A TIME TO BETRAY (2 page)

“Yes.”

“Do you work for the Revolutionary Guards?”

“Yes.”

“Did they ask you to come here?”

“No.”

“Did they help you with your travel plans?”

“Yes.”

“Did they ask you to contact us?”

“No.”

“Have you contacted the Guards since being here?”

“No.”

“Have you told them about this meeting?”

“No.”

I noticed that several of the questions seemed repetitive, with nuanced differences. I wondered if this was the agent’s attempt to trip me up.

“Does your wife know you are here?”

“She knows I am in America but she doesn’t know I am with you.”

“Stay with yes or no, please. Does anyone know about your contact with the CIA?”

“No … well, yes … Well, not really … but FBI agents …”

He did not let me finish. “Only yes or no, Wally.”

I was sweating heavily at this point. This made the places where the agent had attached the electrodes itchy. The agent watched me shift in my seat and then made a notation. I wondered how badly my obvious nervousness was hurting my chances.

The agent turned two pages in his notes, seeming to skip ahead. “Have you been inside Evin Prison?”

“Yes.”

“Do the interrogators rape virgins before they’re executed?”

“I … I didn’t realize Agent Clark would be telling you …”

“Yes or no, please, Wally.”

I swallowed as memories tumbled one after the other. Parvaneh’s last look at me. Roya’s letter. “Yes. They rape the virgins before they are executed because they believe virgins are sent straight to heaven.”

“Wally, please, just yes or no. Did you witness this?”

“No.”

“Did you witness tortures and executions at Evin Prison?”

In the hum of the air conditioning, I could hear Naser calling,
“Reeezzzza.”

I exhaled slowly. “Yes.”

The agent turned back a couple of pages to where he had been.

“Do you work for the Revolutionary Guards as their chief computer engineer?”

“Yes.”

“Did you acquire this position through Kazem Aliabadi?”

“Yes.”

“Was Kazem Aliabadi a childhood friend?”

“Yes.”

“Was Naser Hushmand also a childhood friend?”

“Yes.”

“As far as you know, is Kazem loyal to the goals of the Revolutionary Guards?”

“Yes.”

“As far as you know, is Kazem aware that you do not share his beliefs?”

“No.”

“As far as you know, does Kazem consider you loyal to the goals and ideals of the Revolutionary Guards?”

“Yes.”

“Have you taken an oath to remain loyal to the Revolutionary Guards, including a vow to become a martyr for the Ayatollah Khomeini?”

“Yes.”

“Is Kazem aware that you took this oath?”

“Yes.”

“Do you consider it immoral to break an oath to your friend?”

I felt a lump in my throat as a tide rose in my chest. My eyes brimmed with tears. I had left home a respected member of the exclusive Revolutionary Guards. I would return a
jasoos,
a spy betraying my country. I knew that if my father were alive and found out what I was doing, he would turn his back on me. I knew that my grandmother, who taught me to be a devoted Muslim and to be honest and trustworthy, would be ashamed of me.

Through the roar of blood in my ears, I heard the agent ask, “Would you like me to repeat the question?”

How could I be a spy if I could not hide my emotions and provide fast answers to provocative questions? I had joined the Guards with the purest intentions. I believed at the beginning of the revolution that the Islamic movement was fair and just, carrying the promise of a nation’s salvation. Instead, I had witnessed brutality, murders, and lies committed in the name of God. I had witnessed the destruction of a nation. Because of this, I was about to embark on a life of treason. I was going to lie to my wife, lie to the people I loved most. I was going to risk their lives without giving them the chance to protect themselves.

“Wally?”

The CIA saw me as a godsend, an asset they needed at a time when they were struggling to understand the threat that Iran had become to them. If I was going to help them, they needed to know what made me tick. Yet I wasn’t sure I could explain myself to them. How could I make them understand why I was risking my family and betraying my friends to save my country when I wasn’t sure myself?

For the first time since I’d begun this journey, tears broke over the edge of my eyes and dripped down my cheeks.

“Wally,” the agent said softly, “do you consider it immoral to break an oath to your friend?”

The question split my soul in two.

