by REZA KAHLILI
Rahim stopped me. “Baradar Reza, I know it has been hard for you to lose Kazem. I understand. You look so miserable. I think it is a good idea that you go there for a while. Be with your family.”
I couldn’t believe it had gone that easily.
“Leave your phone number and address with me and I’ll be in touch,” Rahim continued. “I know Moheb Khan and where he lives, but if I have your number, I can call should something come up. And perhaps while staying there, I’ll connect you with some good brothers and you can remain active with the Guards.”
Rahim’s words sent me plummeting back to earth. How was I going to navigate my way through this? I decided that I couldn’t worry about it at that moment. I had his permission to leave and I’d make the most of that. I made plans to leave the country in a few weeks, though I still didn’t call Somaya to tell her so. I felt that I couldn’t let her know what I was doing until after my plane landed in London because until that very moment things could go horribly wrong. I had Rahim’s permission, my ticket, and the voucher of my freedom, but I had learned that none of this was a guarantee in Iran anymore. I just couldn’t bear the devastation it would cause her if I got her hopes up and then someone with power over me squashed those hopes.
I was so anxiety-riddled in the time leading up to my departure that I could barely sleep. And when sleep did come, soul-ripping nightmares awoke me, leaving me stunned in bed. About a week before my flight, I woke up soaked to the bone in the middle of the night. I held my chest tightly because it felt as though my heart were about to burst out of it. I ran the sheet across my face to wipe off the sweat and sat up in bed, remembering the dream I had.
I am in a desert. There is nothing around me. I am stuck in a hole from the waist down. I feel something hit my head from the back and I feel intense pain. Then something hits me in the forehead. I see blood. Then something else hits me in the back of my head.
I turn and sigh. Kazem is standing behind me in his soccer jersey. He is ten or eleven years old. He has a soccer ball in one hand and is throwing rocks at me with his other. Another rock hits me in the forehead. This comes from Naser, who is standing in front of me. He looks skinny and old. He is behind bars and throwing rocks at me from a distance.
I scream, “I don’t want to be the goalie anymore!”
Khanoom Bozorg approaches me. “Reza jon, you should have done your namaz before getting in that hole.”
Agha Joon walks up and grabs Khanoom Bozorg’s hand. “Khanoom, leave him alone. He is an adult and he knows what’s right and what’s wrong. He is in this hole just to be a goalkeeper.”
Then Somaya comes toward me carrying a birthday cake. I try to blow out the candles from the hole, but no matter how strong I blow, I cannot do it. The fire is still there. The candles are burning and burning!
“I don’t want to be the goalie anymore!” I scream again.
25
LEAVING HOME
MY LANDLORD WAS upset when I gave her short notice, but my offer to let her keep all of my furniture appeased her. Although I planned to be away for a long time, I packed light. I didn’t want to take much. I even wished I could leave my memories behind, burying them with all of the people I loved whom I’d buried. All I wanted was a new future and for the past to hide in its own darkness.
Once on the plane, I closed my eyes and thought of Somaya and Omid’s surprise at seeing me—how we would start the rest of our lives together and how different things were going to be. I was preoccupied with these pleasant thoughts when the plane hit air turbulence. The FASTEN SEAT BELT sign beeped and lit up. A commotion arose as the plane started to shake.
The woman next to me started to murmur prayers. “Ey Khoda, Khodet hefzemoon kon,” she said. Oh God, please save us! She held on to the arms of her seat and mine. The older man next to her on the aisle seat had his eyes closed as he rocked back and forth, a line of sweat traveling along the side of his pale face.
The plane dropped suddenly, causing several people to cry out in alarm. The sound of babies wailing and adults shouting for salvation was all too familiar to me. But a few seconds later, the shaking subsided. With another beep, the seat belt light went off.
“Thank God,” the woman next to me said as she took a deep breath. She turned her head toward my seat to look out the window and I saw tears in her eyes. “Even to leave this ruined place does not come easy.”
