A Time To Betray Part 20

Carol gave me a warm smile. "It's your decision, Wally. But remember that you are out of Iran now and that we will protect you and your family. I don't think you want the Guards to become too suspicious about your stay in London."

"Wally, you have nothing to fear," Eric added. "We will take care of you. You have done a great job so far and your commitment to your country and your cooperation with us is much appreciated."

In spite of their a.s.surances, I felt like a vulnerable child seeking shelter and security. I'd hoped Carol would have better ideas about what to do in my situation, but her only solution was for me to dive back into the world I longed to leave. Again, I felt I had no choice but to comply. I was leading two lives, but neither of them was my own.

Before I left, Carol stood and gave me a hug.

"I wish you luck and hope to see you back in the States," she said warmly. That would be the last time I ever saw her.

Explaining my decision to Somaya that night was another task. On my way home, I tried out various stories, but all of them seemed artificial and transparent. I so hated lying to my wife, especially because my lies once again had the potential for dire consequences for both her and Omid.

I finally decided to avoid preparing anything in advance. Instead, I would come up with something on the spot. When I saw Somaya, I told her that Rahim was in town and needed my help. At first she said nothing in response. Then her expression darkened.

"Why didn't you tell him no?" she said with barely controlled anger.

I tried to hold her hands, but she pulled away.

"You know that I did not quit the Guards when I came here," I said. "I just asked for a few months off because that was safer."

"So what? You are here and don't want to go back. In fact, you cannot cannot go back now. You said you were through with them! They are not even paying you anymore." go back now. You said you were through with them! They are not even paying you anymore."

I reached for her hands again, beseeching her to sit next to me on the bed.

"It's not that easy with the Guards. Rahim said ... You know I am still officially part of the organization."

She turned her head away from me. "I can't believe you, Reza. I don't know what is in your empty head. I wish you did not even come here."

"I'm just going to do this until our paperwork is ready. I told Rahim that as soon as my wife is finished with school I am done with the Guards, and he agreed." The pain of that lie gnawed at me.

Somaya glanced in my direction, narrowed her green eyes, and shook her head. Without another word, she got into the bed, covered her head with the blanket, and turned her back to me. Once again, guilt overwhelmed me.

That sleepless night, I thought once more about the complicated journey I'd chosen to take. There was no way I could say no to Rahim without raising dangerous suspicions. There was also no way I could witness the Guards' activities in England and not let the CIA know about it. If only I could explain it all to Somaya, I knew she would understand. But this wasn't an available option, and none of the explanations I created instead of the truth satisfied her in any way. She was sticking with me because she loved me, but I was giving her every reason to question her continued loyalty.

The next morning, I stood in front of Sadri's small apartment building off Queen's Road by Richmond Park. A tall, skinny man in striped blue pajamas opened the door. I had called Sadri the night before and he was expecting me. He threw down his cigarette b.u.t.t, gave me a quick hug, and guided me inside. "Come in, Reza jon, jon," he said, the first time any Guards member had ever addressed me with this term of endearment rather than the usual "Baradar." Something about Sadri made me even more uncomfortable than I already was. My instincts told me that I shouldn't trust him, and I'd learned to pay close attention to my instincts.

The two Guards I'd been a.s.signed to drive around were inside, sitting at a small square dining table having tea and English m.u.f.fins. Even though Sadri knew Amiri had sent me, he started questioning why I was in England and where I was staying, and asking details about my family. I answered calmly, offering enough information to placate him and nothing more. I suppose I pa.s.sed some sort of test, because after this he gave me the directions to a chemical factory in Billingham, a city about two hundred miles northeast of London.

"The meeting has been arranged with a sales manager named Charles Winston," Sadri said. "If you just take them there, they will deal with the salesperson themselves."

Sadri told me that the two men were in agriculture and that they had come to England to purchase a chemical to protect and preserve the soil of their farmlands. I pretended to believe this story and went about my job. I drove them to Billingham and waited several hours outside the factory for them to return.

On the way back, I sharpened my ears to listen to their whispered conversation, trying to read their lips via the rearview mirror as well.

"Sadri was right," the man sitting directly behind me said. "This Winston guy seemed easier to deal with than the one in Manchester."

"They are all stupid," the other man said with a smirk. "This white powder will turn all of them into fertilizer. fertilizer."

