Seeking Escape Route From Iran : Mother Hopes a Mysterious ‘Businessman’ Can Help

It was an unseasonably warm and bright afternoon in mid-autumn when Moody agreed, grudgingly, to Mahtob’s request that we go to the park.

As we reached the swings and slide at the far end of the park, Mahtob squealed at the sight of a little blond girl, perhaps 4 years old, dressed in shorts and a top and wearing Strawberry Shortcake tennis shoes identical to the ones Mahtob had brought with her from America.

The mother was a pretty young woman with wisps of blond hair protruding from under her roosarie. She wore a tan trench coat, belted, unlike an Iranian coat.

“She is American,” I said to Moody.

“No,” he growled, “she is speaking German.”

She was conversing with an Iranian man, but she was indeed speaking English!

I introduced myself while Moody stood warily at my side.

Two-Week Vacation

Her name was Judy. Her Iranian-born husband was a construction contractor in New York City, who had remained there while Judy brought her two children to Iran to visit their grandparents. They were in the midst of a two-week vacation. How I envied her airplane ticket, her passport, her exit visa. But I could tell her none of this with Moody lurking next to me.

Judy introduced us to the Iranian man, her brother-in-law, Ali. As soon as Ali learned that Moody was a doctor, he mentioned that he was trying to obtain a medical visa to visit the United States for treatment of a heart condition. Judy added that she was flying to Frankfurt the following week, where she would visit the American Embassy to try to get the visa for him.

They were interested in the advice of an Iranian-American doctor. Suddenly glorying in his status, Moody let his attention drift away from me and onto himself.

The girls jumped off the slide and decided to play on the swings, so Judy and I followed them. Once out of earshot from Moody, I wasted no time.

‘I’m a Hostage Here’

“I’m a hostage here,” I whispered. “You’ve got to help me. Please go to the American Embassy in Frankfurt and tell them that I am here. They must do something to help me.

“He doesn’t let me talk to people,” I said. “I have been imprisoned here and I haven’t had contact with my family.”

We exchanged phone numbers and planned to meet again at the park soon. The brief walk home was exhilarating. Moody was in high spirits. The effects of his buoyed prestige blinded him to the fact that I had just spoken privately with an American woman.

Judy worked quickly. Two days later she called and invited Mahtob and me to meet her at the park. I held a faint hope that Moody would let us go by ourselves, but he had a pattern established. He seemed not to suspect any conspiracy, but he was determined to keep us in view.

A short, bearded Iranian man, about 30 years old, was with Judy in the park this time. She introduced him to us as Rasheed, the office manager of a large medical clinic. Moody was delighted to launch yet another medical conversation, and began to ply the man with questions about licensing procedures in Iran. Meanwhile, Judy and I once more moved ahead to speak privately.

“Don’t worry,” she said, “Rasheed knows all about your situation. He will be careful what he says to your husband. We were hoping to speak with you alone, but he knows to keep him busy so you and I can talk.”

Dinner Invitation

Then she explained the next step of the plan. A few nights hence her mother-in-law was planning a farewell dinner partly for Judy and her children, and Judy had arranged for us to be invited.

Amid the hubbub of the dinner party, she hoped that I could talk privately with Rasheed, because, she said, “He knows people who take people out through Turkey.”

The party at the home of Judy’s mother-in-law was enlightening. The moment we entered the house we heard loud American music and saw the improbable sight of Shiite Moslems dancing to rock ‘n’ roll. The women were dressed in Western clothes, which none bothered to cover with chadors or roosaries .

The guests became my unwitting co-conspirators. They were so honored to have an American doctor at their feast that Moody was immediately surrounded by attentive listeners. He basked in their homage as Judy, with Moody’s knowledge, drew me off to a bedroom. There, Rasheed was waiting.

“My friend takes people to Turkey,” he said. “It costs $30,000.”

“I don’t care about the money,” I responded. “I just want to get out with my daughter.”

I knew that my family and friends could and would somehow raise whatever cash it took. “When can we go?” I asked anxiously.

“Right now he is in Turkey, and the weather will be getting bad soon. I do not know if you can go during the winter, until the snow melts. Call me in two weeks. I will check.”

I encoded Rasheed’s telephone number and added it to my address book.

On a marketing errand one day, I slipped into a store to call Rasheed, Judy’s friend who had promised to contact the man who smuggled people into Turkey.

