The Devil’s Grin

I had an appointment for an interview with a Persian rug merchant in Lisbon. I had read that Iranian intelligence services often used that business as a cover for their clandestine operations. Sweat was dripping down my forehead. Since the Iranian diaspora suspected the shop owner collaborated with the regime, I decided to test him. I wanted to see if he would lie to me. I asked him several questions for which I already had the answers. Above all, I wanted to see how he would react to the accusations leveled against him. To my astonishment — despite the firm, almost inquisitive posture I had adopted — I had the clear sense that he was telling the truth and that he was a man of integrity.

I spoke to him about a person I had suspected. His name is E.S. The moment I uttered the name, the door behind me opened. There he was, standing firm, looking at us with a sinister smile on his lips. It was as if mentioning his name was enough to summon him. One of two things: either it was a coincidence — the kind that only happens once in a lifetime — or we were being watched. If my life depended on it, I would bet all my chips on the second possibility. There is, however, a third possibility, which I hope is false: that I was deceived by the shop owner, who, knowing about my visit, wanted to scare me, as if to say: “don’t push your luck”. That would mean the two of them were working together to stop me from continuing my investigation.

Given the circumstances, I turned to a specialist: a hacker. I asked him to analyze all my devices, starting with my cell phone and computer. He identified a few vulnerabilities, but nothing significant. Paranoid as I am, I remained suspicious. I’ve lost count of the theories I’ve formulated, each more absurd and surreal than the last. “But how could it be?” I thought. Among hundreds — perhaps thousands — of people who could have walked through that door at that very moment, what were the odds it would be the very same person whose name I had just mentioned. I felt completely overwhelmed. My legs were trembling. It was as if Evil itself had materialized before me, with a defiant smile.

E.S. approached, greeted me with a firm handshake, and then addressed the merchant. He asked to speak with him in private, away from curious eyes and ears — like mine. Visibly apprehensive, the proprietor led him to a hidden back room, which more closely resembled a small storage area. After twenty minutes, my patience had run out. I went in to say my goodbyes. I couldn’t make out the content of their conversation, but the atmosphere was tense, almost suffocating. I was about to leave when the shopkeeper called me back. His pale face and eyes dull with terror confirmed what I already suspected. Still trembling, he told me that his conversation with E.S. had been deeply unsettling. With the same strained smile, E.S. had told him that he knew the names and addresses of several of his family members.

My return home was, to say the least, deeply unsettling. No matter how hard I tried to remain calm, my fixer’s words kept echoing in my head:

I remember one morning in the Zagros mountain range. It was seven o’clock when three vehicles from the Ettela’at — the Iranian intelligence service — appeared. They knocked on the door and said: “You are X, your father is Y, your mother is Z. They work here and there, you had lunch with this person and that one”. They knew everything. Even what I had eaten throughout the week.

I would like to tell you more, but I need to protect myself. This text is taken from a book I wrote about the activities of the Iranian intelligence in Portugal. The book has not yet been published — and perhaps it never will be. The fear is real. Facing the Islamic Republic of Iran requires a fortitude that few possess. I myself came close to succumbing to the weight of its overwhelming force. If I never get to share my findings with the world, may this text at least serve as proof that I tried; that I did not remain silent in the face of Evil. Now, all that remains is hope — fragile, but alive — that these words will awaken, if only for a moment, the dormant conscience of those who look without seeing. May indifference finally give way to outrage.