A TIME TO BETRAY (16 page)

As we caught up, we fell into our old, familiar rhythms. It was as though no time had passed since we last saw one another. But I knew that wasn’t true. I’d gone through the equivalent of a lifetime since leaving California.

I did nothing more than visit with my aunt and get in touch with old friends for a few days. Then it was time to contact the U.S. authorities. I wanted to reach out to the CIA. I found that thought intimidating, but I knew they would take my information seriously. They weren’t listed in the phone book, but the FBI was. I knew of their offices in the Federal Building on Wilshire in Westwood, a short distance from USC’s crosstown rival, UCLA, and not too far up the I-405 freeway from where I was staying. After looking at
myself in the mirror and summoning up my courage, I took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

Contacting the FBI was easy enough, but getting to the right person took some doing. “I’d like to talk to an agent in charge of international matters,” I told one person after another. “I have some confidential information about Iran that is important.” The experience was frustrating and was quickly becoming discouraging.
Maybe,
I thought,
this isn’t such a good idea after all.
Finally, after an hour of bouncing from one person to the next, I managed to schedule a meeting with two agents for that afternoon.

I gave myself plenty of time to get to West LA. As the cab took me there, I looked out the window and remembered that the last time I took this ride up I-405, I was on my way to Westwood for a college party. I felt as though I were on top of the world then. Would I ever feel that way again?

The streets outside the Federal Building brought back less happy memories. This had been the scene of several pro- and anti-Iranian demonstrations during the revolution. A few of us from the Islamic Students’ Association would join the demonstrations supporting Khomeini and clash with the shah’s supporters. There had always been a number of television cameras present. I now suspect that there were quite a few Islamic agent cameras present as well.

I decided not to go directly to the Federal Building but instead maintained my deception by calling a friend and meeting him at the popular Mario’s Restaurant. From the entrance to Mario’s you could see down Gayley one way and down Weyburn Place the other. If anyone had followed me, I would know, since I kept careful watch on my way to Westwood. I finished my lunch, bid good-bye to my friend, left through the rear exit, ducked into the parking structure across the alley, and went out the other side onto Veteran Avenue. It was a long walk down Veteran to Wilshire, where the FBI building is located. It would have been impossible for anyone following me to remain hidden. Still, I didn’t go directly to the building, instead turning down Wilshire and coming in through the rear.

Once I registered at the front desk, two officials escorted me to a twelfth-floor conference room. One man introduced himself as Special Agent Cully Madigan and the other as Al Mancini. I gave them my name and immediately wondered if I should have used an alias. They offered me a cigarette, which I declined, and water, which I accepted. Strangely, I was not in the least nervous. I think my hosts were more anxious than I was, which made me realize that mine was not the kind of call they fielded every day. I was, after all, Iranian. The FBI, I would come to realize, was not an international agency. Most of the people they dealt with were Americans or foreign nationals from Eastern bloc countries. Men of my color were not yet their main concern. Little did they know how much that would change.

After exchanging pleasantries, we finally got around to discussing my reasons for contacting them. It was awkward at first, because they seemed confused about what I was telling them. I told them I held a position in the Revolutionary Guards in Iran and had access to information that was critical to both of our countries. To my astonishment, they kept calling the Revolutionary Guards “the Red Army,” obviously confusing the mysterious Iran with the more familiar Soviet Union.

Again, I had misgivings. If these agents weren’t even aware of what was going on in my country, why would they care about any information I had to give them? They jotted down everything I said, but it was obvious this was not an area of their expertise. When they asked if I could show anything to prove my claims, I took out the documents I’d brought with me. The documents, embossed with the official Revolutionary Guards’ emblem, included a payroll list with the names of high-ranking officers and internal orders from several base commanders. Some of these orders had my name on them. I explained each, and they nodded as I did so, but the documents were all in Farsi and neither agent spoke the language.

