by REZA KAHLILI
Kazem finished his phone conversation with Rahim and returned his attention to me. His tone turned confidential as he related the news about our traveling to Dubai to purchase equipment for the Intelligence Unit. He emphasized that I could not discuss the details with anyone and smiled while telling me about the special request he had placed with Haj Agha Golsari, the head of the Intelligence Unit at our base, to bring me along because of my knowledge about computers, the fact that I spoke English fluently, and, above all, because he trusted me.
Kazem was in an expansive mood. He proudly revealed several specific incidents in European and Middle Eastern countries involving the illegal transportation of arms and explosives through their seaports and airports. I made mental notes, trying to remember as many details as possible for the letter I planned to write to the CIA that night.
When I finally stood to leave, Kazem gazed up at me with fire and pride in his eyes. “Going on this mission is a great honor, Reza. I hope you are excited about it.”
I smiled and tipped my chin forward. “You know, Kazem, that I would do anything for Islam and Imam Khomeini,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.
16
HEJAB
THE NIGHT AFTER I learned about the Beirut bombing, I wrote Carol another letter.
[Letter #—]
[Date:———]
Dear Carol,
1—The bombing news in Lebanon caused a big commotion in the Guards today. Kazem was constantly on the phone congratulating other commanders. He talked proudly of the bravery of the martyrs involved in the suicide bombing. He was fully aware of the success of the bombing mission.
2—Kazem talked about transporting arms and explosives in Europe and the Middle East. On one occasion, they transferred arms and cash in the amount of $1 million through a high-ranking mullah and his entourage while on an official trip to Germany, where it was given to Iranian agents. In another incident, explosives and arms were transported by Iran Air to Spain then transferred from the Iran Air office to Iranian agents to be used against the Mujahedin. He told me an opposition member in Dubai named Ali was abducted and taken to the Iranian Consulate, interrogated and transferred by Consulate car to the airport, then to Iran Air and to Tehran and finally to Evin Prison. I don’t know what became of him.
3—Kazem has asked me to travel to Dubai with him. He received authorization from Haj Agha Golsari, the head of the Intelligence Unit at our base. We are leaving three weeks from today.
4—The mission is to purchase computer equipment and software for networking and data processing for the Intelligence Unit.
5—Please advise if you can be available for a meeting in Dubai. I would appreciate a face-to-face meeting.
Wally
The following Friday, I received a message back from her.
Hello, Wally,
We received your letters.
Very important information. Excellent effort.
I will be in Dubai at Hotel X. Use———to contact me.
Abort contact if any suspicion.
Please update on Rafiqdoost travel to Syria, date, purpose, people with him.
We are proud of you. Stay safe.
Keep us informed on Javad.
See you in Dubai.
Carol
Somaya was not happy about my trip to Dubai. The whole situation in Iran had become so terrifying to her that she no longer felt safe going out by herself. This feeling intensified after her personal involvement in a frightening incident.
One night I volunteered to watch Omid so she could visit a friend. I was a little worried that she didn’t come home when I expected her, but I brushed it off, figuring she was enjoying herself and had lost track of time. Somaya didn’t go out often, so I could easily imagine her reveling in the rare opportunity. Given the state of our country, though, I should have been more apprehensive.
When she came home hours late, she was in shock, shivering, and crying. I had never seen her so scared and I immediately leapt to horrible conclusions.
“I was waiting to catch a cab,” she said, hyperventilating. “There were two other girls standing a few feet in front of me also waiting for a ride. All of a sudden, a big SUV slammed on its brakes so hard that the car skidded forward a few yards before fully stopping. You could see the smoke and smell the burning tires. Then they backed up and got out of the car, yelling at us to get into their car.” She burst into tears. “I was so frightened. All I could think was what they would do to me.”
I quickly thought of Somaya’s friend Farah. The Zeinab Sisters—the “Moral Police” in charge of monitoring the women’s dress code—had arrested her for wearing makeup. The regime forbade polished nails, a peek of hair under a veil, a hint of lipstick, some rouge, and anything of that sort, and they would subject young women to lashings for attempting to look more attractive. Farah stood up to them, thinking she was defending her rights. They jailed her for four days, beating her and keeping her in a cell with criminal women. Farah was tough, but upon her release, she was so terrified that she never went out without a chador.
I put my arms around Somaya and pressed her into me, trying to calm her, and trying to find out exactly what had happened.
“Reza, they took me to the Komiteh. It was so scary. There were two other girls already in the car when they arrested us. The Zeinab Sisters were very rude, mean, and filthy. Every time any of us would ask why we were being arrested or where they were taking us, they would tell us to shut up and that they would beat us if we said another word. They took down our names and addresses.
“After they dropped us at the Komiteh, I saw another group of women lined up in the corridor behind a door. I could hear a lot of screaming and crying. While we waited, a guard came and said they were going to whip us fifty times for disrespecting and disobeying the Islamic rules.”
My outrage exploded upon hearing this. If these bastards did what I was thinking they did at that point, I vowed I would kill every one of them.