I peeked at the man behind me again, and this time our eyes met. This startled me, so I quickly shot my eyes to the rearview mirror, elaborately surveying the road behind us. "That stupid car!" I said agitatedly. "Did you see that?" They both turned their heads to check the road. "The British think they are the best drivers in the world, but he was about to hit the car next to him." I shook my head and hoped this ruse stifled any suspicion.

Later, when I met Eric at a safe house outside London, I told him what I overheard on the trip back from Billingham about the chemical they sought to purchase. Eric recognized the compound right away, as well as its more nefarious function.

"The white powder-ammonium nitrate-is a dual compound chemical. It's mainly used in agriculture as a fertilizer, but it is also used as an explosive agent. Having an agricultural use gives it certain legitimacy and makes it easier to acquire. Smart people!"

In our next meeting, Eric told me that Sadri was a fake name and that the apartment at Queen's Road was a safe house. I never saw Sadri again and I never learned his real name.

Rahim left London a few days after I drove the two agents to Billingham without my seeing him. He just called to say good-bye, telling me that I should take care of Amiri.

Amiri was in touch with me constantly, and I met with him nearly every week. I joined him in meetings held in the back rooms of mosques, in safe houses, and at the emba.s.sy. The Guards were infiltrating the opposition groups, especially the Mujahedin. They tracked the supporters of the Iranian monarchy who had made London a hub for their operations. They were also recruiting radical Muslims from the Pakistani and Afghan communities in England for their aid in transferring arms and explosives, a.s.sa.s.sinating Iranian opposition members, and plotting terrorist acts.

I'd come to London to initiate my escape from the Guards. Instead, I was becoming enmeshed in their dealings at a higher level. Meanwhile, I was reporting their activities to the CIA with increased fervor. I was once again fully ensconced in my double life.

27.

EYE FOR AN EYE.

IN DECEMBER 1988, Somaya found a small, furnished flat close to her parents in the Mayfair district. The one-bedroom apartment had a tiny den that barely accommodated Omid's bed. The kitchenette and the living/dining area were all in one room. Still, it was good to have our own place again-even though it gave Somaya the chance to complain freely about my continued work with the Guards. Somaya found a small, furnished flat close to her parents in the Mayfair district. The one-bedroom apartment had a tiny den that barely accommodated Omid's bed. The kitchenette and the living/dining area were all in one room. Still, it was good to have our own place again-even though it gave Somaya the chance to complain freely about my continued work with the Guards.

"I hate this, Reza! You don't need to work with them anymore. Look at you-you still look like a pasdar pasdar with your unshaven face. with your unshaven face. Ugh! Ugh! You promised that they would be out of our lives." You promised that they would be out of our lives."

I explained to her that they had started paying me a good salary again for the little work I did in England, and that this money would help toward our start in America. I'd been making up many stories about money to explain why we had much more than we should. The income and bonuses I had been receiving from the CIA were in the bank almost untouched for several years, and the agency was now paying my expenses in London. I told Somaya that my mother left me an inheritance when she pa.s.sed away. I told this same lie to Amiri. Then, when he offered me a few hundred British pounds in addition to the reimburs.e.m.e.nt costs for the rental car, I refused to take it, believing that this showed modesty and commitment to the revolution.

Around this time, Moheb Khan introduced me to a man named Fallah, and we established a good relations.h.i.+p right away. Fallah was a close friend of Somaya's family and he loved my son, which predisposed me to him quickly. He was an influential businessman in London, a broker for industrial supplies manufactured throughout England and most of Europe.

Amiri, who knew of this acquaintance, urged me to arrange a meeting with Fallah and a few newly arrived agents in town looking for industrial parts. The three newcomers were different from the other agents I'd met in London. They dressed in finely cut expensive suits, acted in a businesslike manner, and even drank alcohol at restaurants and ordered pork.

I rented a car and took them to Fallah's warehouse in the Stratford area of east London. Fallah greeted us and took us to his office, which was located at the end of a dark cold storage area lined with stacked boxes and large cartons on both sides. Some boxes were labeled with handwritten markings and some had diagrams of industrial materials and products. For the size of the warehouse, it was spa.r.s.ely populated.

"Please have a seat," Fallah said as he pulled an extra chair from the corner of the room. "Sorry for the mess. I am getting orders on a daily basis and I am here by myself." He laughed. "My two colleagues are both making deliveries."