“He cannot take children,” Rasheed said.

“Let me talk to him, please!” I begged. “I can carry Mahtob. It’s no problem.”

‘It Is Really Difficult’

“No. He said he would not even take you alone, a woman. It is really difficult even for men. The way he goes, it is four days walking through the mountains. No way you can go with a child.”

“I am really strong,” I said, half-believing my own lie. “I’m in good shape. I can carry her all the way, no problem. At least let me talk to this man.”

“It would do no good now. There is snow on the mountains. You cannot cross into Turkey during the winter.”

(Nearly two years later, Betty Mahmoody was still searching for someone to take her out of Iran.) I stared at the address scrawled upon a scrap of paper handed to me by--someone.

“Go to this address and ask for the manager,” someone instructed me. Someone gave me directions. To reveal the identity of my benefactor would be to condemn someone to death at the hands of the Islamic Republic of Iran.

The address was that of an office on the opposite side of the city from our home, entailing a long, extended trip through the busy streets, but I determined to go there immediately, even though the venture was risky. Mahtob was with me.

It was already early afternoon and I did not know whether we could make it back home before Moody returned from the hospital. But I was growing bolder in my freedom. If I had to, I would buy something--anything--for the house and explain that Mahtob and I were delayed in our shopping. Moody would swallow the explanation at least once.

Seeking the Manager

Finally, we arrived at the address on the scrap of paper, an office building bustling with active employees exhibiting an efficiency uncommon in this city. I found a receptionist who spoke English and I asked to see the manager.

“Go to the left,” she said. “Then downstairs, at the far end of the hall.”

Mahtob and I followed the directions and found ourselves in a suite of basement offices. One corner of the main working area was a waiting lounge furnished with comfortable Western-style furniture. There were books and magazines to read.

“Why don’t you wait here, Mahtob?” I suggested.

She agreed.

“The manager?” I asked a passing worker.

“At the end of the hall.” He pointed to an office that was closed off from the others, and I strode toward it with purpose.

I knocked on the door, and when a man answered, I said, as instructed, “I am Betty Mahmoody.”

“Come on in,” a man said in perfect accented English as he pumped my hand. “I have been expecting you.”

He closed the door behind me and offered me a seat, gracing me with a cordial grin. He was a short, thin man, neatly dressed in a clean suit and tie. He sat down behind his desk and launched into an easy conversation, sure of the security of his environment. As he spoke, he tapped the desk top with his pen.

A Web of Intrigue

Someone had provided me with sketchy details. This man hoped, someday, to get himself and his family out of Iran. But the circumstances of his life are extraordinarily intricate. By day he is a successful businessman, outwardly supportive of the ayatollah’s government. By night his life is a web of intrigue.

He is known by many names; I called him Amahl.

“I am really sorry that you are in this situation,” Amahl said without preamble. “I will do everything I can to get you out of here.”

His openness was both pleasing and alarming. He knew my story. He believed he could help. But I had traveled this road before.

“Look,” I said, “I have gone through this several times already, and I have one problem. I won’t leave without my daughter. If she doesn’t go, I don’t go. There isn’t any sense wasting your time--that’s the only way.”

“I really respect you for that,” Amahl said. “If that’s what you want, then I will get you both out of the country. If you are patient--I don’t know how or when it can be arranged. Just be patient.”

“Here are my phone numbers,” he said, jotting them down on note paper. “Let me show you how to put them in code. These are my private numbers, one here at the office and one at my home. Anytime, day or night, you can call me. Please do not hesitate.

“I need to hear from you every chance you have to call me. Do not ever feel that you are bothering me--always call--because I cannot risk calling you at home. Your husband might misunderstand. He might get jealous.”

Amahl laughed.

“We will not talk on the phone,” he instructed me. “Just say ‘How are you?’ or whatever. If I have any information for you, I will tell you I need to see you, and you will have to come here, because we cannot carry on discussions on the phone.”

There had to be a catch, I thought. Perhaps money. “Should I have my parents send some money to the embassy?” I asked.

“No, do not worry about money now. I will pay the money for you. You can pay me back later, when you get to America.”

Mahtob was silent on the long taxi ride home. This was good, but my head was spinning. I kept hearing Amahl’s words, trying to sort out the possibilities of success.

Had I really found the way out of Iran?