“Wally?”

Because the two people inside me had contradictory answers. And God would not send half of me to hell.

“Reza?”

1966

“REZA!”

I rubbed my eyes and opened them reluctantly. My grandmother, Khanoom Bozorg, was pulling the curtains to the side.

“Get up, son, it is almost eight o’clock.”

“It’s too early, Grandma. Please let me sleep some more.”

“Naser has already come by the door twice. Don’t you want to see your friends? Get up now. The guests will be arriving soon.”

“They won’t be here until noon.”

My protests didn’t carry any weight with her. Grandma gave me a pinch on my cheek and pulled the blanket off me before she left the room.

Today was Ashura, a day when Shia Muslims mourn the martyrdom of Imam Hussein, Shiites’ third Imam, with solemn stories and great feasts. My grandmother was hosting Rowzeh Khooni, a ceremony of mourning. I awoke to a flurry of activity around the house. Grandma had begun preparations days ago and they continued now with fervor. With the help of family members and neighbors, she had the furniture moved out of the living area because she was going to be hosting so many people. Over my grandparents’ Persian rugs, they’d placed colorful maroon and burgundy patterned cushions, with large matching cushions resting against the wall for added
comfort. In this newly opened space, they could bring together more than a hundred guests.

I went to the kitchen, where Grandma had my breakfast ready. She made me hot tea and a piece of lavash bread rolled with butter and cherry jam, which was my favorite. The kitchen was a mess. Big copper pots filled with food sat on the floor. Grandma was an accomplished cook and a fine host, and she had prepared a feast for that day. She had even hired several servants in addition to the usual help because she wanted all of her guests to feel comfortable.

The aroma from the food she’d made wafted through the house—and probably through the neighborhood as well. She’d made
gheyme polo,
rice with yellow split peas and meat;
baghali polo,
fava beans with rice and veal shank; and
fesenjoon,
walnut stew with white rice. And she’d made enough to feed every guest for several days.

While my parents’ house was only a few blocks down the same street, I spent most of my time at this point in my life at my paternal grandparents’ home. I even had my own room there. Both of my parents worked, sometimes until late at night. Since I was the only child and since, at twelve, I was still young, someone had to take care of me. I loved spending time with my grandparents. Khanoom Bozorg always made my favorite food, told me stories, and had her maids clean my room and wash my clothes. I never had to do anything around this house—unless she was punishing me for doing something bad. Agha Joon, my grandpa, was like a second father to me. His favorite phrase was “
Pir shi javoon
,” “Grow old, young man.” At the time, I wondered why he would wish a young person to grow old, but I would someday understand what he meant by this. And where Grandma could be strict, Grandpa usually found a way to get me off the hook with her when I was in trouble.

The reason I most loved being at my grandparents’ house was that Naser lived next door. Naser and I had been friends for as long as I could remember. We grew up together, played together, went to the same school, and hung around together after classes nearly every
day. My grandfather and Naser’s father, Davood, were good friends even though there was a considerable difference in their ages. They enjoyed gardening and bird-watching together. They had pet canaries whose song they could imitate with their own uncanny whistles.

Davood adored his three children. He always bragged about Naser’s grades and the artistic endeavors of Soheil, his younger son. He regularly claimed that Soheil would be as famous as da Vinci one day. With the birth of his only daughter, Parvaneh, Davood celebrated life anew.
Parvaneh
is the Farsi word for “butterfly” and Davood gave his daughter this name because she had brought color and beauty to his life. He always took the toddler along when he visited Grandpa. Naser’s mom, on the other hand, was a private woman and rarely joined my grandparents’ gatherings.

After I ate breakfast, I ran to Naser’s house. We had plans to meet up with our friend Kazem. Naser and I were twelve and Kazem was a year younger; adult gatherings gave us a great opportunity to create mischief and we suspected we’d generate some today.

When I got to Naser’s house, he was in his yard chasing frogs. I put my head between the bars of the iron fence that surrounded his house and called his name.

“Come on, let’s go get Kazem.”

“Wait, I almost have this frog.”