Hushang, one of the agents, handed Fallah a list of the tools they needed for high-precision machinery. He did not mention the use he planned for this machinery, but stressed that it was essential for the new company he and the others were running in Esfahan, a city in the heart of Iran. Fallah noted the considerable size of the order and promised to make the necessary calls to fill it.

"Fallah Khan, don't forget to give us your special discount," Hushang said as we were leaving the warehouse. "Reza is a good friend of ours."

Hushang invited me to have lunch at their hotel when I dropped them off. The other two men excused themselves and went to their rooms. I agreed, though I found Hushang a little intimidating. He was well mannered and polished, but his eyes carried an intensity that made me uncomfortable. At the same time, if Amiri had not introduced me to him, I never would have suspected that he worked for the Islamic government. Amiri had told me that Hushang had strong ties with Imam Khomeini's office. Since the English Secret Service kept an eye on people coming in, especially from Iran, it was imperative that he blend in.

In broken English, Hushang greeted the doorman, clerks, and bellhops as we entered the hotel. He grabbed a newspaper and led me to the restaurant off the lobby.

"They have good burgers here and the potatoes are delicious," Hushang said as he unfolded the Guardian. Guardian. I reviewed the menu and decided to have the burger on his recommendation, realizing that the potatoes he referred to were fries, or what the British called chips. After the waitress took our order, he pa.s.sed me the first few pages of the paper. I scanned the headlines. I reviewed the menu and decided to have the burger on his recommendation, realizing that the potatoes he referred to were fries, or what the British called chips. After the waitress took our order, he pa.s.sed me the first few pages of the paper. I scanned the headlines.

"Were you here when this happened?" He folded the bottom half of the page, put it on the table over my setting, and pointed to an article. It was about the bombing of Pan Am Flight 103-the Lockerbie air disaster. I had learned about it at Moheb Khan's house when we were packing our belongings to move into our new home. A Boeing 747 jet had exploded over Scotland, killing everyone on board and several others on the ground.

"Do you know what they say in their Bible?" Hushang said, narrowing his eyes. "'And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot, burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe.'"

A s.h.i.+ver ran along my spine as he uttered this pa.s.sage in perfect English, though his diction had been tortured earlier. Who is he? Who is he? I wondered, taking a gulp of my drink. I wondered, taking a gulp of my drink.

"What do you mean?" I said, knowing it was a stupid question.

The waitress came with our food. I was thankful for this, as I needed the distraction to gather myself.

Hushang picked up his burger and took a big bite. "Rahim told me you were a smart guy, Reza." He wiped the ketchup on his chin with his finger and then leaned toward me. "Do you think we would let these b.a.s.t.a.r.ds get away with their deadly attack on our civilian airliner? Do you think that that was an accident?" was an accident?"

I remembered watching the news with Kazem less than a year ago in the cafeteria at our base about the Iran Air jetliner shot down by the U.S. Navy, killing three hundred civilians. Rahim had told Kazem and me that Rafsanjani promised retaliation.

"Kazem also said that it wasn't an accident. He thought the Americans did this in an effort to destroy our movement." I sipped my drink. "G.o.d bless his soul."

"Yes, Kazem was a great pasdar, pasdar," Hushang said with sadness in his voice. Then his tone grew stronger. "Well, they got their punishment, Reza. Eye for an eye."

"They deserved that," I said, feeling the now familiar self-reproach a.s.sociated with playing along.

Hushang looked around. Since we were there later than lunch hour, we were the only diners in the restaurant. "We have Hajj Agha Rafsanjani to thank. He delivered on his promise for retaliation. We also must thank our Palestinian brothers who helped us with this. The German police are even investigating the contacts of one of the Palestinians over the radio transmitter that carried the bomb."

I couldn't believe he was telling me this much. "Hajj Agha Rafsanjani is an a.s.set to our Islamic Revolution. He is a smart man," I said. I took a bite of my meal and swallowed hard. "You were right, the burgers are good here."

"I'm surprised that you eat haraam. haraam."

This stopped me cold. I couldn't believe I'd made this mistake in front of him. Muslims were not supposed to eat unlawful meat-only the meat from animals killed by Muslims according to Islamic laws.

"It's hard to live outside and do all your duties, isn't it?" Hushang said as he folded his napkin and put it on his plate.

