A TIME TO BETRAY (19 page)

Once we finished this conversation, Steve stood. “Good luck, Wally,” he said, taking my hand in a firm grip.

“Thanks,” I said, less steadily than I would have liked. With no further words, I left for my hotel.

I never saw or heard from Steve again.

Once I packed my bags, I called the FBI agents I had originally contacted to say good-bye. My journey into this new life had started with a random connection to these men. Now, for good or bad, I was about to embark on the path I first stepped onto with them. The two agents put me on the speakerphone and both were gracious. Agent Mancini said he truly hoped to see me back in the States soon and wished that God would bless me in my endeavors.

Before I left, I went to see Aunt Giti to say good-bye. Once again, she told me what a good man I’d become, and once again this left me feeling like something of a fraud. I hugged her tight before I left. This would be the last time I’d ever see her. She died several years later and I never got the opportunity to visit her again.

I spent the sleepless twelve-hour British Airways trip to England
practicing my new job in my head and thinking about what I would have to do. From this point on, I would be leading a double life. Half of me would continue to be a loving, devoted husband and a loyal member of the Revolutionary Guards. The other half of me would be reporting every salient fact about the Guards and would be putting everyone I loved in mortal danger. I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to reconcile these two selves. I prayed for guidance and hoped my actions would have some meaning.

London was typically dreary when I arrived—overcast, hazy, and gray. It fit my mood. I checked into the Park Inn by Hyde Park as the CIA had instructed me. The hotel sits on the northern edge of Hyde Park, with easy access to the Tube, London’s subway, and within walking distance of most of the tourist spots. It’s close to the Marble Arch, which stands on the site of the Tyburn gallows, where grisly executions—many of people who opposed the government—took place centuries ago. The irony of this was not lost on me.

I passed by Marble Arch nearly every time I went out. I learned that the executions gave rise to a couple of familiar English phrases. The term “one for the road” originated here because the executioners allowed a condemned man to have one last drink at any alehouse en route to the Tyburn gallows. The same experience led to the phrase “on the wagon” because the guards minding the prisoner had to remain on the wagon that carted the prisoner while he had his last drink, and they were not allowed to imbibe while they were on the job.

When I settled in at my hotel, I called Somaya’s parents. I told them that since my connection was through London, I decided to stay for a week to meet with some old friends and to pay them a visit. I found some small comfort in talking to them about Somaya. Thinking about my wife always made me smile, though I could no longer think of her without wondering about the future I’d created for us and of the lies I would be living. Her parents asked me about the friends I was seeing—yet another lie I hadn’t prepared in advance—and insisted that I stay with them. They were quite upset
when I politely declined, but I held steadfast. I couldn’t allow them to become suspicious of my comings and goings.

I didn’t do a particularly good job of mollifying them with my excuses. This led me to wonder yet again how equipped I was for a life of espionage. If I couldn’t even come up with convincing lies to tell my wife’s parents, how would I function as a professional liar under the watch of the Revolutionary Guards, who searched for spies in every turn of phrase?

After this, I went to a public phone booth and called my new contact. A few hours later, a soft-spoken woman came to my hotel room, introducing herself as Carol. She was a smallish American dressed in a brown outfit with knee-high boots. I assumed she dressed this way to blend in with high-end shoppers on Park Avenue or Oxford Street. I liked Carol right away. She was calm and reserved, and I found her presence reassuring. This feeling increased dramatically when she spoke to me in Farsi, which surprised and warmed me.

“You know, Wally, I lived in Iran for a long while with my parents when I was younger,” she said when she noticed my reaction. “My father was a military attaché.”

This meant a great deal to me. It meant that she would have a good picture in her mind of life in Iran before the revolution and that she would sympathize with what we had lost.

“I have lots of good memories of Iran,” she continued. “Iranians are very hospitable. I made some good friends. I am grateful for the time I spent in your country.” She talked about places she visited, making me feel as though I were having a conversation with an old friend and catching up on what we had done while we were apart. Of course, this was only an illusion. Carol had my complete dossier and knew everything there was to know about me and why I was there.

Although she spoke Farsi, we talked mostly in English. We’d been together for more than an hour when her smile dropped and she locked onto my eyes.

“Wally, you don’t have to do this. You can quit right now and it will be okay.”

Her saying this surprised me. Since my last meeting with Steve, I had felt as though there was no turning back. But what Carol was saying was true. If I wanted to walk away, I could do so without consequences—assuming, of course, that the Guards were not already aware of my activities. The fact that I could do so didn’t matter, though.

“I’m in this, Carol. I need to do this. My decision is firm and final.”

