17: Chapter 17 Ames

In 1983, Ames died in a car bombing at the US Embassy in Beirut—an attack carried out by Hezbollah in Lebanon that killed sixty-three people, including Ames and most of the backbone of the CIA's Near East Division.

That attack was regarded by the US intelligence community as one of the most devastating losses in the history of the CIA.

And now, this man was coming to see him in person.

"Interesting." Reza placed the letter of visit on the table.

"Your Highness, should we decline the meeting?"

"No. We accept."

"But he is clearly from the CIA—"

"I know. It is precisely because he is from the CIA that we must accept. Refusing to meet will only increase their vigilance, whereas meeting—"

Reza leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"Meeting is my opportunity."

"What opportunity?"

"To understand how far the Americans' assessment of me has reached. At the same time—to give them a 'new assessment'."

"What new assessment?"

Reza did not answer directly. He picked up an English copy of The Wealth of Nations from the table, flipped through a couple of pages, and then put it down.

"Hassan, in your opinion, what kind of person is the least dangerous in the eyes of the Americans?"

"...A weak person?"

"Incorrect. A weak person might just be pretending, and intelligence officers will dig deeper. The least dangerous person is—someone with ambition, but whose ambition is directed in a way that is harmless to the United States."

"What direction is harmless to the United States?"

"Money." Reza said, "A greedy person, someone who wants to use the resources at their disposal to get rich, is the safest in the eyes of the Americans. Because a greedy person can be bought, controlled, and predicted. What the Americans fear most is not greed, but unpredictability."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Therefore, when Ames comes, he will not see a 'dangerous prince' with political ambition—he will see a 'greedy prince' who uses his position as Governor to engage in massive oil smuggling to make a fortune. A small-time character doing business with Kuwaiti smugglers. A playboy who isn't interested in the throne of Tehran and only wants to guard his own little patch of land to make money."

He turned his head to look at Hassan.

"Prepare. Create two sets of accounts for the Governors Mansion—one real, keep it hidden; one fake, let Ames 'inadvertently' discover it. The fake accounts should reflect massive personal consumption—imported sports cars, French red wine, British suits. Make him think I'm a spendthrift fool."

"What about the oil wells? If he asks—"

"He won't. The oil wells are eighty kilometers away from the Governors Mansion; he won't go that far. But if he really asks, I'll just tell him: 'I used my privileges as Governor to approve a small oil field for myself and secretly sold it to the Kuwaitis to earn some pocket money.' This kind of thing is too common in the Iranian officialdom. Helms served as ambassador for four years and has seen ten times more corrupt officials than this. It won't arouse any suspicion."

"What about the arsenal—"

"Cyrus Workshop is six meters underground in the middle of the desert. Even if Ames has satellite photos, he can only see a stretch of empty sand. Unless he digs three feet into the ground, it's impossible to discover."

Hassan nodded.

But he still had one concern.

"Your Highness, what if Ames isn't here to 'look', but to 'act'? Last time, six people couldn't handle you, so this time they change tactics—pretend to be friendly to get close, and then strike during the meeting?"

"He won't. Ames is not an operative; he is an analyst. He is here to use his brain, not his gun. Furthermore—striking a provincial governor inside the Governors Mansion is tantamount to an open provocation against the Iranian government. Even if King Pahlavi is an American dog, the CIA wouldn't dare do something so extreme."

"What if?"

Reza was silent for a second.

"If that happens—be ready in the next room. Keep the door ajar, gun loaded, safety off. If you hear me say in Persian, 'This tea is too cold,' rush in."

Hassan's eyes brightened.

Not excitement. It was that cold glint of "the blade has already been sharpened."

"Understood."

Five days later.

A black Chevrolet sedan with US Embassy license plates drove slowly along the road from Ahvaz to the Governors Mansion.

Reza stood behind the second-floor window of the Governors Mansion, watching the car drive into the courtyard.

The car door opened.

First, a sturdy young man stepped out—a security guard, whose eyes scanned the courtyard with trained precision, then stood sideways by the car door.

Then came Ames himself.

He was thinner than in the photo. Wearing a beige linen suit, a dark red tie, and gold-rimmed glasses. His walking pace was unhurried, each step very steady—not a soldier's pace, but a scholar's pace.

But Reza noticed a detail—the first direction Ames looked after getting out of the car was not the main entrance of the Governors Mansion, but the roof.

Checking for snipers.

A scholar's pace, a spy's eyes.

"Interesting." The corners of Reza's mouth lifted slightly, and he left the window, walking toward the reception room.

The performance began.

On the coffee table in the reception room sat two bottles of French Bordeaux red wine—this was an extremely "outrageous" display in an Islamic country, but that was exactly the effect Reza wanted. A prince who openly drank French red wine in a Muslim country could only mean one thing in the eyes of the Americans: this person was a secularist and could not possibly have any connection to religious forces.

