by REZA KAHLILI
“I should have told you in my letter that I was coming to London. Since I was bringing my family here, though, I didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize their chances of leaving the country.”
She was shocked when I told her about the bombing and how I helped to recover bodies from the fateful birthday party, explaining why I felt such urgency to get Somaya and Omid to London and out of the terror.
“Somaya has pleaded with me to stay here with them and not go back.”
Carol, who had been reaching in her briefcase to get her notebook and a pen, stopped and looked up. She cleared her throat to say something, but instead she put her hand against her lips and paused for a moment. Then she went on.
“I understand, and I am sure that the agency thinks the same way as I do, Wally. As I said before, your safety and the safety of your loved ones is our priority. If you wish to stop now, we fully support you.”
I don’t know why it was that every time any of my contacts told me that he or she would support me should I decide to leave the agency, I felt how much they needed me. Were they playing a game with me because they knew I would react this way? Or was I simply realizing how much was still unfinished?
“You know, Carol, to be honest with you, I have thought about it many times. Given what happened at Evin and the possibility that I could have been killed at the front, I probably should consider leaving. And now that I am here in one piece with my family, knowing you would support me, it’d be the best time.”
“But?” Carol asked. “There is a but, I presume.”
I paused for a long moment before speaking again. “Carol, I love my family very much and I am glad they are safe here. But I cannot stop now. If you were in Iran, you would understand why people are sick and tired of being ruled by these Islamic radicals. Iranians need help. They need someone to speak for them, and I feel that I am that voice. Sometimes I think I am the only one they have.”
Carol moved in her chair and uncrossed her legs as she listened to what I had to say.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” I asked.
“No, Wally, please go ahead.”
I lit up a cigarette, took a long puff, and blew out the smoke. “So many injustices happen every day. Just last week, a teenager was talking on a public phone when the Komiteh forces approached her. At first they objected to her outfit. Then they realized she was talking to her boyfriend on the phone. They shot her right there.
“I was going to work one day during the month of Ramadan when I saw an old man being arrested for eating in public and not respecting the mandatory fasting. He must have been eighty years old, and Islamic thugs the age of his grandsons beat him mercilessly.”
Carol listened quietly, her eyes downcast.
“A neighbor of my mother’s, a Jewish man who converted to Islam out of fear, had his passport confiscated after returning home from a business trip. A few days later, they arrested him and took him to Evin Prison. He was beaten every night and taken in front of an execution squad, being told each time he was going to be shot. While blindfolded, he heard the sound of the gunshots and expected to die, but they didn’t shoot him. That was how they tortured him. Then they would ask him to put others who had been shot in body bags. They wanted him to confess to spying for Israel. He never did, and he was released five months later after paying millions of rials in bail money.”
“What do people do?” Carol asked, the incredulity and frustration evident in her voice. “How do they put up with all this?”
“People have not lost hope yet. In spite of all the arrests and executions, students, teachers, and workers still demonstrate for their rights. Women still do not adhere completely to the Islamic hejab even though they get arrested and whipped for that. But they need help.” I sighed. “The West needs to do something.”
I put out my cigarette in the ashtray. Carol sank farther into her seat. I could see that my stories touched her. She had tears in her eyes. Carol had lived in Iran and she loved the people and the country, so I knew she had more than professional interest in what I was saying.
“Wally, I hope the day will come when freedom returns to the Iranians. But it’s most important to pressure the mullahs into accepting peace with Iraq and stopping this lunacy that is taking so many lives.”
I knew that she didn’t have the power to change anything herself, but what she said was enough to make me believe that America intended to make an effort. Now we had to get back to work. Carol asked me about the Evin incident and the death of Javad. She wanted to make sure that my safety was not at risk and that my position had not been compromised.
“I was convinced that Javad’s death ended the suspicion about me. I even felt that Abbass, the guard at the prison, did not suspect anything. He just met with me because Javad asked him to do so. But there was this guy, Taghi, who also works out of MOIS and was present at Rezaei’s meeting. Taghi implied that Javad had told him about me. That scared me, knowing that Javad might have left his unfinished business in the hands of somebody else.”
Carol’s brows knit. “What do you suspect he knows about you?”
“It’s possible that Javad told him something that might incriminate me. I don’t know, I might be too sensitive about this issue at this point, seeing monsters around every corner. All I know is that I have to take extra precautions. I have no idea what was going on in Javad’s mind, but I learned from other Guards that Javad was into everybody’s business and that he did things on his own.”
“Perhaps that’s the case,” Carol said evenly. “However, don’t you think that if there were any suspicion about you Kazem would have known, and consequently not have divulged secretive information or taken you to important meetings?”
That was something I hadn’t considered, and it made sense. “You know, Carol, sometimes I don’t know what to think and how to feel. This double life is far more complicated than I ever imagined. But I am living it and praying to God that what I’m doing will help free my country.”
I didn’t want to continue down this path with her. We had too much business to do and this conversation wasn’t helping with that. I made an abrupt switch in topic.