All I could do was nod and force a smile.
She shook her head. “Thank God, I am not going back. Never!”
Before I left, I went to see Agha Joon to say good-bye. By this point he was battling Alzheimer’s, but he remembered me. He asked when I was planning to return, and I just told him I’d be doing so soon. I wished I could tell him that I might not be back for a long time and that when I did return, he might not even be around, but I couldn’t be that candid.
Thinking about my grandfather, thinking about how he’d helped form me and how much he meant to me, I realized that I didn’t truly want to bury my past. I needed to look forward, but I should never look away from what made me who I was.
The Iran Air Boeing 747 landed smoothly at Heathrow. After the sometimes rocky ride, the passengers applauded the pilot’s gentle touchdown. I saw this as a metaphor for my future and the freedom I was about to enjoy.
I called Somaya once I got off the plane. All flight, I’d been thinking about how to explain my arrival. Ultimately, I just decided to make it as clear as possible. “Somaya jon, salam. Please forgive me. I know I should have called before, but I am in London.”
I paused for her reaction. All she said was “What?”
My voice was shaky. “I am catching a cab and will be there in less than an hour.”
Somaya and Omid greeted me at the door. I held Omid in my arms, and all I could do was cry. Somaya looked at me in disbelief. Her expression said, “Only you would show up this way.” Somaya’s parents were happy to see me and we all celebrated my appearance. I knew things would be different later, when I was alone with my wife. She had every right to be angry with me for being away from her for so long and then for not telling her that I was coming to England.
In some ways, I dreaded that conversation. But Somaya never failed to come through for me. When I told her about my mom’s and Kazem’s deaths, she held me in her arms and let me weep till the last drop of my tears dried on her shoulder. Though I knew she could have criticized me for the way I’d handled things since she moved to England, she didn’t do anything of the sort.
When I was cried out, I said to her with shaking voice, “I promise, I will never, ever leave your side again and …”
She put a finger on my lips. “Don’t, Reza. Please, I don’t want you to promise anything anymore. You are here, and that means the world to Omid. For a long time, I’ve wanted the three of us to have a happy life. I am sure that’s what you want, too. I waited for you all these years. Let’s not let your promises ruin it, at least for Omid’s sake.”
“Do you still love me?” I said apprehensively.
She looked in my eyes and tried not to smile. “You know, Reza, I sometimes ask myself the same question.” Then her eyes brightened and she said, “Yes, I still love you.” Hearing this from her made me feel incredibly strong—and incredibly lucky that I’d managed to find a woman who would support me the way she did.
For the next several days, while I enjoyed the life I had missed for years, Somaya and I talked about our future. She agreed right away when I proposed that we move to America.
“Oh, California! I’d love to go to Los Angeles. The weather … Malibu Beach … Hollywood. And, oh my God, we can take Omid to Disneyland every day!” She closed her eyes and smiled like a child.
I laughed. “You’ve been watching a lot of American movies, haven’t you?”
She patted my arm and said playfully, “You are so mean.” Then she added, “It is not all about that. I could finish school there.” Somaya had started going to college in London part-time. Sh
e was not sure of what she wanted to study, as she had several majors in mind. “I can decide what I want to do in America.”
“You’ll be good at anything you put your mind to.”
Next, I had to call Carol to advise her of my decision to leave the agency, and to ask her help in arranging our trip to America. She had told me several times previously that when I was ready to go to the U.S. she would have our paperwork processed to attain our residency status.
Carol was shocked when I called and told her I was in London. She said she hoped I had a better excuse this time for not telling her about my trip. She asked me to meet her at the same hotel where we had met the last time. This seemed unusual, but it didn’t matter to me anymore.
Seeing Carol, of course, meant that I had to lie to Somaya again about what I was doing, something I could barely reconcile any longer. I made up a story about contacting an immigration lawyer and planning a meeting to see what our options were.