But before my imagination incensed me further, Somaya told me they let her and some other women go without any physical harm. Apparently, the head of the Komiteh released them since they had the appropriate hejab and because the Zeinab Sisters had arrested them unfairly.
Though I desperately didn’t want to leave Somaya at this point, I had to take the trip to Dubai. I tried to reassure my wife that I would be back quickly, but I was obligated to go. On the morning I left, Somaya cried so hard that I felt miserable. At the same time, though, her tears emboldened my mission. I needed to do everything I could to prevent the people who made her so fearful from maintaining control of our country.
Kazem booked two rooms at the Sheraton in Sharjah, not far from Dubai and definitely a poorer neighbor of the growing modern city. Fortunately, our rooms were located far away from each other. This made it so much easier for me to meet with Carol. Shortly after we checked in, I called her to let her know where I was staying, and to tell her that I would call her again to arrange our meeting as soon as I found out my schedule with Kazem.
The next day, Kazem and I met with an Iranian merchant Kazem knew well named Saeed. He owned an import/export business partnered with an Arab named Fahid. Saeed arranged an appointment with an Arab middleman named Abdul who was fluent in English. During this meeting, each of us had distinct roles: Kazem was the point man and did the talking and negotiating. Saeed was the coordinator and logistics man, and I was the computer expert. Since Abdul spoke only Arabic and English, and since none of the rest of us spoke Arabic, I also served as translator.
Abdul took us around to several companies that specialized in computer equipment, telling them we were opening a new business with headquarters in Tehran and expanding throughout Iran. We explained that we needed not only computers but the networking, data-processing, tracking, and communications software to support our business development plans. We needed to use this level of subterfuge with these companies to prevent U.S. intelligence from finding out
what we were doing. If anyone learned that we were seeking to purchase equipment for the Guards, it was likely that the CIA or some other intelligence organization would have attempted to bug the equipment in some way to monitor our activities or perhaps even sabotage it.
Kazem made plans to visit the Iranian consulate in the morning and said we would continue our tour of Dubai in the afternoon. After we got back to the hotel, Kazem went to his room to do his prayers, giving me an opportunity to call Carol. Now that I knew Kazem’s schedule, I could arrange to meet with her the following day. We discussed a variety of options and decided that it would be safest for us to get together after Kazem was asleep. Since it would be dangerous for me to be seen leaving the hotel on my own at that time, Carol told me she would meet me in my room at one in the morning.
I left the door to my room unlocked so she could enter when she felt it was safe. Then I waited for her, seemingly forever. I kept checking my watch and checking the door, while I tried to focus on the issues I wanted to address with Carol. Intermittently, I would gaze at a picture of my son that I planned to show to her.
It occurred to me that the CIA must have gained at least a modicum of trust in me to agree to such a risky meeting. I’d requested this appointment because I had no idea what impact my reports were having and I needed feedback. I was feeling isolated and vulnerable, and I needed to know that the risks I’d been taking were serving some purpose.
Finally, the door opened and Carol stepped inside, locking the door behind her. Her disguise—a long, light blue coat and colorful veil sitting loosely on her head with her bangs peeking through—surprised me a little. She looked very Middle Eastern and I didn’t recognize her at first. She actually reminded me of Somaya’s aunt. Surprise registered on her face when she saw that I was clean-shaven. It was Kazem’s idea to shave our beards to look more like the businessmen we were supposed to be.
Carol immediately assured me that she hadn’t attracted any attention on the way to my room, but stressed that she couldn’t stay too long because of the late hour. Even though Dubai was a more open city than most in the Middle East, it was not wise for a woman to be out by herself in the early hours of the morning. Carol took out a pad and we got down to business.
“This morning, we went to the consulate and I saw Revolutionary Guards members masquerading as political operatives. Kazem knew a few of them and introduced me to them, but he didn’t mention their last names. There was Baradar Mehdi, Baradar Jafar, and Baradar Gholam. While we were there, two black stretch limos arrived displaying Iranian flags and consulate license plates. Later that day, Kazem leaned over and said, ‘Do you remember those two limos that drove up today? That’s how we do it. They were carrying explosives and firearms.’ Then he smiled and told me that officials had even stopped the limos, but that no one dared search a consulate convoy.”
“Did Kazem give you any specifics about what kind of explosives were involved?”
“No.”
“Have you heard anything else about the bombing in Lebanon?”
“Kazem had a meeting with Haj Agha Golsari the day after the bombing. He did not discuss the details with me, but they were all calling and congratulating each other.”
“What are Kazem’s plans here in Dubai?”
“As I explained in my letter, we are purchasing computer equipment and software for the Guards’ Intelligence Unit. Kazem said that the Guards are expanding their operations and have set up separate departments for each region of the world. Each department oversees special ops and the political situations of each region. They are going to be dealing with a lot of data processing and storage.”
“What company are you dealing with, and how long will you stay in Dubai?”
“We’ve been negotiating with several companies and I think Kazem will finalize a deal with Computer Dynamics Unlimited tomorrow. If everything goes smoothly, we will fly back home in two days.”
