130: Chapter 127 Musavi

"The ceasefire is in effect."

This question was Mousavi's first real jab, and Reza heard it.

He paused for two seconds, then said: "The borders are set by the Ayatollah. He granted me 'frontline command autonomy' at the time, and he didn't say it would automatically expire after the ceasefire. If the Ayatollah thinks it needs adjustment, he will say so."

Mousavi looked at him, his face expressionless, but his eyes had a quality of appraisal.

"I am not trying to take away your power," he said. "I mean that the chain of command during wartime and peacetime should be different. Wartime requires one person to make quick decisions, while peacetime requires someone to be responsible to the state, to the people, and to the entire system."

"I agree," Reza said.

Mousavi probably hadn't expected this answer; he paused for a moment.

"You agree?"

"In peacetime, the system should function normally; the Presidential Palace, the cabinet, and the parliament should all follow due process. I will not bypass these procedures to handle domestic administrative affairs," Reza said, "but there is one matter of a different nature—the two-year negotiation period for Basra. This involves military, diplomatic, and urban governance, and it stems directly from the ceasefire agreement, the terms of which clearly specify Iran's control. In this area, I need to take the lead."

"Does taking the lead mean bypassing the Presidential Palace?"

"Taking the lead means I propose the plans, and the Presidential Palace makes the final decision," Reza said, "but the decision-making must be fast; we cannot wait. The two-year clock for Basra started ticking from the day the ceasefire agreement took effect. Every month we delay, the referendum result moves one step in a direction unfavorable to us."

Mousavi was silent for nearly a minute.

The ticking of the clock in the reception room was very clear, and the sound of footsteps could be vaguely heard in the hallway outside.

"How exactly do we cooperate?" Mousavi finally asked.

"I will send you a status report on Basra every two weeks, including progress on governance, public opinion data, the security situation, and negotiation progress. If there are matters in the report that require cabinet decisions, I will list them separately for the Presidential Palace to approve directly. For matters not in the report, I will handle them myself within my existing authority; there is no need to report every single thing."

Mousavi ran this proposal through his mind.

"A report every two weeks is an appropriate pace," he said, "but I have one requirement—regarding financial appropriations, all figures must be reviewed by the budget committee; that cannot be bypassed."

"No problem."

"Furthermore," Mousavi said, "the urban governance of Basra is not just a military issue. Education, healthcare, and urban infrastructure fall under the scope of local administration. I will send an administrative team to operate in parallel with Rajai's military system. The military belongs to you; the administration belongs to the Presidential Palace."

Reza thought for a moment.

This proposal was Mousavi's interference, but the method was restrained—operating in parallel, not replacing, not monitoring. If Rajai could cooperate with that administrative team, this structure was acceptable; if they couldn't cooperate, it would be a trouble.

"The head of the administrative team," Reza said, "could I meet with them before making a final decision?"

"Certainly," Mousavi said. "I have a candidate here named Mahdavi, who has worked in local administration in Khuzestan Province and understands the local situation."

"Fine, I will meet him."

Mousavi nodded and extended his hand.

Reza shook it and stood up.

"There is one more thing," Mousavi said.

Reza stopped.

"Bani-Sadr's supporters, the student groups in Tehran, their emotions haven't settled since the ceasefire," Mousavi said. "They view you more favorably than they do the government."

"That is one way of putting it."

"I am not saying this is a threat to me," Mousavi said. "I am saying that this group is a destabilizing factor; if not handled well, it could cause trouble. What is your take on this matter?"

Reza thought for a moment and said: "Give them something to do."

"What do you mean?"

"Discontent is most likely to ferment when people are idle," Reza said. "Post-war reconstruction needs people, Basra needs people, and Fatima's military factory needs engineers. There are capable people among the students; letting them do something truly valuable is much safer than letting them roam the streets of Tehran."

Mousavi looked at him for a moment.

"I will consider it," he said.

He returned to Ahvaz that night.

Reza recounted his conversation with Mousavi to Karimi.

After listening, Karimi said only one thing: "Easier to deal with than I imagined."

"He is an administrator," Reza said. "Administrators like order, clear division of labor, and predictable rules. I gave him these, so he won't come looking for trouble."

"But he is sending an administrative team into Basra—"

"That matter in itself is not a problem," Reza said. "Rajai handles the military, and Mahdavi handles the administration. If both of them are professional enough, parallel operations might actually be more efficient than me calling all the shots. I cannot manage all the details by myself."

He sat down, took out his dark blue notebook, and turned to a new page.

He wrote two lines:

"Mousavi. Pragmatic, not bellicose, knows where the boundaries are. Easier to cooperate with than Bani-Sadr, but that won't make us allies—he is the President, I am the commander, and this structure itself is adversarial."

He paused, then continued writing below the second line:

"The two-year negotiation for Basra. What I have now: military control, Rajai's troops, Fatima's military factory, Karimi's intelligence network. What I lack: political legitimacy, financial resources, civilian administrative capability. That position of Mahdavi's is worth utilizing carefully."

He closed the notebook, pushed open the window, and the night breeze came in, gently lifting a corner of the documents on the table.

Outside the window, the lights of Ahvaz scattered in the darkness like a handful of salt thrown out.

He looked up at the sky; there was no moon, but the stars were dense.

And that was that.