A TIME TO BETRAY (15 page)

“Of course, it is a hard time for him. I did talk to Rahim and he is looking into it. I mentioned it was urgent.”

I thanked Kazem and left his office, frustrated at the time this was taking, but feeling satisfied that he was at least trying to help. Rahim, however, had other things on his mind. In the days following my conversation with Kazem, the parliament impeached Banisadr for standing in opposition to the mullahs. The brothers in the Revolutionary Guards, including Rahim, were ordered to invade the presidential palace to arrest and kill the deposed president. They didn’t succeed at this, as Banisadr went into hiding and later managed to escape to France with Massoud Rajavi, the leader of the Mujahedin. They did manage to arrest several of Banisadr’s friends and associates, and they executed them.

My anxiety level was rising. The loss of Banisadr, the only liberal in a position of leadership in Iran, meant the country was moving
even further from the ideals of the revolution. I needed to act and I now had a plan, but I couldn’t do anything without permission to travel. I couldn’t push Kazem any harder than I’d already pushed him without the risk of raising suspicion. On top of this, Agha Joon kept pressuring me to go to LA to attend to my aunt.

On June 27, a week after Banisadr’s impeachment, I ran into Rahim in the hallway of our building. He waved and gave me a short “Hi” as he passed by me.

I found this simple gesture deflating. Apparently, my request was of little concern to him. Weeks had passed since I asked Kazem for his help. With the crisis escalating in the country, it looked less likely that Rahim would approve my travel. I was about to enter my office and rethink everything when someone called my name.

“Baradar Reza!”

I turned my head. It was Rahim.

“I need to see you. Tomorrow I am busy attending a meeting, but come to my office the day after tomorrow and we will talk.” He started to walk down the hall. “By the way, bring your passport.”

I went home anxious to let Somaya know that I was finally getting my permission to leave. Rahim’s asking for my passport was a good sign, as I needed the authorization to exit stamped in my passport. Somaya told me that she was happy for me, but I could hear the sadness in her voice.

“Why don’t you go to London and visit your parents while I’m gone? I can arrange for that. And then we can come back together.”

“Reza, you need this trip. I know you’re going because Aunt Giti is sick, but you also need to get away for a while with everything that has happened.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about me. My grandma is having a surgery on her back and I promised my mom I would take care of her.”

I held her in my arms and told her how deeply I loved her. She was the purest soul in a country gone mad and I felt lucky to have her.

When I went to work, I saw Kazem and told him about my
planned meeting with Rahim, thanking him again for arranging everything. That night, Ayatollah Beheshti held a high-level meeting at the Islamic Republic Party (IRP) headquarters. Beheshti was the head of the judicial system and the second most powerful man in Iran next to Khomeini. Rahim and several Guards members from our base attended this meeting, which was why he couldn’t meet with me until the next day.

That night, while in my study, I grabbed my passport to make sure I didn’t forget to take it with me. Then I pulled out Roya’s letter and Naser’s picture. I looked at Naser and then my eyes flicked to my grandfather. I thought about how Agha Joon always used to say “Grow old, young man” to us. I finally realized what he meant by this: Every person has the right to grow old and be part of this world. No one should be allowed to take that from anyone.

Somaya came into the room. “I am a little tired. I am going to bed. I’ll leave the light on.”

“I am almost done here. I am coming to bed in a little bit.”

I put the picture and the letter back and checked to see that the passport was in my pocket. As I did, a loud blast shook the house. I ran out of my study and screamed Somaya’s name. She was already outside the bedroom, running toward me, asking about the explosion. She rushed to the family room to turn on the television while I tuned in the radio.

“Do you think it was an attack by Iraq?” she asked anxiously.

“I don’t think so. There is no siren or power outage. Let me make some phone calls.”

I called Kazem, but there was no answer. I then called Agha Joon and Mom. They had not heard the blast. We spent the rest of the night fearing what would happen next, unable to sleep.

