A TIME TO BETRAY (38 page)

“Inshallah,”
I replied, feeling shame, remorse, and repulsion.

Amiri and Rahim continued to talk about how important it was to identify those who opposed us outside the country and punish them in the same way. I felt an ache in my heart. These criminals were running rampant while the superpowers turned a blind eye. How could there ever be peace in this world as long as this was the case?

When this insane discourse was over, Rahim rose and shook Amiri’s hand. “Okay, then. You let Baradar Reza know what you need, and he will be at your service. I’ll leave you two to work out the details.” He turned back toward me. “Reza, I have your phone number and will be in touch before I leave.”

I watched Rahim exit, feeling disoriented by my sudden and quite involuntary conscription back into service. Amiri got down to business immediately, suggesting that if I did not have a car, I should rent one.

“Two of our brothers are here in London to purchase some material, and I’d like you to take them where they need to go. They are
staying with Baradar Sadri.” He handed me a piece of paper. “Here is his address and phone number. Tell him Amiri asked you to call him. We will reimburse you for any costs you incur.”

I nodded as Amiri directed me, but as he spoke, I kept wondering why they were giving me such an assignment. What I did for them in Iran had nothing to do with driving dirty bearded criminals around town. Why did they think I was the right person for this? I had to assume it was because Rahim trusted me. And this was because of Kazem.
I wish Kazem were here,
I thought as Amiri continued with his instructions. He’d always been my safe harbor with the Guards. Now I needed to navigate these waters by myself and I wasn’t at all sure I could handle it.

Later that day, I called Carol to arrange another meeting right away. I felt as though she was my only source of support at this point. I needed some additional reassurance that the CIA had my back. I also felt an obligation to inform her about the underground activity going on in England. Carol set our rendezvous at a safe house. When I got there, another agent was waiting with her. Eric seemed affable and easygoing, and I quickly learned that he would be my new contact. While I’d had a number of contacts in my tenure in the CIA, I’d been with Carol for all of my active spying days. Given how uneasy I was feeling at this point, I didn’t need this kind of switch now. I had felt very close to Carol and I worried that a new handler wouldn’t have the same commitment to me. But like the rest of the events happening in my life at that time, I knew I needed to put myself in the hands of destiny.

I told Carol and Eric about the meeting at the embassy and about how Rahim had put conditions on my stay in London by insisting on my cooperation with the Guards.

“Wally, I think it just makes sense that you do what they want,” Carol said. “It’s going to take some time to prepare the papers for your move to America, so meanwhile you could continue your work here with us.”

“I don’t know, Carol. I promised Somaya that we were starting a
new life. To endanger my family again by getting involved with the Guards here … I am just not sure.”

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 assurances, 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
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 butt, gave me a quick hug, and guided me inside. “Come in, Reza
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 assigned to drive around were inside,
sitting at a small square dining table having tea and English muffins. 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 passed 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.
”

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 embassy. 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, assassinating 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.

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.

“I hate this, Reza! You don’t need to work with them anymore. Look at you—you still look like a
pasdar
with your unshaven face.
Ugh!
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 passed away. I told this same lie to Amiri. Then, when he offered me a few hundred British pounds in addition to the reimbursement 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 relationship 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 sparsely 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.