A TIME TO BETRAY

by REZA KAHLILI

  I am especially worried about my family. I am going to talk to my wife and try to convince her to move to London. I will be transferring the codebook out of my house, and will not be sending any mail or listening for any messages. If things get worse, I will destroy the codes. Please remember that I will need one favor and one favor only. Should anything happen to me, I beg of you to look after my wife and son.

  I will continue my daily life here, as I have no other choice. I am being sent to the front again soon. You will hear from me if I verify this was a one-time incident and I feel I am safe.

  God bless,

  Wally

  20

  ANOTHER MARTYR

  THE INCIDENT AT Evin Prison left me stunned. Javad had drawn a bull’s-eye on my back and I felt more unsafe than I’d ever felt in my life. The comfortable routine I’d settled into of collecting information and passing it on to Carol was no longer an option. I’d been aware of the consequences before, but now they seemed so much more real. I had to think of something to do to protect my family in case the Guards arrested me. When they caught people doing what I was doing, they tortured them in unimaginable ways. They would subject my wife and son to the same treatment, and I would be forced to watch until I confessed. The idea of that caused me levels of emotional pain I didn’t think I was capable of feeling. How could I have ever put them in this position?

  I remembered Steve’s warning at the outset of my engagement with the CIA: “I want you to be completely aware of the consequences if things go wrong, Wally. The United States government will deny any relationship with you. There won’t be a navy fleet coming to your rescue.”

  In other words, no one would save me from a horrific fate.

  There was one thing—perhaps the only thing—I could do: commit suicide. Sometimes defeat is not a man’s choice, but to die with pride and dignity is. The only way I could protect my family in the event I was arrested was to kill myself. The Guards wouldn’t torture Somaya and Omid to force a confession out of me if I were already dead. So I drove to a local drugstore and purchased rat poison. I filled four gel capsules with the powder and carried them with me from then on.

  Next I had to hide the codebooks. If the Guards were on to me or had any suspicions about me, they would ransack my home looking for evidence. I needed to get the books to a place where they’d be less likely to look, and I decided that my mother’s condo was the most secure place available to me. I asked Somaya to get Omid ready to visit my mother.

  I spent the entire drive to my mother’s contemplating my life decisions and the path on which I’d placed those I loved. Because of me, Omid’s future was like a dangling leaf on a bare tree with a storm fast approaching. As though to underscore the role I played in putting him in harm’s way, I was using his diaper bag to transfer the codebooks, the very vouchers of my betrayal.

  My mind was racing, and I must have exhibited this outwardly, because Somaya touched me on the arm and said, “Is something wrong, Reza? You don’t seem to be yourself.”

  “It’s nothing. I’m just concerned about going to the front again. I’m not sure when I’m going and there’s so much to do before I leave. I’m a little stressed trying to figure out how to get it all done. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  She gave me an understanding pat and let it go.

  When we arrived, Somaya and Mom quickly started fussing over Omid. I took the codebooks up to the closet in what had been my room before I got married. I had other items stored there—school-books, letters, photos—things I wanted to keep but didn’t have the room for at my place. Before I stored the codebooks, I labeled the package “Ideas for Computer Programs” just in case my mother should find it. Then I went back to my family and tried to enjoy the simplicity of playing with a child.

  In the following weeks, I took extra precautions. I made sure my daily routine of getting to and from work remained the same. This included dropping off letters to my aunt, though I was no longer using them to obscure the letters I was sending to Carol. At work, I stayed focused on my assignments. Not knowing what Javad was up to, I needed to appear to be the model Guard. I had barely seen him since we returned from Evin, but I still felt his presence.

  During this silent period, many things happened that I’d been unable to report to Carol. One was the formation of the Ministry of Intelligence and Security (MOIS) in August 1984. The regime was consolidating most of their intelligence work into the ministry, which was to become the center of all that activity, though the Guards would continue to have an intelligence presence at every base. With the formation of MOIS, Javad and Rasool, along with a few others from our base, were transferred to the ministry. The fact that Javad was now working in the Ministry of Intelligence gave me chills because it meant he had more authority and autonomy. Kazem remained at our base as part of the Guards’ Intelligence Unit.

