A Time To Betray Part 9

He paused to absorb this. "So this wasn't some gra.s.sroots student uprising?"

"Not really. I did not know it then, but an order had come down from Mousavi Khoeiniha, a radical clergy member. The Islamic students' body developed a plan for the takeover and Khoeiniha presented it to Ayatollah Khomeini for his approval."

Steve's mouth dropped open. "I thought Khomeini didn't know anything about it. I thought he was just supportive after the fact."

I shook my head. "Kazem told me afterward that once the plan was approved by Khomeini, the students, who called themselves Daneshjooyane Musalmane Peyro Khate Imam, Daneshjooyane Musalmane Peyro Khate Imam, Islamic Student Followers of Imam's Line, arranged for the demonstration. Guards and intel members posed as students among them." Islamic Student Followers of Imam's Line, arranged for the demonstration. Guards and intel members posed as students among them."

"I can't believe this!"

"The plan was to demonstrate against the U.S. for allowing the shah to stay in America. The protesters demanded the shah's return to Iran for trial. But in truth, Khomeini's clerics had already a.s.signed individuals to facilitate the takeover. They had even chosen the name Den of Spies beforehand, so that after the takeover, they could feed that to the press and claim the emba.s.sy was the center of spy activities against the clerical regime."

Steve looked down at his folder. "So our best intelligence is wrong."

"They laugh at you and call you cowboys, Steve. They watch your news shows and laugh."

"Amazing," said Steve, scribbling notes. "What was their ultimate goal for this action?"

"Khomeini hated America. He wanted to sever ties with the U.S. while at the same time making you look weak in the eyes of the world. This would strengthen the position of the radicals within Iran and punish President Carter for allowing the shah to stay in the U.S. They held the hostages long enough to ensure that Carter lost the election. In doing this, Khomeini went beyond unseating the king of Iran. He toppled the president of a superpower. Could there be any greater proof that Khomeini is G.o.d's instrument on earth?"

Steve understood the point I was making. "They really believe that stuff, don't they?"

"They really do."

We then had a long discussion about the three branches of the armed forces formed after the revolution in Iran-the Revolutionary Guards, the Komiteh, and the Basij. The Palestinian Liberation Organization had trained some of the Guards' commanders and these commanders were active in guerrilla warfare in Lebanon before the revolution. Steve wrote furiously as I related the details of the Guards' organization. I even sketched out an organizational chart of the various officers and their responsibilities. Then I talked about the Komiteh, the police force formed by the mullahs whose job it was to provide security and ensure strict adherence to proper Islamic behavior. And I told him about the Basij, or People's Army, the volunteer paramilitary force consisting primarily of teenage reprobates deployed throughout the main cities to confront any uprisings among the population. The regime recruited most of the Basijis from very poor families in small towns and villages. They taught them the virtues of martyrdom, gave them minimal training, and handed them machine guns to intimidate people in the cities. Steve knew very little about either of these organizations.

I told him about an incident with the Basijis that involved a prominent doctor and his family from my neighborhood. The Basijis spread throughout the city, especially at night, setting up checkpoints and searching cars for guns or members of the Mujahedin. At the same time, they, too, demanded adherence to proper Islamic behavior. For example, a man and a woman had to be married if they were in a car together unless they were family members. Two Basijis would routinely stop cars at random to interrogate the occupants, while two others would take a position nearby behind trees.

This particular doctor had taken his wife and two teenage daughters out to dinner when the Basijis stopped them on their way home. The teenaged militiamen were rude and insulting, and they scared the doctor's wife and girls. The doctor objected and he slapped one of the offenders in an effort to defend himself and his family. After all, these people interrogating them were young teenagers who should have been showing respect to this decent man. When the doctor slapped the Basiji, the others behind the trees opened fire, killing the man while his loved ones watched.

As I told this story, the outrage I felt when I first heard about it returned. When I finished, Steve ma.s.saged his writing hand and said, "Wally, we've covered a lot. Let's take a break and have some lunch. We should get away from this for a while."