He was zigzagging, jumping here and there in pursuit. He finally managed to catch the frog, and once he did, he ran toward me. His big brown eyes glinted in the summer sun. His smile widened as he extended his arms to show me his catch.

I scowled at him. “You’re wasting time chasing frogs, Naser! The guests will be arriving soon.”

Naser put the trapped amphibian in his pocket with a shrug. “Okay, Reza. Let’s go.”

He whistled happily as we walked. A fresh breeze from the mountains stirred the tall trees that lined our streets. Water from the snowmelt flowed through a creek that wove and tumbled its way through the thickets of raspberry and blackberry bushes in
Grandpa’s backyard, creating a melodic brook in which Naser and I could splash.

We lived in an upscale neighborhood with lush foliage in the north of Tehran, the capital of Iran. My grandparents’ house was at the end of a long, narrow street lined with gated properties on both sides. You could not see some of the larger homes from the street as tall brick walls or hedges concealed them. On our walk through this area, we always peeked through gates to take in the acres of impressive landscaping, ponds, waterfalls, and swimming pools. I felt very proud to live in a place this beautiful.

This area was close to the slopes of the Alborz mountain range. Nearby was the Sadabad Palace, built during the Qajar dynasty in the nineteenth century. Reza Shah lived there in the twenties. His son, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, Shahanshah, King of Kings, moved there in the seventies.

Kazem’s house was only a thirty-minute walk from ours, but in many ways it seemed a world away. In his neighborhood, potholes dotted the asphalt streets, rotted wooden gates marked the entrances in the crumbling clay walls around the small homes, and only a few small trees stood along the sidewalks. The very same creek that ran past my grandparents’ house wound through this neighborhood as well. But where Naser and I used the creek for frolicking, some of Kazem’s neighbors used it for washing clothes.

Even at our age, it was impossible not to notice the difference in living conditions. Hungry kids sat on the street in torn, dirty clothes with flies buzzing around the dried crusts of dirt on their noses and eyes. Their mothers carried laundry in big aluminum bowls atop their heads. Women traded dried bread and a little change for a bag of sea salt, which the street merchants carried in donkey saddle packs. The merchant used the dried bread to feed his donkey and the change as his sole source of income. And while men in our family discussed whether to purchase American-made or German-made cars, men in Kazem’s neighborhood owned old bikes or, like Kazem’s father, a three-wheeler pickup truck.

The differences weren’t only economic. Here, the women covered themselves under chadors, unlike the women in our family and many others in Iran who dressed in Western-style suits and fancy dresses, covering their hair with a loose scarf only on special occasions, such as mourning ceremonies or funerals.

As we drew closer to Kazem’s house, we saw him with his mother escorting Mullah Aziz outside. Kazem’s mother bent over and whispered something to Kazem, who stepped toward the mullah, took his hand, bowed, and kissed it. That was his way of thanking Mullah Aziz for teaching him the Quran. When he spotted us, Kazem didn’t blush. He was not embarrassed to have us see him kissing a mullah’s hand, as Naser and I would have been. In fact, he smiled with pride.

We’d met Kazem a year before on a hot summer afternoon. Kazem was the local butcher’s son. Despite being only ten then, Kazem worked for his dad after school and during the summertime. Naser and I were playing soccer outside my grandparents’ house along with a few other boys from our neighborhood when Kazem made a meat delivery to Grandma. Afterward, he sat on the curb and watched us play. He was short and skinny and wore his hair so closely cropped that his round head almost seemed bald. His dark, droopy eyes moved with the ball and every time one of us made a bad play, he giggled.

After this happened a few times, Naser threw the ball to Kazem and challenged him to show us some of his moves. Kazem jumped from the curb eagerly and started bouncing the ball on his feet ten, twenty times without dropping it. Then, in one fluid motion, he kicked the ball above his head and headed it back to Naser.

Naser and I looked at each other, amazed. Right there, we asked him to join our soccer team. Kazem happily agreed. His only caveat was that he could not play with us during the month of Ramadan because his mother insisted that he fast. I found it hard to believe that any kid would put religious obligations ahead of soccer, but we had no choice but to accept this.