A TIME TO BETRAY (42 page)

Rasool’s expression became wistful. “I did. I had a girlfriend. …”
He paused. “Liz was British-American and did not need a visa. She left for America and asked me to join her.” He stopped and looked for his pack of cigarettes, lighting one before he spoke again. “I saw a lawyer who told me that it was very easy. If I would just marry my girlfriend or get engaged, I would not even need a lawyer. I could go to America in a matter of a few months. Just apply through the American consulate either as a spouse to a citizen or under an engagement visa.”

“What happened?”

“I called Liz and told her the good news.” He puffed on his cigarette, staring down at the ground. “She said she was sorry but she did not think we should see each other anymore.” He crushed his cigarette under his shoes.

I felt a rush of empathy for him. “I am sorry, big guy. Really sorry.”

We parted and I found myself hoping that everything worked out for him. That he would take the CIA up on their offer, do good work with them for a few years, and then find a safe home on American shores.

Meanwhile, my own passage was nearly complete. Somaya was exuberant when I told her we were on our way.

“Reza, I can’t believe this. I am so happy!” she said, giving me a huge hug. Before I could drown myself in her arms, though, she pulled away.

“What’s wrong?” I asked in surprise.

She sat on the couch and pulled her legs up against her chest. The sudden change in her mood left me feeling unsteady.

“I am just not sure about this.” She bit her nails and took a moment before continuing. “You know how long I waited for you to come here, away from your little mysterious life.” She offered me a look that said that she knew I had not told her everything. “But it’s been more than a year since you’ve gotten here, and you’re still the same man you were back in Iran. You are so attached to this revolution. I just don’t know, Reza. I don’t know what you see that I cannot see.”

It was clear that she was fighting her emotions as she spoke. I wanted to help her with this, but I also knew that I needed to let her say what she needed to say.

“I cannot get my hopes up just because we are moving somewhere else,” she continued. “What if you have more obligations and more work to do for the Guards once we are there? I don’t know if going to America is a good idea anymore.”

She dropped her head.

I sat next to her, wrapping an arm around her. “I know. I know I have not been the husband you’ve deserved. I know I’ve neglected you and our son. Just give me another chance. We’ll start our dream life. I’ll make up for all the years I was not there for you and Omid. My work with the Guards is over. Completely. I promise.”

Somaya looked at me and wiped her eyes with the end of her sleeve. “How do I know this isn’t just more talk, Reza. I’ve waited so long for you to change. I am just so frustrated.”

“I know. And I know that I can’t possibly say anything to convince you that I mean everything I say this time. But I promise you with all of my heart.”

I don’t know if Somaya believed me or if she just decided to go along with me because of her incredible loving nature, but she started planning our trip and preparing Omid for the new and exciting life we were about to lead.

With great trepidation, I called Amiri to let him know that I was leaving the Guards. Even as I waited for him to come to the phone, I wondered if he was going to try to convince me to stay—or do something even more persuasive. As it turned out, though, I had misplaced my fears, at least in this case. Amiri said that since Rahim was no longer my commander and since I had no pending engagements in London, leaving was up to me.

“Whenever you are back, call me,” he said. “If there is something you can do, I’ll let you know.”

The ease with which he let me go stunned me. Of course, I did not tell him I was going to the United States, nor did I tell anybody
else. I even asked Somaya to tell her parents that we were going to take a tour around Europe. We agreed that we would tell her parents our real plans once we were settled in the U.S.

We met with Gary at the American consulate. I introduced him to Somaya as Harriet Johnson’s assistant. There was no waiting in line for us as we entered the consulate’s private door and met the consul general himself.

“Why are they treating us so specially?” Somaya asked with disbelief in her voice.

“I paid Harriet Johnson a lot of money,” I whispered in Farsi. “They’d better treat us well.”

We signed the papers, and both Gary and the consul general wished us luck.

We were nearly on our way.