  Though it took longer than expected, Kazem informed me that Rahim had finally issued the order for us to go to the front. There was no particular reason why he chose us for this mission other than that he wanted all of the Guards under his command to be in close contact with martyrdom regularly. He felt that “getting close to heaven purifies the soul. Should you be worthy enough, you will become a martyr and join our great prophet Mohammad, Imam Ali, Imam Hussein, and all God’s martyrs in heaven. But only if you are worthy enough.”

  When Kazem told me that Javad had volunteered to join us on this trip, it did not shock me, even though he was no longer in our unit. It simply confirmed that he was still watching me, and that he would continue to do so until he found something.

  The night before I left, I was packing my bag. Somaya had put Omid in his crib for the night and now she sat quietly on our bed, watching me. She seemed terribly sad, her fingers playing with the end of her shirt, rolling it up and down. I knew she wanted to say something, perhaps something she’d wanted to say for a long time. I stopped packing and sat next to her. She bent her head and looked at her hands, but she remained quiet. I wrapped my arm around her and kissed her head. I couldn’t think of what to say and ended up saying nothing. But I sat next to her for a long while. Finally, she broke the silence.

  “You come back home in one piece, Reza,” she whispered.

  Her lower lip curled, her eyelids turned red, and a tear rolled down her cheek. I wiped the tear away, leaned my head on her forehead, held on to her hands, and then let her cry on my shoulder, too overwhelmed by a suite of emotions to do anything other than embrace her.

  I reported directly to Kazem’s office early the next morning. When I arrived, his expression was unlike any I’d seen on his face in a long time. His eyes were gleaming, and he seemed happy in a very different way from how he appeared after the regime scored a great victory.

  “What’s gotten into you?” I asked as I put down my bag.

  Kazem got up from his chair. “My parents went khastegari for me a couple of weeks ago. I did not tell you before because I was not sure if they would be successful.”

  The chance to talk to Kazem about something as human as marriage warmed me. “Why would anybody reject a great man like you?” I said with a huge smile. “Who is the lucky bride?”

  “Her name is Zohreh,” he said excitedly. “She was introduced to my mom at a Quran reading. Mom thinks she is a very devoted Muslim and would make a great housewife. We are getting married after I come back from jebheh.”

  I reached out and gave him a hug, genuinely happy for him. When we were kids, we’d talked many times about getting married. It felt so good to bring those memories back now. He told me a little more about Zohreh, and we were both still smiling as we put our baggage in the back of the Toyota SUV supplied by the Guards. My good mood faded when Javad arrived, acknowledged me with a stiff hello, and climbed into the backseat.

  Throughout the long drive to Ahwaz, a city in the southwest of Iran close to the border with Iraq, I worried about what Javad might bring up. Though we were going to the front, Javad’s prese
nce was the greatest source of my anxiety. He was mysteriously quiet, though. Kazem, who drove, listened to the news on the radio, and I pretended to be asleep most of the way, inventing the excuse that Omid had been up all night crying.

  We made a few stops along the way in Hamadan, Khorramabad, and Dezful. The entire trip took more than twelve hours and darkness was upon us when we arrived at a garrison in Ahwaz. From there, we headed to the base behind the front lines. Our forces had no offensives planned the next day, so there was no sermon that night. It was already late, so shortly after our group namaz, we went to sleep. I was relieved that Javad had not challenged me on the trip, but I was still wary of him. I had to find a way to show him that I was devoted to my mission in jebheh and that I would fight for my country just like any other Guard or Basiji. If I could win his confidence, perhaps he would leave me alone.

