Free Then They Came For Me by Maziar Bahari, Aimee Molloy Page A

over
    Everybody knows the good guys lost
    Everybody knows the fight was fixed
    Cohen’s words have an unrivaled ability to put a tunnel at the end of the light. While listening to Cohen, I remembered Amir’s words. The possibility of Khamenei making a wise decision was quite remote. After all, despots are hardly known for their inclination toward fairness.
    When I returned, my cell phone rang. It was Amir. “Where’ve you been?” He sounded nervous. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Come to my office as quickly as you can.”
    An hour or so later, when I walked into his office, he immediately put his index finger to his lips, then asked me to sit down. “How is your mother, Maziar?” he asked, taking my cell phone. He turned it off and took out the battery. It was believed that Iranian security could eavesdrop on your conversations through your cell phone, even if the power was turned off.
    “She’s well, thank you,” I said, feeling ill at ease as Amir handed me a piece of paper. “I’m so happy to hear that,” he said.
    The paper was an open letter from Mousavi to Khamenei that would be made public in a few hours. Never before had a presidential candidate written such an irreverent letter to the supreme leader. In it, Mousavi expressed concern that members of the supervisory councils and election observers were acting in favor of Ahmadinejad and that Ministry of Interior officials were creating obstacles for Mousavi’s representatives who were supposed to supervise the preparation of ballot boxes and the counting procedures.
    Mousavi also complained about the interference of the Revolutionary Guards and the Basij in the electoral process. He said that Ahmadinejad was illegally using government money and government offices for campaign purposes. In his letter, Mousavi also warned the supreme leader that some groups were trying to tamper with people’s votes. None of these accusations were new—at least not to the voters—but it was important that a candidate had taken a bold step and was voicing the people’s concerns.
    “Please be sure to tell your mother that I was asking about her,” Amir said, sliding another piece of paper slowly across the desk.
    The page contained a phone number and a message: “Call me on this number from a public telephone tomorrow. Don’t give it out to anyone. I think we’re being watched.”

Chapter Four
    All day on Friday, I thought about Amir’s warning, but I didn’t know what to do. I was sure that the Guards and Ministry of Intelligence agents were watching some reporters, but there was no way for me to know if I was one of them. My father had always said that in a dictatorship, the fear that the rulers want to instill in the people is more important than what they can actually do. “They can’t assign a secret agent for every citizen,” my father used to say. “But they try their best to make you believe that you’re being watched all the time.”
    I was mindful of Amir’s warning but decided to carry on reporting. The day of the election was cooler than normal. Rather than the typical ninety-degree June weather, the temperature hovered in the high seventies. I was happy for the relief from the heat. My body ached from the previous day’s hike, and I couldn’t bear the idea of spending hours on the back of Davood’s motorcycle. I called Mr. Roosta instead. Ershad, the Ministry of Culture, had asked the foreign press to report from one specific polling station, but I had never thought of myself as part of the foreign press. I was an Iranian, so I planned to visit as many polling stations as I could. At ten A.M. , as I waited for Mr. Roosta’s cab to arrive, I called Amir on the number he had given me. I didn’t recognize the voice of the man who answered.
    “He’s not here.”
    “Could you tell me at what time he’ll be there?” I asked.
    “And you are?”
    “A friend of his.”
    “Mr.—?”
    I hung up.
    I became worried about Amir. I