I wanted to say good-bye to Rasool. He’d become a real friend and I couldn’t leave England without calling him to let him know I was going. Neither Gary nor he had said anything about the direction of their conversations, and I decided it would be best if I didn’t ask. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that I was going to live in America, and it surprised him to hear that I was taking my family for a trip around Europe.

“My wife is not taking any classes this semester, so we decided to travel around the continent for the rest of the summer before Omid’s school starts in the fall,” I lied.

“That’s a good plan,” he said.

“It is. I haven’t been able to spend enough time with them since I arrived in England, especially my son. I was worried Baradar Amiri would not approve of my leave, but he was okay with it.”

Rasool didn’t say anything for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was more conspiratorial. “Reza, I did what I said I would do for you. I know you are a family man, so I talked to Amiri and told him you are not the right guy for what we’re trying to do here. I hope that’s what you wanted. You should not get involved, Reza.”

“I know. You’re right. By the way, how, exactly, did you say this to Amiri?”

“I just told him that you were a coward!” He laughed boisterously.

I laughed along with him.

“By the way, my meeting with that lawyer, Gary Sullivan, was not bad. Thanks for finding that ad for me. There might be a chance for me to get a visa. But I need one more favor from you. Please do not mention it to anybody. It might not work out, and I don’t want to lose my job here.”

I congratulated him, and said I would keep his secret—a secret that, for my safety and the safety of my family, I needed to take to my grave.

My last meeting in London with Gary was a couple of nights before our flight. To my surprise Gary had a list with him.

“Okay, let me go over these!” He showed me a sheet with a breakdown of annual salaries. “Should you decide to work in the States at the agency, here are the numbers. The first year would be this amount … the second year this amount … here is the bonus for the first year: this figure … plus the housing expense … this one …”

We hadn’t discussed any of this, and I wasn’t prepared to do so now.
No more, please!
I thought.
I cannot do this to Somaya and Omid anymore; they deserve a life without lies!

Mercifully, Gary ended the sales pitch. He handed me a card. “Here is my number in the States. Regardless of what you decide, I would love to hear from you. Keep me posted.”

“I will,” I said, though I really didn’t want to think about this. As we prepared to leave for the States, I had begun to feel the fresh breeze of freedom wafting through the deepest layers of my being—a breeze that would blow away all traces of Wally and the life I knew I could no longer live. I was ready to let that breeze carry me all the way to my new home.

2001

SOMAYA HID HER
face in my shoulder as she burst into tears.

“Oh, honey, it’s going to be okay,” I said, wrapping my arms around her.

“I know, Reza. I am just so proud of Omid. These are happy tears.”

I knew what she was talking about; I had been blinking away my own happy tears. We’d just dropped my son off for his first year at UC Berkeley, and I knew he was going to excel there. The school’s rigorous educational standards and the diversity of its culture were ideal for him. He deserved this. He’d become an impressive scholar and an even more impressive young man.

On that warm mid-August afternoon, Somaya and I walked around the campus after we said good-bye to our son. The layout of the university, the tall trees alongside the road, and the fresh sense of life in the air reminded me of how my grandparents’ neighborhood had been when I was a child. The memory this stirred in me was both bittersweet and surprisingly welcome.

I remembered the day I said good-bye to Kazem and Naser before I left for USC. I recalled our vows to be friends forever and to take this oath to our graves. Kazem and Naser had maintained their part of that oath, though none of us could have imagined that they would be resting in their graves so soon after making this promise.
On the other hand, I had betrayed them both. How different would my life have been if my father hadn’t insisted I go to college in America?

Somaya broke into my tangled thoughts. “Berkeley is just delightful. Do you think we should move here?” She took a deep breath of the sweet air. “It is so different from LA. It reminds me of the north of Tehran where Agha Joon lived. Does it remind you of that, too?”

I looked at her lovingly and moved her hair gently away from her forehead. That hair was streaked with gray now, which I thought made her look even more beautiful. Of course, I’d betrayed Somaya as well. We’d been married for more than twenty years and she had no idea how deceptive I’d been. I wished that God would give me the strength to confess to her and ask for her forgiveness.