  The next morning, we drove on a narrow dirt road bookended by hills on either side. Several times, ambulances rushing back with wounded forced us to pull over, a stark reminder of what we were facing. The sound of artillery guns firing behind us was deafening. A loud boom shook the ground with such force it felt like an earthquake.

  As we got closer, I could see the incoming artillery rounds from enemy fire blasting the surrounding areas. We felt a thump followed by a loud explosion as a round hit a small hill on our right, shaking our car and showering us with dirt and stones. Another one roared over our car, whistling as it went by. Kazem pressed harder on the gas. Javad ducked. Another shell seemed targeted for the roof of our car, but it hit a couple of hundred feet behind us. A hissing, screeching sound filled the air. It felt as if the sky were falling.

  Kazem sped behind a hill close to the command post and slammed on the brakes. We got out, keeping our heads down as we made our way toward the commanding officer.

  Kazem presented him with our orders from Rahim, saying, “Baradar, how can we be of assistance?” Transferring ammo, distributing food, or helping with the injured had been our assignments on previous trips.

  “For right now,” the commander responded, “it would be best if you just take cover. The Iraqi forces are attacking our positions aggressively. Many tanks are approaching, using artillery and aerial support.”

  We took shelter in a shallow hole reinforced with sandbags. We could see flashes of light all around as explosions shook the ground. This was the closest we had come to war. We could hear the commander barking orders. Bullets whizzed overhead. A shell burst about twenty yards away. Someone screamed for a medic. It was chaos.

  And then the fighting intensified.

  The three of us squatted in that hole. Javad and Kazem seemed nervous, both mumbling verses from the Quran. To my surprise, I was the least flustered of the group. Even though I knew I might not escape this insanity alive, I felt strangely calm. If I die here, I thought, Wally and the attendant burdens will die with me. Maybe that would be the easiest way out.

  Javad looked at me constantly. He tried to give the impression that he was not afraid, but I could see that he was. Remembering that his brother had died in the war, I felt a surge of compassion. Had he been thinking about that since we embarked on this trip?

  “Kazem, tell me more about your new bride,” I said to change the mood. “By the way, I agree to be your best man, even though you have not asked me.”

  Kazem smiled nervously. “I think the timing of khastegari was not right. It should have been done sooner.”

  “Don’t worry, the wedding will go on as scheduled with or without you.”

  He chuckled, and just then a Guard approached our bunker, clearly in distress.

  “You have to leave now and get back to the base behind the front lines. We are changing position and moving back. Get out now! Move!”

  We ran toward our SUV. I was in front, with Kazem and Javad following. The sound of explosions mingled with the screams of the injured and shouts of “Allaho Akbar!” Billows of smoke surrounded us, making breathing difficult. As we neared the hill, I could hear the hissing sound of incoming rounds. I was running as fast as I could, but I felt heavy and slow.

  Then I heard a short whistling sound. A shell hit close to us with a loud percussion followed by the buzzing noise of shrapnel splaying out into the air. We scattered and took cover. I couldn’t hear anything but the ringing in my ears. I felt something hit my leg. Lying on the ground, I turned my head and saw some blood on my left ankle. I could still move the ankle and feel it, though, and it didn’t hurt that much.

  I looked around for Kazem and Javad, but they weren’t behind me anymore.

  “Kazem, Kazem!” I shouted. No answer.

  “Javad, Javad.” My voice was lost in the sound of explosions.

  Another Guard, who was running for cover, reached me. “Just keep moving—run!” he said. But I could not. I had to find Kazem and Javad. I headed back in the other direction, and amid the dust and the smoke, I saw two Guards lying on the ground facedown, one covered with blood.

  “Kazem, are you okay?” I called. No answer.

  I broke into a run. Please, God, not Kazem.

  As I got close, I saw that one of the two fallen Guards was trying to get up. I could now clearly see that it was Kazem. He noticed me and said, “I am okay, Reza. It’s just my arm. Go check on Javad.”