I filled her in about Saeed and Fahid’s import/export business in Dubai, explaining that they exported exclusively to Iran and adding my strong suspicion that they were operating a front company for the Guards that handled transactions for equipment under one guise (industrial, for example) when the ultimate purpose of that equipment was military use. The Guards had been using front companies for requisitions since their formation. We then focused on the events back in Tehran, including an overview of the Guards’ activities. Though she knew the arms blockade was working, Carol didn’t know until I told her that it had caused an especially severe shortage of spare parts for Iran’s air force. She took notes as I explained that Rafiqdoost had made several contacts in the black market for the purchase of necessary firepower. He had acquired a number of older, smaller ships for the Guards, using these to transfer black market munitions to the ports of Iran. These ships evaded suspicion because of their size and appearance.
“I heard from Kazem that Rafiqdoost will be traveling to Syria in the next few weeks along with Ahmad Vahidi; I have seen several of his directives to Rahim, our base commander. Vahidi is very active in organizing operations outside of Iran. Besides Lebanon, where Mostafa Najjar is running the Guards’ operation in close coordination with Vahidi and the Guards Intelligence Unit, they are also focusing much of their effort on the countries in the Persian Gulf and Africa. I am still not aware of the exact date of their departure.”
Carol kept writing and the details kept pouring out of me.
“A week before coming to Dubai, I had a long conversation with Rasool, whom I’ve mentioned in my reports. He is also in the Intelligence Unit out of our base. He told me that during the last international day of Quds, the annual event protesting Israeli control of Jerusalem, millions of dollars were handed out in cash to the Hezbollah and Islamic Jihad leaders who had participated. Rasool told me that he personally handed out some of this money in secret meetings that were held by the Guards. This upset him because he couldn’t understand why we needed to pay these people if they were fighting for Islam. Apparently, the money was payment for terrorist activities against the U.S. and Israel.”
Carol took in all of this. When I mentioned Rasool, she stopped writing and said, “Rasool sounds like an interesting man,” without any further explanation.
We continued to talk at length. When she finished debriefing me, Carol gave me more of the supplies I used to communicate with her and a new codebook.
“Wally, I hope you know that the information you’ve been relaying is highly valuable to the U.S. government and that we are very grateful for your efforts,” she said. “Now tell me more about Javad in your office. What does he do to make you so uncomfortable?”
“Javad works in the Intelligence Unit at our base. He comes to my office often and he has a very menacing way about him. He stares straight into my eyes while asking me questions. The questions themselves are innocuous enough: ‘How is your aunt doing in America?’ or ‘Did you like it there when you were a student?’ But the way he asks them makes me feel like he’s probing. One day he asked me how a guy like me with the opportunity to live in America could live in Iran with so little pay when I could have it all with ‘the Great Satan.’ He said it jokingly, but I didn’t get the impression he was joking at all.”
“How would you react to his questions?”
“I usually handle his questions okay, but I’m worried that he is up to something and that he is having someone follow me. He’s a hard-core zealot and suspicious of anyone who’s traveled to America. I think he’s just testing me, but it makes me very uneasy.”
Carol was supportive, telling me that it was going to be the case that some people would make me nervous and that I just needed to stay on guard. She reiterated how grateful everyone in the CIA was and stressed, as she had on other occasions, that the agency would never pressure me to do anything I didn’t want to do or felt uncomfortable doing. If I decided to stop at any time, they would back me completely. I appreciated this. In fact, I’d been looking for precisely this kind of pep talk
.
“Don’t do anything to compromise yourself or your family,” she said. “I want to see you back in the U.S. with your wife and son someday.”
That prompted me to show her the picture of Omid, and we talked about him and Somaya for a while. She genuinely seemed to care about my family. Then she reached into her purse and handed me an envelope.
“This is a bonus for all the hard work you have done. We consider you our best contact in Iran. We’ve come to trust all the information you’ve given us.”
There were about fifty one-hundred-dollar bills in the envelope. That was a great deal of money in my country. A middle-class Iranian could easily live a prosperous life on five hundred dollars a month, given the exchange rate on the black market. As tempting as those bills looked to me, and as much as the money would have made a difference to my family, I did not feel right about accepting it. It made what I was doing feel like a business transaction, and it was anything but that for me.
Carol seemed to understand my sense of conflict. “You deserve it. Take it,” she said.
My eyes went to Omid’s picture one more time, and then I thought about how this money would help him and Somaya if something should happen to me. “Why don’t you wire it to the same account where you deposit my salary?” I said, as I handed back the envelope.
Carol smiled at me gently and agreed to do so. Now we had to figure out the best way for her to get out of my room. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. I grabbed the ice bucket, opened the door, and walked out toward the ice machine, leaving the door half open for Carol. I told her I would drop the ice bucket if I saw something suspicious. She slipped out while I went down the hall.
Back in my room, I immediately hid the supplies in the bottom layer of my suitcase among my notebooks and the magazines I had purchased that morning. Then I put the codebooks in the frame that held Omid’s picture. The thought of the image of his innocent face serving as cover for my dangerous activity jarred me. I kissed the picture and whispered, “I am so sorry, Omid jon.”