A TIME TO BETRAY (25 page)

“You should have more blankets to sleep on. I put them all in the storage downstairs.” Then she offered me a smile that went right to my soul. “But you can sleep in the bedroom with us tonight.”

I wished that I could have found the words to bridge the gap between us before she had to do it. And once more, I wished I could explain to her why I’d created that gap in the first place.

I smiled back at her and said, “I’d like that.”

As glad as I was to return to our bed, the next day was a Friday, and I’d need to get up for Carol’s messages. I would have to take extra care that night to leave our room without Somaya’s even knowing I was gone. I couldn’t let Somaya think that anything—especially something that we’d mysteriously never spoken about—was more important to me than she was at this point.

As always, my body awoke me with time to spare. I decided to use this time to begin a letter to Carol. Rasool, the Guards member from the Intelligence Unit whom I’d mentioned to her in Dubai, told me about arms sales and Guards training provided by China and North Korea. Inadvertently, Rasool had become one of my better sources because his travels brought him in contact with dealings that I ordinarily wouldn’t hear about. Rasool liked to impress his friends with who he was and with the importance of his job. It took only a little encouragement to get him to start bragging about the extent of his insider knowledge and to get him to offer details.

Rasool had joined the Intelligence Unit directly after graduating from Amir Kabir University of Technology with a degree in electrical engineering. His father and Rahim’s father belonged to the same mosque and had been friends for many years. His job interview was perfunctory because his credentials met all the criteria required to work in the IU, he was deeply devoted to Islam, and he had a family connection to the Guards. The Guards preferred people who came
with strong recommendations and who they could background-check easily. Rasool’s colleagues called him
gondeh bak,
the big guy, because of his six-foot height and heavy build.

In the midst of my letter to Carol that included new information from Rasool, the time came for me to listen to messages. I put on my headphones and listened carefully.

Hello, Wally,

Urgent. Have you heard anything about a CIA operative in Beirut named William Buckley? We believe he was kidnapped by Hezbollah. Any info appreciated. Let us know if you hear anything.

Carol

This was the first time the CIA had asked me for specific information on one of its operatives. To me, this suggested a new level of trust in the details I’d been providing them. The fact that Carol didn’t mention my last letter probably meant that she didn’t receive it yet, but I was glad, after not hearing from her the week before, to know that she had arrived back in England safely.

After the message, I completed my letter.

[Letter #—]

[Date: ———]

Dear Carol,

1—The Guards last week successfully tested their first remote-controlled drone. The test was done at a base outside of Tehran in the vicinity of the city of Karaj.

2—The Guards also successfully conducted a surface-to-surface missile test.

3—North Koreans are here in Iran helping the Guards in the development of surface-to-surface missiles.

4—Revolutionary Guards are being trained in fighter pilot programs in North Korea.

5—The Guards Intelligence Unit sent members for counterintelligence training to North Korea.

6—Revolutionary Guards naval forces are being trained by the Chinese at a naval base in China.

7—Guards have purchased Chinese Silkworm missiles and have received the first delivery.

8—The Swedes are selling the Guards small attack boats equipped with small missiles.

9—Have heard nothing about W.B., but will listen for any info.

Wally

At the time, I’d heard no mention of William Buckley on the news or in my offices. Because of this, I knew it wouldn’t be wise to ask. My poking around about an individual whose name should mean nothing to me would certainly have generated suspicion. The implications of Carol’s message concerned me, though. Kidnapping of Americans and other foreigners by the Guards and their proxies to use as bargaining chips was becoming commonplace throughout the Middle East. But kidnapping a CIA operative was not. In all probability, the kidnappers would not release Buckley alive—and this meant that the CIA would likely react disproportionately and that tensions would continue to ratchet up. I kept my ears open for any mention of Buckley, but heard nothing about this for the longest time.

Just before Norouz, the Persian New Year, I received a message from Carol requesting some additional details regarding my previous letter.

[Letter #—]

[Date: ———]

Dear Carol,

1—The Guards are looking into purchase of protective gear and equipment for defending against chemical attacks.

2—I heard from Rahim that Mohsen Rezaei has given the Guards the go-ahead for research and development of chemical weapons.

3—China is very active in the sales of military armaments to Iran. They are providing long-range artillery guns along with ammunition. Kazem told me that due to heavy usage of artillery guns at the front, the barrels fail and blow up, but China is keeping a steady flow of new guns into Iran.

4—The Swedish boats are 30–40 feet in length with missile launchers on the side of the bow. The missiles I saw were 4 to 6 feet long. Each boat carries two missile launchers along with a heavy machine gun.

5—The Guards plan to use drones both for reconnaissance and as means of attack by arming them.

6—There are Guards commanders that routinely travel to North Korea and there is a close relationship between the Revolutionary Guards and the North Korean military.

Wally

With a few days off for Norouz, I had a chance to relax and pay attention to my family, something I welcomed and relished. Moheb Khan and Zari Khanoom, Somaya’s parents, arrived from England to help us celebrate and to meet their new grandson, who was now crawling and displaying two bottom teeth. Somaya was exuberant to have her parents be part of Omid’s life. She busied herself with the preparations of the Norouz
haft sin sofreh,
the traditional New Year table, and the scent of the purple and white hyacinth, the centerpiece of that table, filled the room.

Earlier that day, I had gone to Agha Joon’s house to pick him up for our dinner. He was too old to be able do things on his own now. In fact, he would be moving into the house of my uncle (Haleh and Mina’s father) the next week. Agha Joon could no longer host Norouz, though he’d done so for so many years. As I drove over to get
him, I realized that the torch had been passed from his generation to mine to continue the family traditions.

