Iran’s Killers in Our Midst

The two people who knocked on our door in late August 2019 stuck out in the neighborhood like sore thumbs. In rural Connecticut, where tank tops and flip-flops are the vogue, no one shows up at someone’s door on a summer afternoon dressed in the gray suit and black leather shoes of a federal employee. After opening the door to them, my thirteen-year-old shouted, with the same insouciance he had used for the UPS man, “Mom, it’s the FBI!”

They stood at the threshold, brandishing their gold badges. I could but invite them in. Although the man did not strike me as a Steve, nor the woman as an Emily, as they introduced themselves, they appeared warm and genuine. We sat awkwardly together in the living room. My mind was racing, wondering what wrong I might have done to warrant a visit from the FBI. Sensing the need to allay such fears, Steve quickly dispensed with the small talk.

The New York Review of Books, August 22, 2021