A TIME TO BETRAY

by REZA KAHLILI

  “You know, Wally, I lived in Iran for a long while with my parents when I was younger,” she said when she noticed my reaction. “My father was a military attaché.”

  This meant a great deal to me. It meant that she would have a good picture in her mind of life in Iran before the revolution and that she would sympathize with what we had lost.

  “I have lots of good memories of Iran,” she continued. “Iranians are very hospitable. I made some good friends. I am grateful for the time I spent in your country.” She talked about places she visited, making me feel as though I were having a conversation with an old friend and catching up on what we had done while we were apart. Of course, this was only an illusion. Carol had my complete dossier and knew everything there was to know about me and why I was there.

  Although she spoke Farsi, we talked mostly in English. We’d been together for more than an hour when her smile dropped and she locked onto my eyes.

  “Wally, you don’t have to do this. You can quit right now and it will be okay.”

  Her saying this surprised me. Since my last meeting with Steve, I had felt as though there was no turning back. But what Carol was saying was true. If I wanted to walk away, I could do so without consequences—assuming, of course, that the Guards were not already aware of my activities. The fact that I could do so didn’t matter, though.

  “I’m in this, Carol. I need to do this. My decision is firm and final.”

  Carol’s expression softened. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

  We went over the training schedule and Carol stressed the importance of my taking every precaution to keep my destinations secret and secure. Losing someone in a crowd was a little easier in London than it was in LA, but I would still have to be cautious.

  My in-laws lived in the Mayfair district, which was convenient since the safe house was in the same area. Several means were available for me to get there: the ubiquitous black cabs, the Tube, or even a walk across Hyde Park or down Park Avenue. I usually walked because it allowed me to take in the surroundings, distinctive for their combination of new and old architecture. If I suspected that someone was following me, I altered my route slightly and dropped in for a visit with my in-laws. They were always delighted to see me, although it also meant that I would have to endure their further pleas for me to stay with them and provide my fumbling reasons why I couldn’t do this. The safe house was down a narrow alley filled with several small shops that had attached flats. It was easy enough to duck into one of the shops to obscure my destination.

  Carol had asked me to meet with her in a café in the Mayfair district. This made me nervous in a completely unanticipated way. Rather than worrying that an agent of the Guards would see me, I was more concerned that my in-laws might find me with Carol. How would I explain being with another woman? Although she was at least ten years older than me, she would still raise Somaya’s parents’ eyebrows.

  We went from the café to the safe house immediately. I didn’t ask her why we went to the café in the first place because I felt I needed to trust her. When we got to the house, she said, “Are you ready for your first training session?”

  “I’m a little nervous, but I’ll be fine,” I replied, feeling more than a little apprehensive. But in a sense I was excited as much as I was nervous. I thought of James Bond movies and I had to smile thinking of myself filling the role of Sean Connery or Roger Moore. It was the first moment in a long time when this life didn’t seem like a burden to me.

  There were two American men waiting for us in the safe house. David was a young man who was to teach me how to write messages to Carol from home. Joe was a man in his midforties who would teach me how to receive code messages from the CIA. I worked half a day with each of them. These sessions turned out to be nothing like the James Bond movies and I certainly did not get a magic pen or a multitasking watch.

  “You are getting this fast,” David said after my first session with him. I found it easier to figure out how to send messages than to learn how to receive them.

  The classes reminded me of being back in school. In the ensuing days my instructors presented me with a lesson and then gave me a test to see how well I absorbed what they taught. Although at first it seemed a little hard and confusing, I caught on quickly, and I discovered that I had a natural affinity for deciphering code. In all, the training lasted less than a week, filling me with new skills—and the new anxieties that came with having these skills.

  For the final exam that I “had to pass,” I received the coded message “Welcome to the CIA, Wally. Carol will be your contact from here on out and she will take good care of you.” When I deciphered this, I knew I’d mastered this skill with Joe. David then challenged me to respond, using the methods he’d taught me.