"I usually eat halal halal meat," I said quickly. "But today, just because you suggested the food ..." I let my voice trail off. I knew that I had made a rookie mistake and I beat myself up for it. My job was to act and behave like a devout Muslim so that everyone a.s.sociated with the Guards would trust me. In my mind, I heard Steve, my first CIA contact, saying, "Never let your guard down. You'll stay alive longer." meat," I said quickly. "But today, just because you suggested the food ..." I let my voice trail off. I knew that I had made a rookie mistake and I beat myself up for it. My job was to act and behave like a devout Muslim so that everyone a.s.sociated with the Guards would trust me. In my mind, I heard Steve, my first CIA contact, saying, "Never let your guard down. You'll stay alive longer."

"Hushang! Hushang!"

We turned our heads to the voice. It was one of the other brothers.

"Come on upstairs," the man said. "You missed some phone calls and they will be calling back shortly."

Hushang looked at me, and I told him that I would take care of the bill.

"Next time on me, then," he said, pressing my shoulder with his hand before he left with the other man.

I sat in the restaurant for a short while after they left, trying to clear my thoughts. I was frightened. Frightened of Hushang and what he said about the Pan Am flight-the "eye for an eye" comment; how he emphasized "burning for burning" with such menace in his voice. Frightened of how he stared into my eyes and the surprise he expressed at my eating haraam haraam meat. Once again, I felt that no matter how much the CIA covered me while I was in London, I had to be even more cautious. I was not just among fanatic Islamists; I was among ruthless criminals. meat. Once again, I felt that no matter how much the CIA covered me while I was in London, I had to be even more cautious. I was not just among fanatic Islamists; I was among ruthless criminals.

I left a generous tip for the waitress and decided to call Eric to let the CIA know what I had learned about the Pan Am incident. As I was about to open the double gla.s.s door of the hotel to go out, I saw the shadow of a heavily built man behind the door. I moved to the side to let him in before I exited.

"Reza?"

I raised my head and saw Rasool.

"Rasool? Salam, Salam, big guy! What are you doing here?" big guy! What are you doing here?"

Rasool hugged me and lifted me off the ground. "It is nice to see you, Reza."

I had not heard from him since the last time I saw him at our base when he was ready to go to England to "pursue his education." He was still well groomed in a nice gray suit with a long black wool coat over it.

We stepped outside the hotel and chatted a little bit. Rasool knew about Kazem's death and spoke mournfully about it. He told me that he was going to meet with Hushang and the other men. He said he would be in touch and suggested that we get together.

"I have to go now, but don't hide yourself," he said, handing me a business card. "Call me."

The card read russell consulting services. It had no address. Only a phone number and the name Russell rather than Rasool.

I arranged a meeting with Eric for the next day. Feeling especially apprehensive about getting to the safe house, I transferred several times in the Tube, walked a number of blocks, caught a cab, and went to a bookstore, where I bought a few books.

When I got to the safe house, Eric was not alone. After many years with little change in my interactions with the CIA and building a bond with Carol, the agency had started rotating my contacts. I'd quickly built a good working relations.h.i.+p with Eric, but now he introduced me to my new contact, Andrew. Unlike Carol and Eric, to whom I'd taken an immediate liking, Andrew seemed chilly and opinionated. I wasn't happy with this sudden s.h.i.+ft, especially now. Regardless, though, I had a job to do. I pa.s.sed along the information about the Pan Am flight, as well as the names and descriptions of Hushang and the other agents, and both Eric and Andrew expressed shock at the possibility of Iran's involvement in the bombing. As I did this, though, I grew increasingly uneasy with how things were unfolding for me in England. Things were becoming too tense with the Guards, and now I had a CIA contact who made me uncomfortable.

I wanted out of all this.

28.

DOUBLE AGENT.

THE DEATH OF Khomeini in June 1989 brought all of the Guards and Khomeini's adherents in London together in the Iranian emba.s.sy. Disbelief, feelings of emptiness, and the grief at the loss of an icon caused weeping to run infectiously through the crowd. A mourning ceremony was held for him at the central mosque in London and many Muslims from different nationalities gathered to share their sadness. I attended the event because I had to, but I sat in a corner by myself, closed my eyes, and thought about all of the damage he had done to Iran-how he'd ruined a nation and killed so many innocent people. I wished his legacy would be buried with him. I wished the West would help us restore the Iran I loved. If ever there was a time to do so, this was it. Khomeini in June 1989 brought all of the Guards and Khomeini's adherents in London together in the Iranian emba.s.sy. Disbelief, feelings of emptiness, and the grief at the loss of an icon caused weeping to run infectiously through the crowd. A mourning ceremony was held for him at the central mosque in London and many Muslims from different nationalities gathered to share their sadness. I attended the event because I had to, but I sat in a corner by myself, closed my eyes, and thought about all of the damage he had done to Iran-how he'd ruined a nation and killed so many innocent people. I wished his legacy would be buried with him. I wished the West would help us restore the Iran I loved. If ever there was a time to do so, this was it.