I also had a picture of Mohsen Rezaei, the commander of the Guards, in his uniform behind a podium speaking to a large crowd.
Armed guards stood in the corners, and behind him stood Kazem, Rahim, and me. The agents’ interest sharpened when they saw this, and they started asking more questions. They asked if they could keep the documents to verify them. I told them I was worried about confidentiality, about where the documents were going, and about whether I would get them back. Madigan assured me that the entire matter would receive only the most top-secret treatment and then suggested that I keep a low profile.

“We’ll get back to you in a few days,” Madigan said. “We need to sort a few things out. There are some people we need to talk to.”

“What people?” I asked innocently enough.

Madigan locked my documents in his attaché case. “We’ll contact you in a few days, Mr. Kahlili.”

They escorted me out, thanked me for my time, and took note of my hotel on Century Boulevard.

“The Sheraton? Yeah, I know the one,” Agent Mancini said. “How about you move out of that hotel into another one? Let me suggest the Shutters in Santa Monica. It’s right on the beach and has several exits. Take a couple of cabs to get there. We’ll call you very soon.”

The next few days were full of uncertainty. On the one hand, I knew there were Islamic agents in the U.S. watching Iranians who entered the country. Kazem had told me once that the Guards had their agents keep an eye on the members of the opposition outside Iran and closely monitor the Guards members traveling abroad, as they knew that foreign intelligence services were looking to recruit operatives. On the other hand, I was worried about getting myself into some difficulty with the FBI if they didn’t believe my story.

Trust between Americans and Iranians ceased to exist after the embassy takeover in Tehran. I had been at that takeover—though I certainly didn’t have anything to do with the taking of hostages—which meant that they could have had pictures of me there. The FBI could have received my overture to them in any number of ways. The worst possible scenario was that they and their counterparts in the CIA would view me as an Iranian spy attempting to infiltrate
their ranks by walking right through their front door with some preposterous proposal about giving them the Guards’ secrets. I could only hope that the documents I gave them would prove that my intentions were the ones I stated.

Mancini’s suggestion to move to the Shutters hotel did a great deal to persuade me that they believed me. If they thought I was lying to them or if they thought I was trying to spy on
them,
they wouldn’t have made any effort to protect me. The room overlooked the beach, which provided diversion. For the next few days, I stayed in this pleasant room, but the hours couldn’t pass fast enough. One minute I would call myself crazy, the next a hero for trying to figure out a way to help Iran. I tried to distract myself by watching TV or spending time on the beach, occasionally ordering room service. But the waiting was nerve-racking. Whenever my anxiety rose to the point where I thought I couldn’t take it, I reached into the left-side pocket inside my jacket where I kept Roya’s letter wrapped around Naser’s picture. Without unfolding it, I pressed it to my heart and reminded myself of why I was there.

Finally, four days later, Madigan called and directed me to a Holiday Inn a few blocks away. I could have walked there, but I chose a cab instead, irritating the driver who had waited over an hour for the fare just to drive a few hundred yards. He started complaining, so I had him drive a circuitous route just in case someone was following me and then gave him a generous tip. Even that didn’t seem to appease him.

I climbed the stairs to room 303 as instructed, and Mancini and Madigan greeted me. Another agent sat at a table by the window. He stood up and said, “Glad to meet you, Reza. I’m Patrick Barry.” He had a handshake that reminded me of Agha Joon’s, who would always shake with both hands with a tap or two on the shaker’s hand to give reassurance. In my mind, I repeated words from my grandfather to bolster my confidence:
“Life is like a river. At times, we must flow with its current and enjoy the journey. But when it reaches a fall, if you don’t fight against its current, you will fall, too. God has given
us strength and his blessing to go through the rough times and keep our faith alive, Reza.”

Agent Barry didn’t give me his title, but it was clear he was in charge. We talked for a half hour, rehashing much of what I’d already covered with the other two agents. I assumed he was taping the conversation. We discussed the documents I’d brought with me to the previous meeting and he told me that a translation confirmed that these documents were real. Barry then mentioned the deputy commander of the Guards, a man named Reza Movahedi.