  “I am glad I have joined the CIA and I am looking forward to working with the agency to help free my country from the tyrants,” I coded back. David deciphered this and then shook my hand.

  “You are a natural,” he said as he congratulated me. “Working with you was a pleasure.” He gave me a package containing all of the documents I needed for my communications and I said good-bye to the two trainers.

  Carol walked me to the door and put a hand on my shoulder.

  “Be very careful, Wally.”

  I nodded. “I will be.”

  “Don’t do anything that could bring harm to you or your family.”

  I offered her a bittersweet smile. “That’s a little bit of a challenge in Iran these days.”

  “Just remember, Wally, if you need anything, I’ll be here for you. Just let me know with your letters. I will do my best to guide you with my messages.”

  I went back to the hotel to pack. After being away for nearly a month and a half, I was headed home. I would be going back a different man than when I left, quite literally. Once I started packing, a wave of emotion struck me unexpectedly. I just started sobbing. I sat on the bed next to my suitcase, wiping the tears from my face. It had been relatively easy to maintain my resolve during my debriefing and training. But now that I was going back to Tehran, the force of what I’d agreed to become overwhelmed me. From the moment I set foot in my country, I would be living outside of the world around me. Though I would be involved in the lives of people who loved me, I would be, in many ways, alone.

  I lay down on the bed, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. To try to bolster my courage, I thought about Naser about how he witnessed the devastation laid upon his sister and brother. I thought about Roya and the degradations she suffered from soulless men. I thought about Khomeini, who characterized himself as a representative of God, yet was so power hungry and greedy that he caused the most brutal acts to be committed in his name.

  None of it helped. I couldn’t let go of the fact that I’d convinced myself that my only option was to become a betrayer of my country.

  I had agreed to give sensitive secrets to the Americans. And while I believed that people like Steve and Carol had good intentions, I had no illusions about America’s foreign policies. Those policies had sometimes caused pain in the world and especially in the Middle East. Ironically, the CIA, my new employer, was responsible for orchestrating the coup known as Operation Ajax in 1953. Funded by the British and U.S. governments, Operation Ajax removed the democratically elected prime minister of Iran, Dr. Mohammad Mosaddeq. He was responsible for nationalizing the oil industry and eliminating the British monopoly on Iran’s oil. The CIA also helped set up the shah’s SAVAK police, who tortured and executed the opposition. The SAVAK model for treating prisoners continued at Evin under Khomeini. Therefore, the very organization I was entrusting with my secrets had actually contributed to the atrocities I was trying to end. Would they change course this time and help me help my country?

  I believed they would for two reasons. One was that while America’s history in foreign affairs was hardly spotless, it was the country that had liberated the world in World War II. I truly believed they could come to the r
escue again. The other was that in the face of all my confusion over my role and the fate of my country, I knew one thing absolutely: the people of Iran could never win without America’s help.

  None of this helped me to sleep that night. But it did allow me to hold my head high when I stepped onto the plane the next day.

  13

  A SPY RETURNS HOME

  HEATHROW AIRPORT was crowded with midday travelers queued up to go through the checkpoints. Because of persistent attacks from the Irish Republican Army, security measures had been high in England for many years by this point. When I got through the long line, I joined a multitude of fellow Iranians milling about the lounge waiting to board Iran Air flight 710.

  It was common knowledge among Iranians that Revolutionary Guards agents made note of every individual traveling to and from Iran. They scrutinized every flight coming into and going out of the country as if the future of the clerical government hinged upon their doing so. I knew I needed to be extra cautious to stay under the radar and to avoid arousing suspicion. Fortunately, this was becoming second nature to me, and I boarded without incident.