Entering the front yard of his house and going down that familiar path of geranium pots, I experienced a rush of fond memories. I closed my eyes for a moment and let out a deep breath, savoring the simplicity those memories evoked. I could hear Khanoom Bozorg calling me a lifetime ago:
“Reza
jon,
get inside and bring your friends. It is New Year and I want to give you your
eidis.” When we went to her, she handed Naser, Kazem, and me each a brand-new thousand-rial bill (worth about fifteen U.S. dollars then), which she had kept inside the Quran. Kazem kissed the Quran and thanked Grandma for her generosity. Naser saluted the shah’s picture on the bill, put it in his pocket with all of the other gift money he’d collected, and we all went back to the yard to happily discuss how we were going to spend all our
eidi
money.

It was in this same yard that we gathered with Naser and Davood and where Naser fell in love with Haleh. It was in this same yard that we celebrated every day of life without worrying about tomorrow.

As I stood there, I wished Davood was the one giving Agha Joon a lift to our house and that Naser, Soheil, and Parvaneh would be joining them.

Norouz
means “new day” and always begins on the first day of spring. It represents two ancient symbolic concepts: End and Rebirth, or, more specifically, the end of evil and rebirth of good. One of our traditions involved an older family member, usually Agha Joon or Khanoom Bozorg, telling stories about Norouz and the meaning of the New Year while we waited for its arrival.

Khanoom Bozorg would tell us about the
haft sin,
or the seven
S
’s. She would explain that the
haft sin sofreh
included seven items that started with the letter S:
sabzeh,
sprouts, which symbolize rebirth;
samanu:
a sweet pudding made from wheat germ, symbolizing affluence;
senjed:
the dried fruit of the oleaster tree, symbolizing love;
siib:
apple, which symbolizes beauty;
somaq:
sumac, symbolizing sunrise;
serkeh:
vinegar, symbolizing age and patience; and
sonbol:
hyacinth, to denote the coming of spring. When we were kids, we were more excited about the gift money than learning about the traditions, but we patiently sat through Khanoom Bozorg’s explanations.

For the remaining thirteen days of our New Year celebration, we would gather and party incessantly. Relatives would come and visit the older members of the family, and then in return, the elders would pay their respects by visiting them back. All of this meant more gift money for the children. On the last day, as was the tradition, we all went picnicking in the suburbs area, dancing, singing, and playing outside until the night forced us back to our homes.

Somaya’s table was as colorful and delightful as what I remembered of my grandmother’s, and as is the custom, it included a mirror and lit candles for enlightenment and happiness.

As the New Year approached, we gathered around the table—Somaya and her parents, Agha Joon, my mother, and me holding Omid. My mother and I had not resolved our differences, and I still saw scorn in her eyes whenever she looked at me. But Omid’s birth had softened her, and she visited us fairly regularly to see him. She loved her grandson very much and she would endure my presence if necessary to spend time with him.

Moheb Khan started to read verses from the Quran. We all closed our eyes and prayed in silence. Shortly after our prayer, the room suddenly got dark—a power outage, a common occurrence during the war.

“I know they did this on purpose today,” my mother said, shaking her head. “They don’t want us to have power for the New Year. They don’t want us to celebrate the Norouz and have a happy life.”

Although the power outages happened nearly every day, I knew my mother was making a point here: that the mullahs were trying as hard as they could to ruin our culture. I suppose she was also reminding me how much she disapproved of my association with the regime. As far as the mullahs’ aims were concerned, she was right. They tried very hard to take away our Persian heritage and force
Arab/Islamic tradition down our throats. They had gone so far as to try to ban the New Year celebration, calling it un-Islamic.

There was a pregnant silence in the room when the lights went out. Then Agha Joon patted my mom’s back and said, “You are right. It is not going to be the same as long as our country is being ruled by these long-bearded, motherless donkeys. But, Fataneh
jon,
this is the only thing we have left. Norouz is the only part of Persian heritage that has kept our identity intact besides our family.” Agha Joon moved a candleholder closer to him. “We’ve been celebrating Norouz for three thousand years and they can’t prevent us from doing so now or ever.”

Then he got up with the help of his cane and kissed my mom’s forehead. He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Somaya. “Somaya
jon,
this is Omid’s
eidi.
I hope to God that next year we have Shahanshah’s son, back from exile in America. Then Norouz would be the same as it used to be and happiness will be back to our homes.”

Agha Joon then walked around and kissed every one of us to mark the coming of the New Year. It was usually the job of younger ones to get up and kiss the elders to show their respect and love for the family. But that had changed, too.

I looked over at my mother and whispered, “Happy New Year.” I wished so much that I could tell her I was sorry, but, as always, I choked this back.

The candles on our table, which had been there to symbolize happiness and enlightenment, now served as beacons through government-imposed darkness. The mirror, which should have reflected the light for a brighter future, instead reflected the disappointment in my mother’s eyes for me.

OVER THE NEXT
few months, I watched Kazem rise meteorically in the Intelligence Unit. He worked incredibly hard and never took days off. When the Guards offered the opportunity to acquire land and a car, he demurred, making it clear that he was in this job for the contribution he could make to the revolution rather than any wealth he could accumulate. Meanwhile, he laced his conversation with religious references and urgings, becoming in his actions and words the model radical Islamist. As much as this behavior disturbed me, and even frightened me at some levels, I recognized that it insulated Kazem completely from suspicion. He had become beyond reproach. Realizing that I needed to create the same kind of protection for Wally, I started to emulate Kazem’s behavior. Instead of going home after work, I would follow him to the mosque to attend the sermons of mourning in support of our troops heading to the front to become martyrs. I would also accompany him to Namaz Jomeh, the Friday prayers.

During one of these times, the mullah conducting the sermon was Hashemi Rafsanjani. He was then the speaker of the parliament and would eventually become president and then a pivotal “moderate” figure in the uproar surrounding the 2009 elections.