A TIME TO BETRAY (39 page)

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.
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 passed 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 shiver ran along my spine as he uttered this passage in perfect English, though his diction had been tortured earlier.
Who is he?
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 bastards get away with their deadly attack on our civilian airliner? Do you think
that
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. “God bless his soul.”

“Yes, Kazem was a great
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 associated 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 asset 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.
”

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
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 associated 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
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 glass 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,
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 relationship 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 shift, especially now. Regardless, though, I had a job to do. I passed 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.

THE DEATH OF
Khomeini in June 1989 brought all of the Guards and Khomeini’s adherents in London together in the Iranian embassy. 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 lusted. 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 Iran–Contra 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 shipments of weaponry offered as an overture, they not only didn’t develop a healthier relationship with America but, in fact, assisted 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 documents implicating Iran.)

My relationship with Andrew continued to get frostier. Then, one day, on my way to the embassy 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 embassy. 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 assignment 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 embassy, 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.

Andrew was not alone. A well-built man in his midthirties with a buzz haircut was sitting in the living room and looked up at me
with anticipation. He rose and introduced himself as Gary. I learned quickly that he would be my new contact. Andrew was leaving because his father had passed away in the States.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said to Andrew, hiding the fact that while I was indeed sorry his father had died, I was glad our association was ending. While I’d never gotten along with Andrew, I got the immediate sense that I would have a good relationship with Gary. His firm handshake and his clear enthusiasm for what I was doing encouraged me.

I told Gary about Amiri’s assignment and about my growing, though somewhat confusing relationship with Rasool. As I got to know Rasool more, I realized he was not like the other Guards. He cared about Iran and expressed outrage at the assassinations of the opposition inside and outside the country. And while he was a devout Muslim, he did not seem happy with the Guards’ activities in England. I related conversations to Gary where Rasool revealed this, and I told him that I thought Rasool seemed sincere. But as was always the case with anyone associated with the Guards, he could have been trying to trap me.

Gary made a note and promised to find out about Rasool and what he was up to. I did not know how Gary was going to find out if the big guy was a committed Muslim or whether he cared about Iran, but I trusted that he knew what he was doing. I got up to leave and he patted me on the back, calling me a great man.