10: Chapter 10 The Trap on a Stormy Night

October 1976.

Khuzestan Province entered its rainy season.

The rainy season in the Middle East is different from the plum rain season in southern China—it isn't a gentle drizzle, but a violent, torrential downpour, the kind where it feels like someone in the sky is pouring water down with a fire hose. The Karun River surged, low-lying areas became a vast expanse of water, roads turned into mud pits, and communication lines were struck and severed by lightning every few days.

For most people, this was a disaster.

For Reza, it was an opportunity.

Because he had a crucial timeline in his mind—

In mid-October 1976, the CIA Tehran station would take action against the "destabilizing factors in Khuzestan Province."

In the declassified files of his previous life, this event had only a brief record: "In the autumn of 1976, the CIA planned to carry out a removal operation against a potential threat target within Iran, but the operation was delayed due to severe local weather and ultimately canceled due to policy adjustments."

The file did not state who the "potential threat target" was.

But Reza knew that in Khuzestan Province in October 1976, the only person worth the CIA launching a "removal operation" against—was himself.

In the original timeline, King Pahlavi was still alive, and the CIA did not need to take action against a playboy prince in exile. The operation was likely aimed at other targets—perhaps the Arab separatist armed forces in Khuzestan Province, or perhaps some Soviet Union spy.

But this lifetime was different.

Reza's series of actions—digging oil wells, repairing irrigation canals, expanding the militia, contacting smugglers from Kuwait—any one of these, if discovered by the CIA, would be enough to upgrade him from "low threat" to "needs to be removed."

Plus the incident in Tehran where he was discovered by SAVAK... Although SAVAK determined he was just looking for women, if Brennan saw that report, given the CIA's suspicious nature, they would definitely re-evaluate.

So Reza made a decision—don't run, don't hide.

Set a trap.

"Hassan, have you noticed a few new faces around the Governors Mansion lately?"

Hassan nodded: "I have noticed. There are three men who have appeared near the teahouse south of the Governors Mansion, the market to the east, and the mosque to the north. They are all men in their twenties or thirties, wearing local clothing but their accents are wrong—one of them has an English accent when speaking Persian."

"The CIA's advance reconnaissance team," Reza said. "They are scouting."

"Should we catch them first?"

"No rush. If we catch the advance team, the follow-up operation team won't come. I want to wait for the operation team."

Hassan's expression changed.

Having followed Reza for so long, he had vaguely grasped the style of this Highness—not passive defense, but active trap-setting. Every crisis in his eyes was an opportunity.

"What do you want to do?"

"I want to catch a live CIA agent."

"Why?"

"Because a live agent can talk. And the intelligence from the mouth of a CIA agent is worth more than gold."

Reza spread out a topographical map of the area around the Governors Mansion.

"During the rainy season, there are only two roads from Ahvaz to the Governors Mansion. The western route goes over the Karun River bridge, and the eastern route goes through the Ahvaz valley. If the CIA operation team sets out from Ahvaz, they will most likely take the eastern route—because the western route requires crossing the bridge, and there is a guard checkpoint of mine on the bridge, which is too conspicuous."

He drew a circle on the eastern route.

"The eastern road passes through a low-lying section at this location. Usually, the road surface is firm enough, but after three consecutive days of heavy rain, this section will turn into a mud pit, and a regular jeep will sink to its chassis."

"How do you know that section of road will become a mud pit after three days of continuous heavy rain?"

"Because I had someone test the soil quality."

This was something Reza had arranged two weeks ago. He had a veteran in the guard who had served as a combat engineer collect soil samples along the eastern route. The soil quality of that low-lying section was a clay layer covering a sand layer; it was extremely soft after absorbing water, and its load-bearing capacity would plummet.

The meteorological memory from his previous life told him—in late October 1976, there would be a four-day heavy rainstorm in Khuzestan Province.

Time, location, weather—all three elements were ready.

Now only the last step was needed: confirm the departure time of the CIA operation team.

"Which one of those three advance scouts are you watching?"

"The one in the eastern market. He goes to a watch repair shop every afternoon at four o'clock and stays for about twenty minutes. I had someone follow him for three days and discovered that every time he comes out of the watch repair shop, he goes to the post office to send a telegram."

"The watch repair shop is the contact point, and the post office is the communication channel," Reza judged immediately. "Can we intercept the content of the telegram?"

"The telegraph operator at the post office is our man. But the telegram is encrypted, so we can't understand it."

"No need to understand the content. You just need to tell me when he sends the next telegram. Within twenty-four to forty-eight hours after that telegram, the operation team will set out."

Four days later.

On October 19, that advance scout went to the watch repair shop at 4:30 PM and went to the post office at 5:07 PM to send a telegram.

It was longer than the previous telegrams.

After receiving the news, Reza glanced out the window—the sky was lead-gray, low clouds pressed against the horizon, and the air was so humid you could wring water out of it.

The heavy rain would arrive tonight.

"Everyone, enter combat status."

His voice was not loud, but the entire Governors Mansion instantly stirred into action.

That night, the heavy rain arrived as scheduled.

The rain was unusually heavy. Raindrops the size of copper coins pounded on the tin roof like thousands of drums being struck at once. Lightning tore the night sky into pieces, and the thunder could wake people from their sleep from dozens of kilometers away.

Reza did not stay in the Governors Mansion.

He took Hassan and forty elite guards and arrived at that low-lying section of the eastern route three hours early.

The forty people were divided into four groups, ambushing separately in the ditches and bushes on both sides of the road. Everyone wore dark raincoats, their faces smeared with mud, almost blending into the environment in the torrential rain and darkness.

Reza himself led a five-man team, crouching in an abandoned shepherd's shed on the north side of the road.

The rain was too heavy. Hassan leaned into his ear, almost shouting: "Your Highness, what if they don't come tonight?"

"They will come." Reza's voice was half-swallowed by the sound of the rain. "A stormy night is the best time for special operations—vision is obstructed, sounds are masked, and the target's vigilance is lowered. It is clearly written in the CIA's operation manual."

"But what if they took the western route—"

"The bridge on the western route was temporarily closed by my men at 5 PM 'due to flood risk.' They have no choice but to take the eastern route."

Hassan stopped speaking.

Waiting is the most grueling thing.

They had crouched in the heavy rain for two hours, and everyone was soaked through. Muddy water poured into their boots, and the cold crept up from the soles of their feet. One recruit's teeth were chattering too loudly, and he only shut up after an old veteran slapped him on the back of the head.

1:17 AM.

Reza heard it first—

Not the sound of an engine. The engine sound was completely covered by the heavy rain.

It was headlights.

Two dim yellow beams of light appeared in the distance on the eastern road, moving unsteadily through the curtain of rain.

A car. No—two.

In front was a Land Rover off-road vehicle, followed by a larger Toyota Land Cruiser. The speed was very slow, about twenty kilometers per hour—that was the limit on such a muddy road.

The headlights got closer and closer.

Reza raised his binoculars—but in the heavy rain, binoculars were about as useful as trash; he couldn't see anything clearly. He lowered the binoculars and tilted his head to listen to the change in the engine sound.

The Land Rover reached the low-lying section first.

The engine sound became dull and strained, the RPMs soared—the wheels began to slip.

Then—the engine sound suddenly turned into a desperate roar, like a beast trapped in a mire.

The car was stuck.