  Sitting in a window seat, I flashed back on everything I’d experienced in the past month and a half. From my initial meeting with the FBI agents to my final test in London, these days had changed me overwhelmingly and permanently. When in the midst of this the thought of my wife came into my head, the fact that I’d redefined “normal” on this trip shook me and caused an ache in my heart. I had half expected to feel relief to be going home when the plane lifted off, but instead all I felt was anxiety. I was Reza/Wally now. I was no longer the husband Somaya sent on this trip, no longer the son my mother believed she’d figured out, and certainly no longer the Guards member my brothers thought me to be.

  My thoughts stayed fixed while the landscape passed beneath me as we traversed the European mainland, then over the Danube River and the Adriatic Sea, the scattered mountains of the Taurus range, and the rugged peaks of the Zagros Mountains of my own country. The captain finally broke my reverie by announcing that we had entered Iranian skies. The clouds parted as if to proclaim a new beginning. The hills shone with shades of verdant green and golden browns—beautiful, God-given scenery. A reflective band of water shimmered like stained glass, and soon familiar glimpses of life appeared—a farm, a village, a city.

  The seat belt sign flashed and I tried to cajole myself to stay in the present. I thought about Somaya waiting to pick me up, and this time the thought filled me with excitement. I’d missed my beautiful wife terribly and maybe fully realized how much I missed her only now that I was about to see her again.

  But first I needed to go through customs. Once again, anxiety seared me. Everything could fall apart in this instant.

  All of the passengers on the plane received equal scrutiny. Still, I felt invisible eyes watching me specifically, and the tension built. Remember, you are a member of the Revolutionary Guards, I repeated continuously as I headed toward the front of the line.

  As I did, I heard all tourist interviews start with the same question: “Where are you coming from, and what are your plans for your visit?” The first question for all Iranians was “Where have you been, how long did you stay, and what have you brought back?”

  When it was finally my turn, I answered, “America and England. Visiting family. I don’t have anything to declare.”

  One customs agent stamped my passport while another opened my luggage. My heart started beating harder as I watched him leaf through the layers of clothes. What if he found the codebook the CIA had given me? What if he knew the purpose of those papers in my luggage? My breath nearly caught when he picked up the picture frame that had the codebook hidden in it. He kept the frame in his hand while he continued searching. Then he found the military book I’d purchased on the trip.

  “Why do you have this?” he said, his eyes sharp, his voice accusatory.

  Not wanting to sound intimidated, I adopted my own officious tone. “It is a gift for my commander in Sepah-e-Pasdaran.”

  The agent’s expression changed to a faint smile. Or perhaps it was a smirk. Regardless, he quickly put everything back in my suitcase, saying, “There you go, Baradar.” He closed my luggage and waved me through.

  No one else approached me.

  No one pulled me aside and said, “We know where you’ve been, Mr. Kahlili. We know who you talked to, jasoos. Come with us.”

  I felt the tension drain from me as I walked through the terminal to my waiting wife. Somaya looked even more beautiful than the picture in my mind, and my heart leapt when I saw her. Even though she’d covered her hair with a black scarf, her face brought life and strength to me. Was it her eyes or the way she looked at me? Was it her lips or the way she smiled at me? It didn’t matter; when I saw her, I knew I was home.

  All I wanted at that moment was to run to her, to hug her and pull her so close that we could become one. But it was not appropriate to hug and kiss anyone—even your wife—in a public place in Iran anymore. Instead, when I got close to her, I wrapped my arm around her shoulder and whispered, “I missed you so much. I am so glad that I have you in my life.” She patted my back and smiled, saying, “I missed you, too.” Though I desperately wanted to cling to her, I pulled my arm away and we walked through the exit like two strangers who had just met.

  I managed to maintain a happy face until we got home. But as soon as we walked into the house, I held Somaya in my arms and a rush of emotion poured from me. I could not control my tears and I’m sure this worried Somaya horribly.

  “Oh! Reza, are you okay?” she said, holding my face in her soft hands.

  My emotions were still so overwhelming that I couldn’t speak.

  She wiped my tears from her face. “I never want you to leave me again.”