“Yes, it does remind me of Agha Joon’s neighborhood. People say LA is like Tehran. But I get even more of that vibe here.” I put my arm around her shoulder as we continued our walk. “But I don’t know if we should move here.” I realized that Somaya was saying this only because she wanted to be closer to Omid. But LA had truly become our home. There, we were among hundreds of thousands of our people who had escaped the Islamic Revolution to seek freedom. This offered us a sense of closeness with our homeland we would not have had in Northern California. And for me it served as a necessary reminder of all those who hadn’t gotten the chance to escape.

Soon, we were back on the road. It’s about a five-hour drive on I-5 from the Bay Area to Los Angeles, most of which is flat and boring.

“Highway 101 is so much nicer,” Somaya complained. We had taken the scenic 101 up from LA. Every time Somaya encountered a beautiful view—which was very often—she made me stop the car so she could take pictures with Omid alongside the road.

“But this road is faster,” I said with a smile. “We are saving at least three hours. Plus the extra five hours for your pictures.”

She scowled at me and decided to take a long nap so she didn’t have to listen to my “not very funny jokes.” Since she was sleeping,
I needed something else to keep me awake. I decided to play a Persian CD.

“Vatan parandeyeh par dar khoon

Vatan shekofteh gole dar khoon

Vatan falate shahid o shab

Vatan pat a be sar khoon

Vatan taraneye zendani

Vatan ghasideyeh virani …”

Dariush’s words did more than help me stay alert. They sent me on a journey through my past, the memories of which eleven years in America had done nothing to diminish.
Vatan,
my homeland, was always on mind. And it was still as Dariush had captured it … “a wounded bird drowning in blood … a blooming flower covered in blood … a desert of martyrs … blood from head to toe … an imprisoned song … a ruined poem …”

Hearing these words and thinking about another Dariush brought pain to my heart. About two and a half years earlier, the Islamic government assassinated the founder and leader of the Nation of Iran Party, Dariush Forouhar, along with his wife, Parvaneh. The assailants entered their home, tied the husband and wife to chairs, faced them toward Mecca, and stabbed them to death. In what became known as the “chain murders of dissidents,” MOIS agents stepped up their killing spree, murdering dozens of dissident intellectuals, journalists, poets, writers, and political activists.

At this time, Mohammad Khatami was the president of Iran. Running on a reform platform, he had received 70 percent of the vote in a huge turnout. He’d managed to raise hope among young and old that he could bring change to Iran’s domestic and international policies after eight years of Rafsanjani, who not only did not deliver on the promise he’d made to the Bush administration to improve relations with America but had worked with other radicals to further suppress Iran’s citizens while increasing assassinations and
terrorist activities abroad. Khatami was trying to accomplish the reforms he promised, but his opposition was overwhelming, led by the Supreme Leader, Ali Khamenei, Ayatollah Ahmad Jannati, chairman of the Guardian Council, and Ayatollah Mesbah Yazdi, director of the Haghani School, a radical Shiite seminary in Qom. Using the Revolutionary Guards to exert their will, they snuffed out any attempts at reform.

When the regime shut down
Salam,
a pro-reformist newspaper, students organized a peaceful demonstration. But that night, paramilitary vigilantes stormed Tehran University and attacked students in their dormitories, leaving many injured and dead. The next day, thousands of students demonstrated in the streets of Tehran demanding reform. The protests spread throughout Iran and were so intense that those of us outside of the country began to believe that we could be witnessing the end to decades of thugocracy and merciless bloodshed by the mullahs. Certainly, when the rest of the world saw what was going on, they would rush to support a nation whose identity had been stolen two decades earlier.

But Guards and Basijis brutally crushed the demonstrations. Once again, many gave their lives to speak out for what they believed. And once again, the rest of the world looked the other way. All that was left was the hope that someday Iran would be free again, a hope expressed in a later verse of the song “Vatan,” a verse I now sang aloud.

“Emruze ma emruze faryad