“I’d like it if we could do these things together from now on,” Somaya stated flatly.
“We will. This time is just a consultation. If the lawyer is any good, we’ll go together next time.” As the words left my mouth, I pleaded with God to make it possible for me to end my double life as soon as possible.
Carol gave me a warm hug as I entered the hotel room. “What brings you here this time? Visiting your family?” She didn’t seem at all worried about why I’d asked to see her, perhaps because I was projecting the strength and serenity that several days with Somaya and Omid had provided.
“Yes, I am visiting. But there is more.” I hesitated for a moment. “I need you to help me and my family move to the States.”
Now concern crossed her face. “Is everything all right?”
“I lost my mother during the missile attacks. And a few weeks ago, before I came here, Kazem was killed. …”
“Oh my God! I am so sorry, Wally.”
I didn’t want to hear the name Wally now. For the past few days, I hadn’t been thinking like Wally at all.
“What happened to Kazem?” she asked in disbelief.
I related all of it to her, explaining that the stoning and Kazem’s assassination were the final straws for me. I told her that I was convinced that it was impossible for me—emotionally and physically—to remain in Iran.
“I am sorry,” she said, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head.
“I talked to Somaya and we think it is better for us and for our son to live in the States instead of England.”
Carol nodded thoughtfully. “Is this your final decision, Wally?”
I didn’t hesitate in my response. “I am afraid it is,” I said, surprised at how good it felt to get out those words.
“Then I will do my best to get everything ready,” Carol said with a warm smile. “Give me a week and I’ll have your papers prepared. But call me in a few days so we can set up another meeting.”
When I heard her say this, I realized that I was truly committing to ending my double life. I’d wanted to do this for a long time, but I wasn’t prepared for the ambivalence that struck me now. What about the madness still going on in my country? Was I truly prepared to leave so many good Iranians behind?
At the same time, though, I had to wonder if my efforts as Wally had really helped anyone. Did my reports accomplish what I hoped they would? I’d told the CIA about Iraq’s use of chemical weapons, but this led to nothing more than the U.S. government’s condemnation of the practice while they continued to provide Saddam with military intelligence and training, along with billions of dollars in economic aid. I reported China’s secret military cooperation with the Guards, and again, this led only to a condemnation. I reported the ruthless torture and killing of men and women opposing the mullahs and how some European countries even allowed such practices within their own borders, and yet the West continued to sidestep its principles of supporting democracy and defending human rights because of the lure of Iranian oil.
You did all you could do, I told myself. You did as much as one man can do. For many years I had been certain that I was working for the freedom of my country. But now I realized that I was just another employee of the CIA.
Carol held up an envelope. “This is for you.”
I stared at the envelope, wondering why she was giving me money after what I’d told her.
“It’s for your hard work,” she said, as though reading my mind.
I slipped the envelope inside my breast pocket. “Thanks.”
“Wally, I’m not trying to change your mind, but if you decide to go back to Iran, even for a short while, and continue the work, the agency will provide you with a new car, a house, and a guaranteed job with a good salary at the headquarters when you return to the States.”
I felt somewhat insulted that she would suggest this after what I told her I’d been through, but I decided to let it lie. “That is a very generous offer, Carol, but I have to pass at this moment.” My voice was a little husky. “For the sake of my family.”
The next time I saw Carol to go over our papers, I had Omid with me. Somaya was at school and I had told my in-laws I was going for a walk with my son. Carol was surprised when she saw the boy. It didn’t dawn on me until that moment how stupid it was to bring Omid along. He was six years old and he was likely to tell Somaya how we had spent our day.
“This is my son, Omid, Ms. Lawyer,” I said, trying to spin this on the spot. “Omid jon, please shake hands with our lawyer. She is working on our case so we can go to America.”
Omid shook Carol’s hand. My six-year-old son was shaking hands with a CIA agent in a covert meeting. The moment bordered on surreal.