The following day at work, I learned that a series of powerful explosions rocked the Islamic Republic Party’s headquarters where Beheshti was holding his meeting. Chaos spread through our unit. I went looking for Kazem, but he was not around. I rushed to Rahim’s office. He was not there, either. Only then did I remember
that Rahim had been at the meeting. I hurried back to my office and made a dozen calls to find out what I could.

I learned that this was a well-orchestrated attack. The assailants had planted bombs throughout the adjoining area to guarantee the greatest amount of devastation. Beheshti and more than seventy other party members died that night—among them cabinet ministers, deputy ministers, and parliament deputies. Many Guards members had been injured. Rahim was one of them.

I was devastated. Nobody would be trusted enough to leave the country now. Meanwhile, Khomeini, fearing a coup, ordered the Guards and the Basijis to surround the military bases. He named the Mujahedin the perpetrators of the attack and ordered the execution of many political prisoners in retaliation.

The Khomeini regime used this tragedy, as they did with all calamitous events, as a vehicle for public relations. They immediately claimed that seventy-two people died in the attack, calling them martyrs and comparing this incident to the martyrdom of Imam Hussein and his men, also seventy-two in number. The mullahs added a dramatic flair to the story when they spread rumors that Beheshti had told the crowd just prior to the explosion that he could “smell heaven.”

A few days later, Rahim came back to work with a broken leg. He and Kazem came to my office, Rahim on crutches and Kazem helping him navigate.

“Baradar Reza, I did not forget about you,” Rahim said as he handed his crutches to Kazem and sat in a chair. “I hope you have your passport with you. Kazem told me how close your family is and he has great respect for your grandfather. I have talked to the authorities and, with my concurrence, they are allowing you to travel.”

Kazem winked at me.

“But Baradar Rahim,” I said, “I know this is a very sensitive time in our revolution. If I am needed here more, I would rather stay and serve my country and our imam.” I said this shrewdly, knowing Rahim had already made his decision and wouldn’t change it, but
also knowing that he would remember my willingness to stay and therefore have no suspicions of my reason for going to America.

All that was left now was for me to board the plane. The morning of my trip, the dawning sun cast a persimmon glow on the white marble of the Azadi (“Freedom”) Tower as I headed to the Mehrabad International Airport in Tehran. I felt a tang of bitterness in my throat, remembering that this beautiful monument was built to commemorate the twenty-five hundredth anniversary of the Persian Empire. The Ayatollah Khomeini changed the name after the revolution from Shahyad Tower, for the shahs of Iran. The original intention of the tower was to remind Persians of their great history—the history that made my grandparents so proud. I heard Agha Joon’s voice saying, “This is the land where Cyrus the Great ruled one of the largest empires the world had ever seen. He brought dignity and respect for all to this great civilization: a land where the first charter of human rights was introduced, a land where women were respected, where slavery was abolished, and a land where the Jews were free to return to their native land at the end of Babylonian captivity. This was the Persia where poets, philosophers, and scientists were the bedrock of national pride, where religion was based on three simple premises: good thoughts, good words, and good deeds.”

Once on the plane, I had a moment of panic. How could I be thinking of doing such an insane thing? There was still time to change my mind; I hadn’t yet committed a single treasonous act. I could simply go to LA, help Aunt Giti as promised, and then return. But then I thought of Naser, Soheil, Parvaneh, Davood, Roya, and the countless others the revolution had stolen from us, and my resolve returned. As the Iran Air 747 climbed into the sky, I noticed that the cake-frosting snow spreading unevenly across the Alborz mountain range to the north looked vaguely like the San Gabriel Mountains that guard Los Angeles, except for the occasional distinctly Persian buildings that dotted the landscape. I knew that once I landed in Los Angeles, my life would change forever. Like thousands before me, I was going to America seeking help, seeking
hope, and above all, seeking freedom. The freedom that the Islamic government had promised once and then so shrewdly taken away.

In response, I had to commit treason against an outlaw regime, a thugocracy. I had made up my mind to deliver every secret I knew about the Guards and ask the American authorities for help. I could not allow fear or anything else to deter me.