Carol’s expression softened. “I had a feeling you were going to say that.”

We went over the training schedule and Carol stressed the importance of my taking every precaution to keep my destinations secret and secure. Losing someone in a crowd was a little easier in London than it was in LA, but I would still have to be cautious.

My in-laws lived in the Mayfair district, which was convenient since the safe house was in the same area. Several means were available for me to get there: the ubiquitous black cabs, the Tube, or even a walk across Hyde Park or down Park Avenue. I usually walked because it allowed me to take in the surroundings, distinctive for their combination of new and old architecture. If I suspected that someone was following me, I altered my route slightly and dropped in for a visit with my in-laws. They were always delighted to see me, although it also meant that I would have to endure their further pleas for me to stay with them and provide my fumbling reasons why I couldn’t do this. The safe house was down a narrow alley filled with several small shops that had attached flats. It was easy enough to duck into one of the shops to obscure my destination.

Carol had asked me to meet with her in a café in the Mayfair district. This made me nervous in a completely unanticipated way. Rather than worrying that an agent of the Guards would see me, I was more concerned that my in-laws might find me with Carol. How would I explain being with another woman? Although she was
at least ten years older than me, she would still raise Somaya’s parents’ eyebrows.

We went from the café to the safe house immediately. I didn’t ask her why we went to the café in the first place because I felt I needed to trust her. When we got to the house, she said, “Are you ready for your first training session?”

“I’m a little nervous, but I’ll be fine,” I replied, feeling more than a little apprehensive. But in a sense I was excited as much as I was nervous. I thought of James Bond movies and I had to smile thinking of myself filling the role of Sean Connery or Roger Moore. It was the first moment in a long time when this life didn’t seem like a burden to me.

There were two American men waiting for us in the safe house. David was a young man who was to teach me how to write messages to Carol from home. Joe was a man in his midforties who would teach me how to receive code messages from the CIA. I worked half a day with each of them. These sessions turned out to be nothing like the James Bond movies and I certainly did not get a magic pen or a multitasking watch.

“You are getting this fast,” David said after my first session with him. I found it easier to figure out how to send messages than to learn how to receive them.

The classes reminded me of being back in school. In the ensuing days my instructors presented me with a lesson and then gave me a test to see how well I absorbed what they taught. Although at first it seemed a little hard and confusing, I caught on quickly, and I discovered that I had a natural affinity for deciphering code. In all, the training lasted less than a week, filling me with new skills—and the new anxieties that came with having these skills.

For the final exam that I “had to pass,” I received the coded message “Welcome to the CIA, Wally. Carol will be your contact from here on out and she will take good care of you.” When I deciphered this, I knew I’d mastered this skill with Joe. David then challenged me to respond, using the methods he’d taught me.

“I am glad I have joined the CIA and I am looking forward to working with the agency to help free my country from the tyrants,” I coded back. David deciphered this and then shook my hand.

“You are a natural,” he said as he congratulated me. “Working with you was a pleasure.” He gave me a package containing all of the documents I needed for my communications and I said good-bye to the two trainers.

Carol walked me to the door and put a hand on my shoulder.

“Be very careful, Wally.”

I nodded. “I will be.”

“Don’t do anything that could bring harm to you or your family.”

I offered her a bittersweet smile. “That’s a little bit of a challenge in Iran these days.”

“Just remember, Wally, if you need anything, I’ll be here for you. Just let me know with your letters. I will do my best to guide you with my messages.”

I went back to the hotel to pack. After being away for nearly a month and a half, I was headed home. I would be going back a different man than when I left, quite literally. Once I started packing, a wave of emotion struck me unexpectedly. I just started sobbing. I sat on the bed next to my suitcase, wiping the tears from my face. It had been relatively easy to maintain my resolve during my debriefing and training. But now that I was going back to Tehran, the force of what I’d agreed to become overwhelmed me. From the moment I set foot in my country, I would be living outside of the world around me. Though I would be involved in the lives of people who loved me, I would be, in many ways, alone.

I lay down on the bed, though I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep. To try to bolster my courage, I thought about Naser about how he witnessed the devastation laid upon his sister and brother. I thought about Roya and the degradations she suffered from soulless men. I thought about Khomeini, who characterized himself as a representative of God, yet was so power hungry and greedy that he caused the most brutal acts to be committed in his name.

None of it helped. I couldn’t let go of the fact that I’d convinced myself that my only option was to become a betrayer of my country.

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.

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 multitude 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 passed 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, God-given scenery. A reflective band of water shimmered like stained glass, and soon familiar glimpses of life appeared—a farm, a village, a city.