“The Guards have obtained authorization from Khomeini to formally turn their forces into a conventional army. They are now going to expand their ground forces and have a formal navy and air force. Rezaei promised surface-to-surface missiles with longer range and larger impact, fighter jets for the air force, submarines for the navy, and the expansion of weapons production in the country.”
I also clarified that the Guards’ power base and influence were going to expand greatly both inside and outside of Iran. The Guards’ elite forces had infiltrated countries in the Persian Gulf, Asia, Africa, Europe, and even Latin America, setting up safe houses, recruiting volunteers, and training martyrs. I explained that the Guards had now mastered the production of chemical weapons, and were pursuing a nuclear bomb to counteract Saddam and to prepare for future aggression. I told her of Rezaei’s plan to form thousands of small, lethal units to overwhelm the defense of any army, including America’s.
“Carol, it’s very important to understand this mentality of martyrdom and radical conviction. They truly believe that one day Islam will conquer the world. If we allow the Guards to go unchecked, the consequences could be devastating for the region—and the world.”
Carol continued to write furiously. Then she stopped and looked up at me. “Wally, you should know that we consider you one of our best. The information you’ve provided has been very helpful in our understanding the situation in Iran and giving us insight as to the best way of dealing with it. I want you to be very careful, though. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way trying to learn about what the Guards are doing. Keep it limited to being eyes and ears. It’s working great so far.”
She reached for her purse, fished out an envelope, and handed it to me. “This is a bonus for your hard work.”
I looked at her with a smile and said, “I should c
ome to see you more often!”
We both shared a laugh. Since the bank they had originally set for my salary deposits was in London and I wanted to leave some of the money with Somaya, I accepted the cash with no hesitation. I peeked inside the envelope and guesstimated about five thousand dollars. I suppose I was learning that after all, I was an employee of the CIA no matter how I looked at it.
We spoke a while longer and then got up to leave. Carol hugged me warmly before we departed and reminded me again that I could stop doing this work anytime if I felt it was too dangerous for me to continue.
“Just promise me that you will take care of my family should anything happen to me,” I said before leaving.
During the rest of my stay in London, I spent as much time as I could with Somaya and Omid. It was our best two weeks since Wally had come into our lives. Omid, who was now uttering full sentences, had learned how to take my breath away. The night before my flight, Somaya’s parents left us alone at home. They said they had to be somewhere, but I suspected that they wanted to give us some space. The three of us sat on the floor in the living room, where Omid had his coloring books and crayons spread all over. While he drew, I held Somaya’s hand.
“I will come back and visit,” I promised her.
She shook her head in disappointment. Right up to that moment, I think she believed that I would decide to leave the Guards and stay with her.
Omid held a piece of paper aloft to show us the crooked red heart he’d drawn. “Baba kheily asheghetam,” he said. “I love you very much, Daddy.” The innocence and purity of his words ripped at my soul. Then he dropped the paper and wrapped his little arms around my neck, kissing my cheeks.
I swallowed a lump in my throat and kissed him back. “Manam kheili asheghetam.”
I looked at Somaya after I said this and said, “Oh, honey, I love you, too.”
She got up and laughed. “You think everything is a joke.”
I pulled her arm and had her sit next to us. “As soon as I have an opportunity, I will wrap things up. I’ll come back here and we’ll start a new life.”
The next evening, I left. I had to say good-bye to my family on another foggy, hazy London night.
This time, the sad mood of England’s never-starry sky was a perfect representation of my emotions.
23
GOD’S HOUSE
THE SCOWL ON the cabdriver’s face disappeared when I passed a handful of 1,000-rial bills (about fifteen dollars total) to him after asking that he not pick up any other passengers. Usually, drivers in Tehran make several stops to get as many as five people in one cab. Arriving in the early morning following a six-hour red-eye from London, I was exhausted and I needed to catch a couple of hours of sleep before going to the office.
The driver counted the money carefully, turned toward me with a toothy smile, and said he knew a shortcut we could take to avoid traffic. I nodded agreement as I settled in my seat. Seeing Tehran’s familiar landmarks out the cab’s window reminded me that my wife and son were no longer with me. I felt both relieved and melancholy. I already missed them, but I was glad they were no longer in harm’s way and that I would be free to pursue my commitment to being Wally without worrying about the consequences for them.
As though to reinforce that I’d made the right decision, we passed construction cranes with the corpses of three recently executed young men dangling like bait at the end of a fishing pole. A crowd stared blankly at the bodies silhouetted against the distant hills. People had become numb to the executions. At least most people had. Beneath one of the dead men, a black-veiled woman, likely the mother of one of them, wailed her heart out.
That afternoon, after my nap, I headed to work and went straight to Kazem’s office with the souvenirs I bought in London for him and his new bride. Sitting behind Kazem’s desk was a Guard I knew but whose name I could not remember.
“Salam, Baradar Reza, come in,” he said when he saw me. “Are you here to see Kazem?”
“Salam, Baradar,” I replied, telegraphing some confusion. “Yes, I am looking for Kazem. Is he coming back?”
