A Time To Betray Part 10

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 rescue 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 mult.i.tude of fellow Iranians milling about the lounge waiting to board Iran Air flight 710. 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 mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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, G.o.d-given scenery. A reflective band of water shimmered like stained gla.s.s, 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 pa.s.sengers 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, Remember, you are a member of the Revolutionary Guards, I repeated continuously as I headed toward the front of the line. 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 pa.s.sport 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. 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. jasoos. Come with us." 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 pa.s.sionately, 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 circ.u.mstances.

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 facts 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 a.s.sisted-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. t.i.tled Jane's Weapon Systems, 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. 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.

I left to go find Kazem. As soon as I walked into his office, Kazem jumped up to greet me. With a grand gesture, he announced, "Reza, my dearest friend, world traveler and mystery man. Back from the United States at last," and slapped me on the back.

We hugged and kissed the sides of our faces. As he sat behind his desk, he added with a wide smile, "You didn't give away all of our secrets to the CIA while you were there, did you?"

The words stunned me and it took every bit of my strength not to let the shock of it show. For a brief moment, I thought my knees would buckle. But, of course, Kazem was only joking. Had the Guards known of my betrayal, they would have arrested me the moment my plane landed.

"Of course I did," I said, recovering quickly. "To go all the way to America and not have a conversation with the CIA would have been crazy. And while I was at it, I had dinner at the White House." We laughed together, but this failed to temper my uneasiness. We talked for a few more minutes-something innocuous about work-but all I could think was, This is how it is going to be from now on. I won't even be able to have a simple conversation without being on guard and on edge. This is how it is going to be from now on. I won't even be able to have a simple conversation without being on guard and on edge. I knew I'd created this life for myself. I even knew that I desired this life because of the benefit it offered my country. But it was going to take me a while to get used to it. I knew I'd created this life for myself. I even knew that I desired this life because of the benefit it offered my country. But it was going to take me a while to get used to it.

I prepared my first letter to Carol that night.

[Letter #-]

[Date:---]

Hi, Carol:1-I am back safe and sound.2-My family is well.3-Today was my first day back at work.4-Rahim and Kazem were happy to see me back.5-I will look for your messages.

Wish me luck, Wally

14.

BROTHERS IN ARMS.

h.e.l.lo, Wally:We received your first letter.We are happy you are back safely.Our team is very excited.Please confirm receipt of this message.Please take care and stay safe.Carol Receiving the first message from Carol was thrilling, yet it unnerved me, as it was an unintended but firm reminder of the torture and death that would await me if the Guards ever discovered what I was doing. While I'd considered how my decision was going to affect Somaya, being home with her, feeling her close, and feeling her love made it exponentially clearer what I was risking with my activity. As with all young couples, we had made plans for our future together. We wanted a family. Had I compromised that?

"Don't take any unnecessary risks," the CIA mandated. "Don't put yourself in danger. Be aware of your surroundings. Hide everything." Routinely switching on a light late at night might arouse suspicion, so I used a small covered desk lamp in my study that was not visible from outside the house. Once in my study, down the hallway from our bedroom, I would quietly close the door and feel my way over to the table where the radio was.

Sitting alone in the near dark with headphones over my ears, I toyed with the frequency control, twisting the dial and picking up chatter all along the band. Back and forth, back and forth, up and down, up and down-just like my life now. An enormous number of codes crossed over the air. It was an international cacophony a linguist would love-German, Hebrew, French, Arabic, and even Farsi. As tense as all of this made me, I had to smile. The spy world was active and I was now in the middle of it.

The CIA's messages started Friday promptly at 3:00 a.m. The coded transmissions were not always easy to understand because they sometimes overlapped or were obscured by static. After a while, though, the garbled voices became easier to decipher.

I utilized the method I learned in London. First writing down the messages carefully, guessing at a couple of them, and then using the codebook, I deciphered them. Soon I recognized that these transmissions started with "h.e.l.lo, Wally," which I found enormously exciting. It was like pa.s.sing a club's initiation rite. This particular club-the CIA-had quite an exclusive membership, and I was just starting to wrap my mind around the idea of my being allowed to enter.

In time, my body clock adjusted in antic.i.p.ation to my early-hour foray into the undercover world. Soon, I could awaken without an alarm at two thirty. Somaya accepted the pretext that I was getting up then because my best ideas for projects for the Guards came to me at night. She soon grew accustomed to my nighttime "insomnia." I even prepared a bit of disinformation regarding my listening to the radio while wearing headphones. If she ever came down to see me doing this, I would tell her that the Guards wanted to know what the English versions of Radio Free Europe and Voice of America were saying, and that they'd charged me with this mission.