Beside the coffee table, a few English magazines were "casually" tossed—Forbes and Playboy. The former implied greed, the latter implied lust.

Tucked in the corner, "inadvertently" revealing a corner, was an Italian sports car product catalog, with a Lamborghini circled in red ink.

Every detail was a carefully designed prop.

The purpose was only one: to let Robert Ames see the Reza he "should see."

When Ames walked into the reception room, Reza was leaning back on the sofa, holding a glass of red wine in his hand—drinking red wine at ten in the morning, a perfect playboy behavior.

"Mr. Ames? Welcome." Reza said in fluent English, standing up to shake hands, his smile so bright it was almost frivolous, "Care for a drink? 1970 Château Margaux, I had it shipped from Paris. In this godforsaken place, good wine is the only solace."

Ames shook his hand, his gaze lingering on Reza's face for half a second.

The gray eyes behind those gold-rimmed glasses were like a precision scanner.

"Thank you, it's too early." Ames smiled and sat down, "Your Highness, thank you for meeting with me despite your busy schedule."

"Busy schedule?" Reza laughed heartily, "What would I be busy with in this place? Counting camels?"

He deliberately said this in a self-deprecating tone, his laughter hearty but hollow—like someone who had no dissatisfaction with his situation and just wanted to muddle through life.

Ames smiled politely.

Then he began his real work.

Questions under the guise of a "business inspection," one after another.

How is the agricultural development situation in Khuzestan Province? Reza answered in a nonchalant tone, mixed with complaints about his subordinates and impatience with the farmers—"Those people only know how to ask for money, and once they get it, they go buy opium."

How is the public security situation in the province? "It's alright. Sometimes a few Iraqi smugglers pop up on the border, and my guards fire a couple of shots and they run away. Small skirmishes."

Have you had any contact with foreign intelligence agencies? "What?" Reza made a shocked expression, "Good heavens, I'm just a governor, not James Bond."

Every answer was just the right amount of stupid.

Stupid enough that Ames couldn't find any flaws.

Because a truly ambitious person, when faking it, is usually "overly normal"—speaking airtightly, with every answer so perfect that it makes people suspect it was rehearsed.

But Reza's strategy was the opposite—not seeking perfection, but seeking "authentic mediocrity." His answers were full of digressions, bragging, and meaningless chatter, like the natural reaction of a truly bored person facing a boring visitor.

This kind of performance requires extremely high skill.

Because the hardest role to play is not a hero, but a loser.

Forty minutes later, Ames ended the "inspection."

When he stood up to shake hands and say goodbye to Reza, his expression looked exactly the same as when he entered—polite, friendly, slightly bored.

"Your Highness, thank you for your time. I wish you all the best in Khuzestan."

"Haha, all the best? I'm just hoping the King will remember me one day and transfer me back to Tehran. This godforsaken place has nothing but sand."

Ames smiled and turned toward the door.

When he reached the door, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Reza.

"By the way, Your Highness—that sports car catalog on your coffee table, the Lamborghini Countach LP400. Good choice. But if you really want to drive in the desert, I suggest a Land Rover would be more practical."

Reza felt a slight stir in his heart.

Was this remark casual chatter, or a probe?

"You're right. But a person always needs to have some impractical dreams, don't they?" he answered with a smile.

Ames nodded and left.

The black Chevrolet drove out of the Governors Mansion.

Reza stood behind the window, watching the car disappear into the raised dust.

The smile on his face faded bit by bit.

Finally, it turned into a cold, hard line.

"Hassan."

"Yes."

"After he left, he glanced at the roof, and then at the walls on both sides of the gate—he was counting the number of my guards. That remark about the sports car was testing the depth of my reaction to 'luxury goods'—a real playboy would have taken the topic and rambled on, while a fake playboy would only brush it off."

He was silent for a moment.

"Whether my performance deceived him, I can't be sure for now. But one thing is certain—Robert Ames is not a person who can be easily fooled. The assessment report he writes when he goes back will determine the CIA's attitude toward me in the coming year."

"What if he wasn't fooled?"

"Then that means they will increase their reconnaissance efforts on Khuzestan Province. We must prepare for the worst—the camouflage for Cyrus Workshop needs another layer. Also, Abdullah Al-Sabah's smuggling routes need to be changed—from now on, change the route every three months; we cannot let the Americans master the pattern."

"Anything else?"

Reza turned away from the window.

"Also—speed up. Accelerate all plans by six months. Before the summer of 1978, I want to have at least twenty Persia-1 Type rockets, three thousand Anti-tank mines, and five thousand militiamen who can be mobilized at any time."

"Why the summer of 1978?"

"Because in the autumn of 1978, Iran is going to change."

There was a strange light in Reza's eyes—not excitement, not nervousness, but a cold sense of certainty.

Just like someone who has already seen the ending, waiting for the opening in the countdown.