Steve was right. I hadn't realized how drained I was feeling, how much emotional energy I was expending, until we took some time away. We sat on the balcony and ate in the warm afternoon breeze. Relaxing at last, I thought of Somaya and about how much I missed her and looked forward to seeing her again.

"You're smiling, Wally. Why's that-not that it's not a good thing."

It was comforting not having to hide what I really thought. "I was thinking about my wife. I wish she were here now. She loves nature and warm weather."

That afternoon, Steve and I talked about our families. We discussed the difficulties of lying to our loved ones. Steve's wife thought he was a contracts supervisor in charge of telemetry systems acquisition for the FAA. This provided him with the cover to travel and be away from home for long periods. He made sure he'd chosen an occupation that was too technical to discuss with anyone who knew him well.

I told Steve that I thought Somaya was the most beautiful woman on earth. He smiled while I told him how smart and caring she was and when I called her "the prettiest angel I'd ever seen."

"Then you believe in angels too?" he said with a laugh.

The thought sent pangs to my heart. While I did believe in angels, I'd come to believe in devils as well. I'd seen them at Evin Prison.

"Let's go back to work," I said. "I have a lot more to tell you."

Back in the living room, Steve pulled out his notebook and said that we should wrap up soon. He asked me to focus on areas I thought were most valuable to him. Torrents of stories and facts rushed through my mind. There was so much to say. We discussed the Foundation for the Deprived, which had seized the a.s.sets of people who worked for the shah's regime. They were responsible for the thousands who fled the country in fear of reprisal. This included minorities such as the Jews and the Baha'is. Since the mullahs don't recognize Baha'i as an official religion, they executed and imprisoned hundreds of pract.i.tioners and prevented thousands of others from getting jobs, education, and any opportunity. The Foundation for the Deprived seized factories, homes, money in banks, and personal belongings.

"Do your people know what they do with this money?" I asked Steve.

He shrugged.

"They fund terrorist groups through charitable organizations. The Revolutionary Guards supervise all of the transactions."

"Jesus, Wally, this is great stuff. Please go on."

"I learned through Kazem and my commander, Rahim, that the Chinese are providing military training for Guards members on a base in China and that the Soviets are setting up the intelligence apparatus and security infrastructure for the mullahs. They are responsible for introducing torture, polygraph tests, and truth serum injections at Evin Prison. And this is not just for high-ranking enemies of the state. This is where they take all political opponents, from journalists to teenage girls."

"Really."

"They don't just punish crimes, Steve. They punish thoughts. Torture and truth serum are ways to find out what you really believe in your heart."

"It sounds like the Inquisition in Europe."

"Except much more sophisticated and systematic."

"This direct contact between the Soviets and the Guards-did you see this or just hear about it?"

"I witnessed the Soviets' political attaches and businessmen in high-level contacts with the Iranian government while visiting several ministries with Kazem."

Steve put his notebook on the coffee table, took a sip of water, straightened his back, and looked at me. "Wally, you have no idea how helpful all this information is to us. Believe me, your total candor is very much appreciated."

It was rewarding to know that what I was telling him was having such an impact on him. I knew that I had information the CIA could use, but I didn't realize until Steve started debriefing me how uninformed the U.S. was about the ayatollah's activities in the Middle East. The thought made me realize how valuable my contribution would be-and how savagely the Guards would punish me if they ever caught me. That morning, on the way to the safe house, I thought I'd noticed another tail.

"Hey, Steve, did you a.s.sign someone to follow me today?"

He froze. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, the reason I was late was that I thought I was being followed."

Steve said nothing, only staring. This made me very uncomfortable and I started talking quickly to cover my nervousness.

"At first I thought I was mistaken, but after taking a few diversions, I noticed the tail was still there. It took me an hour to lose him."

At that moment, Steve turned into someone else, confirming for me that whoever followed me that morning worked for an organization other than the CIA. His jaw hardened and his voice became stern. "I want you to be completely aware of the consequences if things go wrong, Wally. The United States government will deny any relations.h.i.+p with you. There won't be a navy fleet coming to your rescue. I'm sorry to be so blunt, but it's absolutely necessary. Do I make myself clear?"