Destroying the evidence of the deciphered messages was imperative, so I employed a technique they'd taught me in London. I folded the pages on which I'd written the messages in an accordion shape, taking an inch from one side and then the other, and placed them one by one in an ashtray. I then lit these and they would burn down without smoke. To complete the cleanup, I would flush the ashes down the toilet.

To let Carol know a message had come through successfully, I had to write an invisible letter the way David taught me in London. I made sure I followed everything I had learned. In another lifetime, I would have found it laughable that I was sitting in the near dark writing invisible messages. In my role as Wally, however, it was anything but funny.

I numbered each letter so Carol would know if she failed to receive one.

[Letter #---]

[Date:---]

Dear Carol:1-Received your message successfully.2-In a few days, I will be traveling to the front for a week.3-I will not be here next Friday. Do not relay a message. Start from the Friday after.4-There is a major offensive planned in the Dezful-Shush area.5-Should anything happen to me, please find a way to help my wife through my in-laws in London.

Wish me luck, Wally It was the duty of every member of the Guards to serve, in either a military or support role, in the battle against Saddam Hussein's army. Rahim sent Kazem, me, and three others to the Dezful-Shush region to fulfill this duty only a few weeks after my return from my trip out of the country. The war with Iraq had continued to intensify. Having taken advantage of the turmoil in Iran during the revolution, Saddam's army easily conquered and occupied many of the border areas. The tide was turning, though. More than two hundred thousand Revolutionary Guards, Basijis, and members of our regular army were cutting through Iraq's defensive lines, surrounding them and capturing thousands of POWs. The Basijis sacrificed themselves by walking through minefields to clear a path for the Guards or by tying bombs to their bodies and throwing themselves under Iraqi tanks to blow them up. While it took remarkable dedication to do something like this, each also believed that G.o.d would reward him for being a shahid, shahid, a martyr, like Imam Hussein. Each was convinced that heaven and all of its promises were awaiting him. a martyr, like Imam Hussein. Each was convinced that heaven and all of its promises were awaiting him.

The mullahs used the legend of Imam Hussein to prepare the teenage Basijis psychologically for their martyrdom before every offensive. Shortly after we arrived on our first night, I witnessed this for myself. I sat on the barracks floor with other Guards, along with many young Basijis and their commanders. A hush came over the room, the lights were dimmed, and, with the sound of "Ya Allah," "Ya Allah," everybody stood to welcome the speaker. everybody stood to welcome the speaker.

The mullah told Imam Hussein's story, climaxing with a retelling of the battle in Karbala, Iraq, where the Imam demonstrated his bravery by becoming a martyr. I'd been hearing this story since I was a child-how he fought for Islam; how he sacrificed his life for his religion; how Hussein and his band of seventy-two fearless warriors fought against an army of thirty thousand and never wavered; and how, just before he died, he exclaimed, "Dignified death is better than humiliating life"-but it still brought me to tears. While it would be nearly impossible for Westerners to understand how this story moved us, it charged us with deep emotional courage. While singing "Ya Hussein, Ya Hussein," "Ya Hussein, Ya Hussein," we would strike our chests as a display of devotion to Imam Hussein and in remembrance of his suffering. we would strike our chests as a display of devotion to Imam Hussein and in remembrance of his suffering.

The night felt incredibly tense to me. My heart was with all these brave young men and boys who deeply believed they were fighting for their country, for their religion, against this unjust war of Saddam's. Their parents and their families were proud to place their souls in G.o.d's hands. Upon their martyrdom, their leader, Imam Khomeini, would congratulate their families for their dedication to Islam, reminding them of the promise of heaven's open gates and the welcome embrace of Hussein, the Lord of Martyrs. However, it was difficult for me to believe that this was the best way for us to utilize our country's youth.

The next morning before dawn, Kazem tapped me on my shoulder. "Reza, it's time. We need to do our morning namaz namaz and leave." and leave."

Our job today was to help transport the Basijis behind the front lines. We loaded them, laden with their gear, into big trucks, and then convoyed them toward the front with headlights off and only the moonlight as a guide. The sky was clear and full of stars.

In our truck were brothers Mohsen and Madjid, ages thirteen and fourteen and probably no more than a hundred pounds each. We'd met them the night before at the mullah's sermon. The boys were very quiet now, unlike the night before, when they were full of energy and fooling around like kids their age do. Kazem and I had talked to them for a while after the ceremony. They were from a rural area near the city of Mashhad, and they were the only two boys in a poor family with five kids. They left school for jebheh, jebheh, the war front, after their teacher, a mullah, decreed that it was the duty of every Muslim to go to the war front, after their teacher, a mullah, decreed that it was the duty of every Muslim to go to jebheh jebheh and become a and become a shahid. shahid.