The hotel room arrangement was a little different this time, thankfully. We were in a suite, the bedroom closed off by a double door. In the living area with us was a couch, a coffee table, and a huge working desk piled with Carol’s paperwork, her briefcase, and a portable computer, perhaps one of the very first laptops ever available to the CIA’s agents. It did not look like a lawyer’s office, but I hoped it was convincing enough for a six-year-old to think it was.
“Hi, Omid. Nice to meet you,” Carol said as she gave him a delightful smile. She looked up at me. “Your son is very handsome.”
Though having Omid there was a little awkward, we were able to get through some of the paperwork. Carol said she would start the procedure with this and that she would let me know what else we needed to do.
“I think it is important to bring my wife along so she can be part of this process without …”—I looked at Omid, who was on the couch looking at a magazine. I lowered my voice—“… without being suspicious.”
“I’ll plan something to make it look real and official,” she whispered. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll talk.”
I felt embarrassed having to put Carol in that position. She obviously had more important things to do than prepare an elaborate ruse for my benefit—especially now that I was walking away from my role. Still, I needed the kind of help that only she could provide if I were going to maintain the secret that the CIA needed me to maintain.
After the meeting, I took Omid to Hamleys, a toy store, buying him a remote-control police car and a two-hundred-piece Lego fire station to keep him busy for the night so I could explain that day’s meeting to Somaya without his comments.
As promised, Carol set up a meeting to which I could bring Somaya. The two of us entered a three-story building on Regent Street where the “law office of Harriet Johnson” was located on the second floor. There were two offices across from each other in a narrow hallway and I wasn’t sure which was Carol’s.
“Weren’t you here before?” Somaya asked.
“Not here, no,” I said, coming up quickly with yet another fabrication. “I thought I mentioned that Harriet just split from her old law partner. She moved here only a few days ago. Oh, there it is.”
I knocked and entered the room. Carol was sitting behind a desk piled with files, books, and papers, taking notes
on a pad. Behind her desk, there was a bookshelf across the back wall filled with hardcover books. She was in a blue suit, her hair up, and her bifocals down on the tip of her nose. It was the first time I’d seen her with glasses and it surprised me that these made her look much older.
“Please have a seat,” she said without looking up at us. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
I was nervous and shifted in my chair, not ready for this, not sure if I could act my part. I’d been “performing” through most of my life as a CIA agent, but this scenario was different. I’d never been asked to deceive my wife in front of my employer. Somaya looked at me with a frown on her face. She noticed my discomfort. I bent my head toward her ear and whispered in Farsi, “Ageh nashe chi? What if she says we can’t go?”
“Sorry for the delay, Mr. Kahlili,” Carol said a few minutes later. She reached a hand out to Somaya. “This must be your wife. My name is Harriet Johnson, and it is a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Kahlili.”
“Please call me Somaya. Nice meeting you, too.”
Carol and Somaya proceeded to discuss the process with each other without involving me at all. As odd as that seemed to me under the circumstances, I was fine with it because I didn’t want to be any more of a part of this game of pretend with my wife than I needed to be.
“Then you think that political asylum is our only option to obtain our residency in the U.S.?” Somaya asked.
“It is indeed. Since Mr. Kahlili worked for the Iranian government, this way you can have amnesty. As I’ve already told your husband, the other options are an H-1 visa, a business visa, or a work permit. None of those fit your situation.”
“But this way we cannot go back to Iran? Ever?”
“That’s right. At least not under the current government.”
Somaya looked at me sadly. “Are you okay with that, Reza? I know I have no interest in going back as long as the mullahs are in power, but how about you?”
Carol left the room to give us some time to discuss this, though we had only one option. I already knew this because I’d already discussed it with Carol. I let Somaya make the final decision. With little hesitation, she gave permission to “Ms. Johnson” to start our petition for political asylum.