"Consider Rafsanjani the new king of Iran," Andrew said casually in a meeting we had a couple of months after Khomeini's death. As was the case with so much of what he said to me, this rubbed me the wrong way. I had just finished telling him that America needed to do more to free the people of Iran from the tyrannical rule of the mullahs, but Andrew believed that George H.W. Bush's plan to encourage better communications with Rafsanjani was the best approach toward improving relations between the two countries.

Rafsanjani became the president of Iran after Khomeini died, and Ali Khamenei, who had been president, became Khomeini's successor as Supreme Leader. Khamenei was not even an ayatollah. Yet he was enough of a radical to ensure that the regime retained the power for which it l.u.s.ted. Before the revolution, Ali Khamenei was a mullah performing Rowzeh Khooni in the city of Mashhad. Just like Mullah Aziz, he had charged a few dollars for the sermons he performed and owned a donkey. Now he was the spiritual leader of a once great country.

Andrew further incensed me by suggesting that Rafsanjani was a reformer who could make life better for Iranians. "Negotiation is our best policy," he said.

"Rafsanjani is no different from the rest of them," I responded angrily. "You can't trust him. Have you forgotten his involvement in the Marine barracks attack in Lebanon along with the radicals ruling Iran? Or his involvement in the Lockerbie bombing? He encourages terrorism."

Andrew did not respond, other than looking at me disdainfully. Without saying so explicitly, he was making it clear that my opinion wasn't welcome.

President Bush, who was the vice president during the IranContra affair, was aware of the negotiations back then. Now, as the leader of the free world, he was hoping that Rafsanjani would deliver on the promise he had once made to Robert McFarlane, President Reagan's national security adviser, to normalize relations between the two countries once Khomeini was dead. This amazed me. Hadn't the Americans learned their lesson from the deceitful promise Rafsanjani made them to aid in the release of American hostages held in Lebanon? After the Iranians received the many s.h.i.+pments of weaponry offered as an overture, they not only didn't develop a healthier relations.h.i.+p with America but, in fact, a.s.sisted Hezbollah in taking more hostages. Believing that Rafsanjani would bring positive change to Iran was dangerous not only for my country, but for America as well. One hundred and eighty Americans had died on Pan Am flight 103. This seemed like an especially foolhardy form of political maneuvering. After all, the CIA was aware that the information Hushang provided me during lunch was neither publicly available nor confirmed by the investigators of the Pan Am crash at the time. (Interestingly, this maneuvering continues to this day. In August 2009, Scottish authorities freed Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, the Libyan convicted for downing the plane, just when his legal team was ready to present U.S. Defense Intelligence Agency doc.u.ments implicating Iran.) My relations.h.i.+p with Andrew continued to get frostier. Then, one day, on my way to the emba.s.sy to meet up with Amiri, I called Andrew to set up another meeting.

"It's good that you called, Wally," Andrew said. "We have to meet as soon as possible. It has to be by tonight."

His tone concerned me, and I wanted to meet him in the safe house immediately to find out what was so urgent. But I could not be late for my meeting with Amiri. Apprehensively, I made my way to the emba.s.sy. Amiri had someone else in his office when I got there and I needed to wait about fifteen minutes before he summoned me.

"Reza, I have a very important a.s.signment for you," he said when he called me in. He handed me a piece of paper. "There's a certain individual who we suspect is involved in antirevolutionary activities. You'll find the details on that paper. We need to know who else he's involved with and what they're up to. Rasool is to be your partner, so call him and get started on this right away."

This alarmed me. Why would Amiri pair me up with Rasool?

As I left the emba.s.sy, chimes from the nearby Patriarchal Cathedral announced that it was four o'clock in the afternoon. My meeting with Andrew was not until seven. That left plenty of time to hang around town and make sure I was not being watched or followed. But instead of going through my usual routine, I simply decided to walk along the Thames to gather my thoughts about the latest complications in my twin life.

"Come on in, Wally," Andrew said officiously as I entered the safe house. My dislike for him had grown to the point where even hearing his voice set me on edge.