"I will kill as many Iraqi soldiers as I can," Mohsen had said last night as he squared his shoulders with a big grin.

Madjid, the older one, wrapped his arm around Mohsen and said, "We will conquer Karbala and have namaz namaz at Imam Hussein's shrine." at Imam Hussein's shrine."

Now I could not take my eyes off them as the truck took us to our destination. Both boys had their heads down, saying a prayer, and both wore a "Ya Hussein" "Ya Hussein" red bandana around their shaved heads. My stomach roiled as I watched them. red bandana around their shaved heads. My stomach roiled as I watched them.

"Are you okay, Reza?" Kazem said, looking at me in a quizzical way that I, of course, interpreted as suspicion.

"I'm fine. I think it's just the b.u.mpy road making me nauseous."

Of course it was the road-the road to an uncertain destiny. What was waiting for Mohsen and Madjid at the end of this road? Who would come back? Who among all of the teens in this truck would see another day?

"Brothers, get out," the commander ordered when the truck stopped. The Basijis exited the trucks and lined up in groups, as instructed. Hundreds of children ready to defend our country. I couldn't help but think about their families, and about how little these boys had seen in their short lives.

"G.o.d, please save them!" I whispered.

"Baradar Reza, pray for our forgiveness," Mohsen sputtered, as he looked at me with his head tilted halfway up. His group's mission was to blow up a bridge behind the enemy lines.

Once we'd deployed the Basijis, we went back to the base behind the front lines and waited anxiously. For several hours, the violent sounds of gunfire, artillery, mortar sh.e.l.ls, explosions, and screams of "Allaho Akbar" "Allaho Akbar" filled the air. Reports from the battle were slow to come, though, until I heard a commotion throughout the base. filled the air. Reports from the battle were slow to come, though, until I heard a commotion throughout the base.

Kazem ran up to me. "Reza, good news! The offensive was successful. We have destroyed fifteen tanks so far and have taken many prisoners."

"Is there any news of the Imam Hussein Battalion?" I asked desperately. I wanted to know if Mohsen and Madjid's mission was successful.

He shook his head in disappointment.

I knew that meant that I would not hear the news I wanted to hear. I went outside the bunker to smoke a cigarette, wiping my face before anybody could see my tears.

Just before maghreb azan maghreb azan (the evening prayer), Ibrahim, one of the Basijis from the Imam Hussein Battalion, came back to the base. I rushed toward him. (the evening prayer), Ibrahim, one of the Basijis from the Imam Hussein Battalion, came back to the base. I rushed toward him.

"Baradar Ibrahim, where is everybody else?" I asked.

He looked at me wearily and said, "Baradar, they all fought bravely, but ..." they all fought bravely, but ..."

"Khaste nabashin, Baradar," someone said to him in pa.s.sing, praising him for a good job. someone said to him in pa.s.sing, praising him for a good job.

I regained Ibrahim's attention. "What about Mohsen and Madjid? Where are they?"

Ibrahim couldn't hold my gaze. "We could see the bridge. There was one more hill between us as we descended. The Iraqis were waiting for us, hiding at the bottom of the hill. I had fallen behind and I could see bullets flying, the screams and shouting. The bloodshed was everywhere. Our kids fought back so bravely, but Mohsen was the last one standing. Iraqi soldiers surrounded him and they ordered him to drop his weapon and surrender. Instead, he opened fire while shouting, 'Ash-hadu anna la ilaha illa Allah; ash-hadu anna muhammadan-rasool Allah' 'Ash-hadu anna la ilaha illa Allah; ash-hadu anna muhammadan-rasool Allah' [I testify there is no G.o.d but Allah; I testify that Mohammad is Allah's messenger]." [I testify there is no G.o.d but Allah; I testify that Mohammad is Allah's messenger]."

Mohsen, the youngest brother of five children, along with his brother, Madjid, died that afternoon.

I knew their sacrifice was going to stick with me a long time. I also knew that it was going to cause me to reflect on what I was doing. How did my espionage fit into a world where boys gave their lives to defend a country whose government I'd vowed to undermine?

Because of the efforts of so many like them, the Iraqi army was eventually defeated and chased back into its own territory, where it was now defending against Iranian offensives. The Iraqis left behind horror stories of the crimes they committed, raping women and killing civilians. Rahim told me of one small border town where an Iraqi commander ordered all civilians to gather in the city square, women and children included. Iraqi tanks surrounded them and opened fire, slaughtering every single person. Our military executed many Iraqi POWs in retaliation for those crimes.