  I blew out a deep breath and continued toward the second Guard. It was indeed Javad, and he was bleeding heavily. He had been hit by a large piece of shrapnel. It had torn into his back right under his left shoulder, taking out a chunk of tissue. He was not moving or making any sound. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around him, grabbed his upper body, put him over my shoulder, and bent over from the weight, started running. Kazem followed us, holding his arm. When we reached the car, I laid Javad in the backseat and drove back to the base. He didn’t respond when we asked him questions, but his eyes were wide open and he was moaning.

  Once at the base, we got out and called for help. The medics rushed Javad inside.

  Kazem and I were both in shock. I have no idea how long we sat in one place before Kazem looked at me and said, “Are you okay, Reza? There is blood on your ankle.”

  I had forgotten about that. I looked down and saw that my ankle had been cut open by shrapnel. Medics soon came and closed the wound with seven stitches. They dressed the wound on Kazem’s arm, assuring him he’d taken only a small hit.

  While waiting to hear about Javad’s condition, Kazem placed his jacket on the ground, took his holy stone and prayer beads from his pocket, and prayed. I walked back and forth gingerly on my repaired ankle, trying to process what we’d been through. We stayed like this until a medic walked up to us.

  “Javad is now a martyr,” he said flatly. He rubbed his forehead with the back of a blood-covered hand and went back in.

  Kazem and I looked at each other in disbelief. I leaned against the wall, slid down to the ground, and sat there trying to compose myself.

  Kazem handed me a cup. “Here, Reza, drink some water. You look pale.”

  “I am all right, Kazem. I am all right.”

  But I could not stop thinking about Javad. I felt responsible for his death. Had he chosen to come to jebheh because of me?

  That night, while the Guards and Basijis gathered inside the base, thankful for the shelter and hot food, I walked outside and sat on a small hill nearby. The curtain of stars on an infinite sky provided a backdrop for the lights of Iraqi jets flying above, trying to find their targets. I stared at this dreadful portrait drawn by two madmen—Saddam and Khomeini—for untold minutes.

  The sound of artillery rounds coming in and going out filled the air. I thought about God looking down and watching mankind once again killing one another for land, power, and other meaningless things. I maintained this tortured meditation for some time and then at last went back inside.

  The light was dim. There were more than a hundred combatants in the room. Some were doing their prayers, some were lying down on blankets, and others were engaged in conversat
ion. Looking around, I spotted Kazem sitting with a group of fighters. I joined them, listening to their war stories.

  “… He was in charge of bringing back three Iraqi POWs,” one Guard was saying, “but he shot them instead, taking revenge for his brother who was captured and killed by the Iraqis. He said one of the Iraqis begged for his life and took out a picture of his wife and children. But he pulled the trigger anyway.”

  Another Guard added, “One of our buddies survived an offensive that turned against us. He told us that the Iraqis were going over to the injured Guards and Basijis, shooting them in the head to finish them off. He and a few others, who were also injured, played dead. At night, when no one was around, they crept on their bellies to get back behind friendly lines. In the morning, the Iraqi choppers swooped down, hunting for any Iranians they could find. He was lucky he managed to make it back after a couple of days without much food or water. He survived by chewing on grass and sipping the early-morning frost. He said he saw a light that guided him in the right direction.”

  It amazed me how sometimes one’s faith brings extraordinary strength to accomplish impossible tasks. I felt compelled to contribute something, so I told them about Javad’s fate—how he had come here to be of help at the front and became a martyr instead. They shook their heads, acknowledging his sacrifice. That story was nothing new for them, just a daily reality of war.

  Javad’s death left me with a strong sense of contradiction. I knew I should have been relieved that he would no longer be pursuing me. The very real fact was that his loss was my family’s gain. But at the same time, I couldn’t stop feeling guilty. His pursuit of me was what killed him in the end, so if I hadn’t made the decisions I’d made, he’d still be alive.