It took me a moment to answer. Maybe Steve had two people inside him also: the Steve who liked me and the Steve who would sacrifice my family and me for his cause.

"I understand."

Steve's sudden transition jarred me. As did the news that this was going to be our last meeting of this sort. He told me that my training would continue in London and that I needed to take a lie-detector test. I was surprised that he hadn't asked me to do this earlier, but I guess it truly mattered to the CIA only now that they were about to share some of their spying secrets with me.

He handed me a slip of paper with information about my new contact. I stared at it and wondered if Steve's empathy had just been keen professional interest. After all, training the Iranian patsy who would deliver dangerous secrets to his department would garner him accolades from his colleagues and boost his career. His safe, secure American career.

I swallowed my rising resentment and reminded myself of what I had already accomplished by reporting the madness to someone who could do something with the information. I had told him things I had never told anyone. I had trusted him, utterly. And at that moment, in spite of his s.h.i.+ft in att.i.tude, I was certain he trusted me.

My days in California were coming to a close. But my training was not. Next I would go to England, where I would truly learn how to be a spy.

12.

TRAINING FOR ESPIONAGE.

THE AGENT ADMINISTERING the lie-detector test at the Hacienda Hotel loosened his thin necktie. He seemed as tired as I was. It had taken him several hours of questioning before he felt satisfied with my answers. He unhooked the wires from my body, packed his bag, and then left me alone with my thoughts. The only sound in the room was the fan of the air conditioner. I felt drained, exhausted, and alone, thinking about Steve's earlier admonition and about how completely unprotected I was. I wanted to return to Somaya immediately, but at the same time, I feared what proximity to me might do to her. I was putting her at terrible risk simply for the sin of loving me. the lie-detector test at the Hacienda Hotel loosened his thin necktie. He seemed as tired as I was. It had taken him several hours of questioning before he felt satisfied with my answers. He unhooked the wires from my body, packed his bag, and then left me alone with my thoughts. The only sound in the room was the fan of the air conditioner. I felt drained, exhausted, and alone, thinking about Steve's earlier admonition and about how completely unprotected I was. I wanted to return to Somaya immediately, but at the same time, I feared what proximity to me might do to her. I was putting her at terrible risk simply for the sin of loving me.

I didn't feel like a hero. I felt like a traitor and, worse, a bad husband.

Then Steve entered-the "friendly" Steve-smiling broadly as he informed me I had pa.s.sed with flying colors. This time, I couldn't muster enthusiasm for his pride in me. In the time that had pa.s.sed since our sobering conversation, I couldn't stop thinking about the look on his face when I said I thought I'd been followed. The look said that if someone had been following me, the CIA knew nothing about it.

"Let's talk about salary," he said jovially, clearly not on the same train of thought as I had been.

I was surprised at the mention of money. We'd never discussed it before. I knew spies received compensation, but that had never been my motive, so I didn't think to ask about it. Steve offered me $2,500 a month. This was probably the bare minimum by American standards, but it was a good amount with the exchange rate in Iran. Without even considering negotiating, I accepted.

Steve offered a few options regarding getting the money to me. The first was a cash delivery, which I rejected because it would be difficult to explain my having so much cash if someone found me with it. Another option was to set up an account in another country, where one of the CIA's sh.e.l.l companies would deposit the money every month. That worked for me. He offered to have proof of deposit sent to me anywhere I wanted, but I declined. I wanted to rea.s.sert our relations.h.i.+p of trust. The CIA would have to trust that I would deliver important information to them, and I would have to trust that they would make deposits for me. We agreed to set up the account in London; I would need to memorize the details.

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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sumed 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 rea.s.suring. 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 attache."

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-a.s.suming, 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 cafe in the Mayfair district. This made me nervous in a completely unantic.i.p.ated 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 cafe to the safe house immediately. I didn't ask her why we went to the cafe 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 mult.i.tasking 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 cla.s.ses 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 pa.s.s," 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 doc.u.ments 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 G.o.d, 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.