generous tip. Even that didn’t seem to appease him.

  I climbed the stairs to room 303 as instructed, and Mancini and Madigan greeted me. Another agent sat at a table by the window. He stood up and said, “Glad to meet you, Reza. I’m Patrick Barry.” He had a handshake that reminded me of Agha Joon’s, who would always shake with both hands with a tap or two on the shaker’s hand to give reassurance. In my mind, I repeated words from my grandfather to bolster my confidence: “Life is like a river. At times, we must flow with i
ts current and enjoy the journey. But when it reaches a fall, if you don’t fight against its current, you will fall, too. God has given us strength and his blessing to go through the rough times and keep our faith alive, Reza.”

  Agent Barry didn’t give me his title, but it was clear he was in charge. We talked for a half hour, rehashing much of what I’d already covered with the other two agents. I assumed he was taping the conversation. We discussed the documents I’d brought with me to the previous meeting and he told me that a translation confirmed that these documents were real. Barry then mentioned the deputy commander of the Guards, a man named Reza Movahedi.

  “We’re a little concerned about how current these documents are,” he said. “We’ve been told that there’s a new man in that position.”

  “Oh, no. I assure you that Movahedi still has that job,” I said, wondering who was passing them bad information. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the Guards had sent agents to the U.S. specifically to feed the Americans with the wrong details.

  At that point, a door opened and another man entered from the adjoining suite. He was much better dressed than the other FBI agents were. I guessed his age to be early forties.

  “This is Mr. Clark,” Agent Mancini said, coming to his feet. I stood at the same time, not sure what was going on and measuring my five-eight height against his six-two or so. Clark seemed to fill the room.

  “Steve Clark,” the man said, smiling and holding out his hand. “United States Central Intelligence Agency. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kahlili. Did I say your name right?”

  “Yes,” I said. He had a firm handshake and penetrating eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

  That was the last meeting I would have with FBI Agents Madigan, Mancini, and Barry. Clark’s arrival now aligned me with the CIA.