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“I’m a journalist,” I said. “I didn’t attack anyone. Why are you here?”

“Five kilos of heroin,” he answered nonchalantly. The majority of prisoners in Iran are drug smugglers.

I knew that possession of more than a kilo of narcotics could lead to a death sentence. “Five kilos of heroin and you’re still alive?” I marveled.

“Yeah,” he said, as he trimmed my sideburns. “There were ten of us. All neighborhood friends. So they divided the sentence between us and none of us were sentenced to death.”

The journalist in me was very curious. “Why did you smuggle drugs? Couldn’t you find another job?”

“Like what?” he asked, brushing the hair from his apron. “I don’t have any education, I don’t have rich parents, and I don’t know anyone. I thought I could sell heroin, make the down payment for a car, and start working as a cabbie.”

His simple reasons for taking such a risk were disarming. Before saying good-bye to him I had to ask a final question: “Who would you vote for if you were outside?”

“Ahmadinejad,” he said. “Who were the other candidates?”

The haircut was followed by a dress rehearsal for my confession. They took me to the same room where I’d had my mug shot taken on the first day. Brown Sandals arrived, carrying about ten shirts, and asked me to choose one. Most of them smelled of sweat and only a few of them fit. I settled on a blue short-sleeved shirt. Then they gave my glasses back to me.

Rosewater was in the room, behind me. “Put on your blindfold and wait at the door,” he instructed. A few minutes later, he led me down a series of hallways, stopping at different checkpoints along the way. I’d learned to recognize certain rooms by their flooring. The room I was finally brought to was one in which I had once been interrogated. Haj Agha was waiting for me. He took my hand and shook it.

“You know, Mr. Bahari, I really enjoyed meeting you last night,” Haj Agha said.

“The pleasure is mine, sir,” I said as if I meant it.

“In my line of work I have to meet many people who don’t understand ideas very easily. You seem to have an intellectual predisposition, and seem able to grasp these complicated concepts in a short time.”

“Well, thank you, sir,” I said. “It was a very eye-opening conversation we had last night.”

I knew I had to walk a fine line between flattering Haj Agha and mocking him. But he was so full of himself that he had no room for humor, and was oblivious to mine. “Give your answers as clearly and articulately as you can,” Haj Agha said. He added, “Of course, in your own words.”

“Of course, sir,” I said. “But would it be possible to keep the notes for reference?” I wanted to hold the notes on my lap so that the interviewers—and hopefully the viewers—would realize that the answers I gave had been fed to me.

“I can understand that it might be difficult to remember all that information, even for a man of your intelligence,” he said. “In order to have maximum exposure, you will be doing several interviews, one right after another. To make it easier for you, we have grouped the information in a series of questions on like topics and given them to the interviewers.” He said this so I understood that he was in charge of everything: the counterespionage unit, state television, my life. “We think this will help give the interviews a natural flow.” Haj Agha wished me good luck. “I’m really happy you’re doing this, Mr. Bahari. I don’t think the counterespionage interrogations would have been a very pleasant experience.”

Rosewater made me stand up and led me to a room. He stood outside and directed me to remove my blindfold. The room had a sink and a bed. I guessed that this was the room where the interrogators took naps. He gave me a bar of soap and a disposable razor to shave with, and spoke to me from the hallway: “Don’t forget to give clear examples of individuals, spies who pretend to be reporters, spies who pretend to be politicians, Maziar.” This was the first time he’d called me by my first name. “Haj Agha has high hopes for you,” he said. “You