129: Chapter 126 Swift Legs

Evening, headquarters, office.

Karimi waited at the door for a while. Reza noticed him enter but didn't speak immediately, waiting for him to open the conversation.

"Saddam Hussein's remaining Scud Missiles," Karimi said, "Hassan's surveillance network was redeployed after the ceasefire, but the Iraqi side has dispersed and relocated the remaining launchers. The original fixed locations are all empty."

"Relocated where?"

"Unknown. It's harder to track after they were dispersed. There are three likely directions—north of Tikrit, the outskirts of Mosul, and the desert west of the Euphrates."

Reza looked at those three areas on the map.

The total coverage area was about one-third of Iran's landmass, with no infrastructure in between that could provide effective surveillance.

"Keep tracking," he said, "Use that line with Jassim. Is he still alive?"

"Alive. He's currently in Baghdad and still in contact."

"Tell him the price for intelligence on the Scud Missile launcher locations is three times what it was before. If he has a way, let him find it."

"He isn't a professional—"

"I know. But he has motivation, connections, and coverage. The problem with professional intelligence officers is that their boundaries are too clear; the advantage of an amateur informant is that they go to more places."

Karimi nodded and wrote it down.

"In Tehran," Reza asked, "any news about the new president?"

"Mousavi is very likely. Rafsanjani sent me word that the Ayatollah is basically inclined toward Mousavi, but the election procedure needs to be followed, which will take at least two months."

"Two months," Reza repeated, "In these two months, Iran will have no president."

"The Supreme Leader is still there."

"Politically, it won't be chaotic, but things will slow down. The reconstruction plan for Basra and the allocation of compensation funds all require the cabinet's signature. Who is in charge of the cabinet now?"

"The acting prime minister is presiding, but he doesn't dare sign off on major matters."

Reza mulled this problem over in his mind. A two-month political vacuum was a nuisance for his Basra governance plan—reconstruction funds needed to go through fiscal appropriation, and fiscal appropriation needed cabinet approval. If no one in the cabinet was making decisions, things would get stuck there.

"Contact Rafsanjani," he said, "Can the first installment of the Basra reconstruction funds, which isn't a large amount, be approved directly through the Speaker's authority?"

"Does the Speaker's authority have that kind of leeway?"

"Let Rafsanjani decide. He knows the boundaries of the rules better than I do."

He rolled up the map and placed it on the corner of the desk.

"Bani-Sadr, what is the next step for the court?"

"After the transfer, the subsequent sentencing might take a few months."

"Death penalty or exile?"

"Uncertain. The Ayatollah is inclined not to execute him; killing him would only turn him into a martyr, remembered by those college students who support him. Keeping him alive and imprisoned is more thorough."

Reza thought for a moment and said, "That judgment is correct."

He took out that dark blue notebook, wrote a line, and then paused, glancing out the window.

The sun was about to set. The sunset in Ahvaz was red-orange, thick, like melting metal.

He remembered the time he spent standing by the canal this morning—thinking of nothing, just standing there, listening to the sound of the flowing water.

That was probably what rest felt like.

He closed the notebook and stood up.

"That's it for today," he said to Karimi, "Start as usual tomorrow."

Karimi glanced at him, nodded, and went out.

Reza put the dark blue notebook back into the drawer.

The last line written today only had a few words:

"Rested for a day. Continue tomorrow."

...

July 24, 1981, Tehran.

The inauguration ceremony of Iran's second president was held in the parliament hall.

Mousavi stood on the podium, delivering his inaugural address. His wording was rigorous; he placed the Ayatollah's name at the very beginning of every sentence, mentioned "revolutionary spirit" no less than twelve times, and listed the economy, post-war reconstruction, and social order as the three cores of his future governance.

Reza sat in the third row of the guest section, in the seat on the west side by the aisle.

The first row was for representatives sent by the Ayatollah, with Montazeri in the center and Rafsanjani on the right. The second row was for cabinet members and heads of various revolutionary institutions. Reza was in the third row; no one had specifically arranged for him to sit here—it was a seat he had chosen himself.

Mousavi's speech lasted nearly forty minutes.

Reza listened to the entire thing, running several key paragraphs through his mind.

Regarding the military—Mousavi said one sentence: "The armed forces of the Islamic Republic will, under the command of the Supreme Leader, continue to defend the fruits of the revolution and the dignity of the country."

He didn't mention Reza, nor did he mention Basra or the ceasefire agreement. This wording was designed—not an oversight, but a deliberate maintenance of distance.

Regarding the economy—Mousavi said that post-war reconstruction would be based on the principle of "just distribution," with national resources concentrated in the areas where the revolution needed them most.

Reza marked the words "just distribution" in his heart.

After the ceremony ended, Reza didn't take the initiative to find Mousavi. Instead, he sat on a chair in the corridor, waiting to see who would come.

Three minutes later, Mousavi's assistant walked over: "Mr. Reza Pahlavi, the president would like to invite you to the reception room for a talk, if it is convenient."

Reza got up and followed the assistant.

...

The reception room was behind the parliament hall. It wasn't large, containing two sofas, a low table, and drawn curtains, making the light somewhat dim.

Mousavi was already sitting there. He had changed out of the formal attire from the ceremony and was wearing a simple dark shirt, looking a bit more relaxed than he had on stage.

He was in his forties, with a square face and heavy eyebrows. His eyes had the shrewdness of someone accustomed to balancing accounts—not the shrewdness of conspiracy theories, but the shrewdness of an administrative cadre who had processed a large number of documents and budgets.

"Reza Pahlavi," he said, "We have met twice, but we have never had the opportunity to talk seriously."

"Yes," Reza said, sitting down, "The first time was after the Fao campaign, at the briefing in Tehran; the second time was after the Samarra operation, at the regular meeting of the Supreme Defense Council."

Mousavi nodded, confirming his memory was correct.

"I'll get straight to the point," Mousavi said, "I don't like beating around the bush."

"I don't either."

"Bani-Sadr left a very messy situation," Mousavi said, "Post-war reconstruction, the implementation of the ceasefire terms, the Basra issue, the reorganization of the army—he never did any of these things seriously; he just left them hanging. After I took over, the first thing I did was to figure out the status of these matters, who is in charge, and how they are being managed."

"In Basra, Rajai is there. For the military factories, Fatima is there. For intelligence, it's Karimi, and for the Special Forces, it's Hassan." Reza listed the names, "These lines are all operating normally."

"Operating, yes," Mousavi said, "But these people are all reporting to you, not to the Presidential Palace. That is a problem."

"This is not a structure I designed," Reza said, "The Ayatollah's special approval gave me the right to command the front line freely. It is normal for the front-line command chain to report to me."

"There is a ceasefire now," Mousavi said, "Where are the boundaries of the front-line command?"