“We’re a little concerned about how current these documents are,” he said. “We’ve been told that there’s a new man in that position.”

“Oh, no. I assure you that Movahedi still has that job,” I said, wondering who was passing them bad information. It wouldn’t have surprised me if the Guards had sent agents to the U.S. specifically to feed the Americans with the wrong details.

At that point, a door opened and another man entered from the adjoining suite. He was much better dressed than the other FBI agents were. I guessed his age to be early forties.

“This is Mr. Clark,” Agent Mancini said, coming to his feet. I stood at the same time, not sure what was going on and measuring my five-eight height against his six-two or so. Clark seemed to fill the room.

“Steve Clark,” the man said, smiling and holding out his hand. “United States Central Intelligence Agency. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kahlili. Did I say your name right?”

“Yes,” I said. He had a firm handshake and penetrating eyes. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

That was the last meeting I would have with FBI Agents Madigan, Mancini, and Barry. Clark’s arrival now aligned me with the CIA.

I liked Agent Clark from the beginning. He had a relaxed manner about him, and he took my proposal seriously. We talked that first day for a couple of hours after the FBI agents left, but the conversation was more general than I expected. We reviewed the information I’d given the FBI, and he asked several more questions about the structure of the Guards and its leadership. He was much better informed about what was going on in Iran than the FBI agents had been. He asked if he could keep the documents I’d brought from Iran, and I agreed. Feeling a connection to him, I showed him Naser’s picture and Roya’s letter, and I told him her story. I told him how they tortured and killed young girls, in God’s name, and before their execution they raped them because they believed that if a girl dies a virgin, she will go to heaven, and they wanted to deny them this reward. I explained how Asadollah Lajevardi, the head of the Iran Prisons Organization, created this atmosphere of terror to keep the prisoners frightened and submissive. Iranians knew him as the “Butcher of Evin,” not only because of the thousands he killed, but for his practice of draining the blood of prisoners about to be executed to use the plasma for soldiers injured in the war with Iraq. He left his victims with just enough blood so they were conscious as they faced the firing squad.

I met with Agent Clark, whom I quickly began to call Steve, several times over the next few days. Each time, we took extreme measures to ensure that no one was tailing me. I would take two cabs to our designated meeting area, which changed every time, and then I would walk the last couple of blocks.

Steve listened sympathetically when I became emotional. He accepted my words without overreacting. I was relieved to be able to talk freely at last as I discussed the Guards and the nature of my position in the organization. My hopes grew with every meeting.

And then Steve said something that completely shocked me.

“Reza, I am touched by your painful story and I can feel your sincerity in wanting to help your country.” Steve paused, looking me in the eyes. “But you could help the most if you went back working for us.”

I froze in my chair and could not come up with any response. Even though I had initiated this process, I never thought that the CIA would ask me to be a spy on their behalf.

“I know how hard it must have been on you to take the huge risk
of coming here and contacting us. Believe me, we are grateful for that. But we need your help if we are going to help your country. You will be our eyes and ears in Iran.”

I hadn’t come here with the intention of becoming a spy. I thought I would pass some information to the Americans and that they would take over from there. But now I realized how little they knew about what was going on in my country. They needed so much more than I’d brought with me, and if they didn’t get it from me, they might not get accurate information from anyone.

“I will do it,” I said hesitantly.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Steve said, rising from his chair and patting me on the shoulder. “By the way, we’ve assigned you a code name. From now on, we’ll be calling you Wally.”

WALLY.

I repeated the name to myself.

Even though I knew from the moment I boarded the plane to America that my life was going to change forever, hearing this code name drove home the point that it would truly never be the same again. The idea that I now had a CIA code name brought all kinds of words to mind:
traitor, secrets, deception, suspicion, lies.
And these words weighed heavily on me. My parents didn’t raise me to be a traitor and a liar. But they did raise me to believe in a higher good and to understand that destroying evil sometimes required us to do things we never would have imagined for ourselves.