THE LONG APPROACH
to Los Angeles International Airport started with our descent somewhere to the east and south of the great sprawling Los Angeles Basin, near San Bernardino. It had been a grueling twenty-hour trip with a few hours’ layover in Frankfurt, but a warm feeling came over me as I went through customs. The woman checking my passport asked why I hadn’t brought my family along, and this simple, friendly question was so devoid of political subtext that it soothed me. She probably extended this courtesy to everyone, but her generous smile made me feel truly welcome.

I grabbed a shuttle for the short ride to the Sheraton hotel on Century Boulevard, arriving behind a line of limos dropping off members of a wedding party. Scenes like this had become rare in Iran since the revolution banned parties and alcohol. If the regime caught people committing these indiscretions, they laid them out in public, stripped off their shirts, and thrashed them with a whip.

I couldn’t sleep that night, anxious thoughts cycling through my head. Was I doing the right thing? Would it make any difference? Would anybody care? Would the Guards catch me? Would they hurt my family? Was I losing my sanity? I needed to draw strength from my memories of the people who had suffered and the realization that so many continued to suffer.

This is what you have to do for your country. This is the only way to bring democracy and fairness to your people. This is your duty, Reza!

I tried to quell my uneasiness by thinking about the kind of
information I would pass along. I knew of names and positions of the Revolutionary Guards’ commanders. I knew of their connection to other radical Islamic groups and their plans to export their dangerous Islamic beliefs beyond Iranian borders. I had taken notes in my head of all the meetings I attended with Kazem, and I could quote details verbatim.

The long night finally ended with dawn over the Pacific Ocean. Before heading out, I contacted my aunt to let her know I was in town. She insisted I stay with her, but I told her that since I had plans to see some old friends, it was better for me to stay in a hotel. I promised I would take care of her while I was there, though. I knew I owed this to both her and my grandfather.

Aware that there was a good possibility an Islamic agent would be watching me, I tried to act as normal as possible. I did not trust Rahim, my commander. How could I possibly trust him or anybody associated with the regime? Returning to my old stomping grounds from my college days, meeting up with old friends, and going to my aunt’s on a regular basis would provide the perfect cover for my travels around Los Angeles.

I called my college friends Johnny and Alex to set up a time to get together with them at the Horse Shoe Bar of Tom Bergin’s Tavern in the Fairfax area of LA. We used to meet there after the USC football games on Saturdays. We always staked out the first booth to the right of the front door, as it was the best spot in the restaurant. When I got there this time, I discovered that “our” booth still featured paper shamrocks with our names on them.

Chris, the bartender, surprised me when he recognized me. He pointed to the table where my old roommates, Johnny and Alex, sat.

I felt an immediate rush of good old memories. The red Mustang with mag wheels, the LA girls, and my old girlfriend, Molly. How I had embraced that carefree life for a few years until my father’s death. How Naser and Kazem had brought me back to reality upon my return home. I wondered how different my life would have been if my father had lived and if I had stayed with Johnny and Alex and
my American life. Would I have been a happier person if the revolution in Iran had been nothing more than a news item to me?

“Reza, look at you, man,” Johnny said, interrupting this wave of thoughts with a smile as he hugged me. “What’s with the beard?”

The question, and, in fact, the entire reunion, had a surreal quality to it. How could I reconcile the easy college life I shared with these men with all the changes in Iran that had caused me to grow the beard? Would Johnny understand if I explained it to him? I decided not to try. Instead, we reminisced.

“It is the new thing. Everybody grows a beard these days in Iran,” I said as I hugged him back.

We talked for a while about our lives after college. Johnny told me about his wife and his two-year-old twin boys, and about how being a father had changed him. Alex was still with Suzan, whom he’d been dating since our USC days. I told them about Somaya and showed them a picture of her.

“Wow, she is beautiful,” Johnny said.

“How’s everything back in Iran?” Alex asked. “We’ve been watching the news and it seems like a lot is going on.”

As much as this was an invitation to talk about my true feelings, I did not divulge much. I said only that we were in the midst of a transition and that I believed things would get better.