“Oh, no. Baradar Kazem has moved to the commander’s office. He has replaced Baradar Rahim.” He smirked. “I guess you were gone too long!”
I felt stupid not knowing what had happened in the two weeks I had been away. “Then where did Baradar Rahim go?”
“Baradar Rahim has moved to another base,” he said as he pulled out a drawer and grabbed some papers, pretending to be busy.
I thanked him and rushed back to my building, where Kazem’s new office was also located. I went to his office and Kazem jumped out of his chair as soon as I entered the room, happy to see me. He’d never greeted me at the office this way before. Maybe being in the commander’s seat boosted his spirits.
“What did you do to Rahim?” I said brightly. “I’m only gone for a couple of weeks and you organized a coup and took over the base without me?”
Kazem burst into laughter and gave me a huge hug.
“After he came back from England, Rahim moved on to the MOIS. He is now involved with the organization and movements of our agents in Europe. Like it or not, I am your new commander.”
“I guess I’ll be okay with that,” I said with a smile. “Oh, before I forget, these are for you and your wife—a small souvenir from Somaya and me.”
I handed him a bag. Somaya had helped me pick up a sweater for Zohreh and a rain jacket for Kazem. Kazem thanked me for the presents and extended an invitation to stay at his house should I ever get especially lonely while my wife was away. It was a simple exchange between friends—the kind of thing that came naturally to people who’d known each other and had been as close to each other for as long as the two of us had been. I realized, though, that we would never be having this exchange if Kazem knew about Wally. This led me to wonder how, knowing me for as long as he did, he didn’t know about Wally. How could he possibly have missed all my acts of deception?
The reality was that Kazem was not the shrewd, cunning person that so many Guards and clerics were. He was just a closed-minded one. My relationship with him was easily the most complicated in my life. I absolutely rejected everything he believed in, yet at the same time, I felt a deep attachment to him for everything we’d shared over the years. When I brought him presents, I was doing so from a source of genuine affection. At the same time, though, I never lost sight of how I could use my access to him to provide Carol with vital information, something that certainly fell outside of the scope of genuine friendship.
Shortly after my return to Tehran, I heard about William Buckley, the CIA operative Carol had asked me about who’d been taken hostage a year and a half ago in 1984. The evening news mentioned that the Islamic Jihad had announced the execution of Buckley in Beirut. Islamic Jihad was a front name for the Revolutionary Guards stationed in Lebanon, another example of their expanding power. They chose to create this front to generate confusion among American and Israeli intelligence. By doing so, they ensured that the enemy couldn’t trace their terrorist acts back to Iran, instead believing that this was a homegrown movement in Lebanon. I knew the news of Buckley’s execution had already reached Carol and that there was no point in reporting it to her.
By this time, Ali Khamenei had gained a second term as president in an election that saw stunningly few Iranians participate because they believed that the democratic process was a sham. They had every reason to feel this way, as the Guardian Council decided which candidates could run for office and the Council consisted of six members chosen directly by the Supreme Leader, Imam Khomeini, and six more approved by him after their nomination by the chief justice, who was also handpicked by the Supreme Leader, and their election by the parliament. This meant that no one could attain power if they posed even the slightest risk to the status quo.
The regime anticipated that voting would be light and worked hard to maintain the illusion for the West that the people still backed the mullahs. They ordered all Guards an
d Basijis to show up to vote dressed as ordinary citizens and they bused people who had been relocated from cities affected by the war to polling stations, offering them food and shelter—and threatening to withhold such necessities from anyone who didn’t go along with their plan.
(Khamenei’s prime minister at the time was Mir Hossein Mousavi, the man whose defeat in the 2009 presidential elections led to such violent outrage on the streets of Iran. The remaining moderates left in the parliament—a holdover from the pre-Khamenei days—still had enough votes to force Mousavi on Khamenei when he became president in 1981, foreshadowing the clashes between this group and the radical right that would explode on the world stage nearly three decades later. Mousavi lost his position in 1989, when constitutional changes eliminated the role of prime minister.)
Meanwhile, in Tehran and other major cities, the Iraqi jets continued dropping bombs on the rooftops of Iranian homes nightly. At the same time, Guards and young Basijis continued their battle against the Iraqis at the front. Saddam’s weapons—including his vicious chemical ones—killed or severely injured many thousands of these brave men. The Mujahedin were also attacking our forces from their bases in Iraq after they moved their headquarters from France. This move brought more resentment and hatred toward the Mujahedin, not only from the Guards and Iran’s military fighters but also from most Iranians who saw their alignment with Saddam as a despicable act. And as all of this went on, Islamic rules in Iran became even more stringent. I felt under siege at every turn, and I know that many of my fellow citizens felt the same way.
I had told Somaya that I would visit them for our New Year in the spring of 1986, but with the ever-tightening grip of the regime, I realized that it wasn’t safe to do so and that I had to disappoint her. Taking another trip to England at this point would have drawn more attention to me than I was comfortable with. As much as I missed my wife and son, and as much as I wanted to be an active part of their lives, I had to stay away from them until I knew I could be with them permanently.