  I knew that I needed to get hold of myself. I couldn’t let her think that anything was wrong beyond my missing her and my having had a long and difficult trip. “I feel bad for Aunt Giti,” I said at last. “She’s so sick and I hated leaving her alone in that facility. I wanted her to come back with me, but she insisted on staying.”

  Somaya smiled at me tenderly. But I also thought I caught a glimpse of something else in her eyes. Something that said she knew I wasn’t telling her everything. It might have been only my imagination, but I realized at that moment that I would continue to envision reactions like this from her as long as I continued lying to her.

  We talked for a while about the time we were apart, and I caught her up on how well her parents were doing in London. Somaya told me how lonely she’d felt without me and how hard it was for her to deal with this loneliness, even though I had not been away that long.

  “I was almost happy for my grandmother’s back surgery, though I know that is awful,” she said. “Taking care of her kept me busy and kept my mind away from how hard it is for me when we are apart.” She smiled at me. “I don’t want to give you a big head, but I simply can’t be away from you.” She kissed me and held me tight. Being with her in this moment was the best I’d felt in a very long time.

  That night, Somaya and I made love passionately, surprised when the first rays of light signaled the coming of a new day. I held her in my arms, wanting this precious time to last forever.

  But it was necessary for me to return to work. I tried to anticipate the day ahead of me and what my coworkers would say. I considered questions they might ask and attempted to have ready answers. I was operating on no sleep, so I knew I wasn’t going to be at my best under any circumstances.

  Returning to my Tehran office filled me with emotions that ran from trepidation and fear to bravado and enthusiasm. On the one hand, I was Wally, a spy working for the world’s largest intelligence agency. On the other hand, I was a member of the powerful Revolutionary Guards carrying out my duties as if my allegiance to Ayatollah Khomeini and his clerical regime were the most important thing in my life. Duality defined me now.

  In my role as Wally, I would gather fa
cts and information that only an insider with my connections could possibly access. There was an inherent danger to that. The regime was always on the lookout for spies, and when the United States took action on the information I would be providing, a red flag would surely go up among the Revolutionary Guards. How long could this go on before they traced the leaks to me?

  As Reza, a member of the elite Guards, my role was to look and act the part of a devout Muslim enforcing all the new rules laid down by the mullahs. A full black beard was a mandatory accessory to the Guards’ uniform, and I sported one along with every other member of the Guards. The image of a scowling black-bearded Guards member in uniform mustered fear and garnered respect. Playing the part of a zealot did not come naturally to me, and there were times I had to do things I dreaded: cautioning young girls to cover up, barking at kids for not displaying proper Islamic behavior, taking on the persona of a fanatic. Back in Iran now, I knew I would have to try to convince myself that doing these things allowed me to maintain my role—and maintaining my role allowed me to contribute to the downfall of the organization to which I so fervently imitated allegiance.

  Once I entered the base, I went straight to the office of Rahim, my commander. He greeted me, shook my hand, and then we kissed on each side of the face, as is the custom among Iranians.

  “How is your aunt, Brother Reza? Were you able to move her into a home?”

  “Brother Rahim, it was your help that made it possible. May Allah repay you many times over.” I went on to explain the situation with my aunt and that she was now living in an assisted-living facility.

  “So what else did you do, Brother Reza? Where else did you go?”

  “I visited some old friends from college. They were very happy to see me again. I also went to London and visited my in-laws on the way back.”

  I did not go into any detail, as I was already getting nervous. Hoping to cut the conversation short, I presented the gift I’d bought for him in the U.S. because I knew he would love it. Titled Jane’s Weapon Systems, it was an impressive volume with color pictures showing virtually all of the weaponry used anywhere in the world at the time. This was the book that had distracted the customs agent. Rahim received the gift appreciatively, telling me that he was always looking for books and magazines on military equipment, which I knew because Kazem had told me this about Rahim months earlier.