187: Chapter 168 List

April 4, 1982, Ahvaz.

Reza's first task upon returning from Tehran was to have Karimi print out the list of 173 victims and place it on the table.

Not numbers. Names.

He spent half an hour reading the list. Next to each name were the age and address. The youngest was a nine-year-old girl who lived in the East District, two kilometers from where Reza had stood commanding the night before.

He folded the list and put it in a drawer, unlocked.

Then he took out a blank notebook and drew a vertical line on the first page.

Left: Known. Right: Unique.

On the left was the judgment framework he had built over four years: Iraq's command habits, Saddam Hussein's decision-making rhythm, the supply chain of US aid, the discrepancy between actual front-line combat strength and paper strength, and the credibility weighting of intelligence sources.

On the right, he only wrote one sentence: "No one has ever seen what these look like when put together."

He called Karimi over.

"I want to build a complete set of working documents," Reza said. "Organize all the deduction records, intelligence analysis methods, and judgment frameworks from the past four years into something that can be handed over. Not conclusions, but the underlying logic. Let someone who has never met me take this set of things and be able to reach seventy percent of my level."

"Complete it within three months?"

"It must be completed," Reza said. "Pull four people from the intelligence department, each responsible for one section, and report progress weekly. One more thing, I need three candidates. One from the intelligence system, one from the technical system, and one from the combat system. Report the ones you think are qualified to me."

Karimi stopped his pen. "What do you want them to do?"

"Learn what I do," Reza said, "but don't have one person learn everything. Have three people learn a part each, and then learn how to use it together."

"Three people combined can equal one of you?"

"Three people combined," Reza said, "are harder to remove than one of me."

At ten in the morning, Fatima arrived on time.

The report was placed on the table, getting straight to the point.

"The current schedule for the Persia-5 is fourteen months, and the first batch of mass production will be in two years."

"I want a sample capable of combat testing within five months."

Fatima didn't say it was impossible. She flipped to the third page.

"The constraint is not people, it's parts," she said. "We don't have a domestic production line for the core components of active radar guidance, and all external purchase channels are blocked. Of the fourteen months, four are spent waiting for goods."

"Which ones are missing?"

She pointed to a list.

Reza looked for thirty seconds and circled five lines.

"Are these five types the same family of models as the guidance chips in the shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles that the US sold to Iraq?"

Fatima was silent for a second.

"The second and fourth lines can be used as substitutes," she said. "They aren't completely equivalent, but they are sufficient within the parameter range we need."

Reza pushed the list to Karimi: "Check the Iraqi anti-aircraft equipment captured on the front line. Count both complete and damaged ones. Hand over all usable components to Fatima's team. Also, notify all front-line command posts that in the next engagement, these models of equipment should be prioritized for capture intact. Do not destroy them; ship them directly to the rear."

Fatima recalculated.

"The parts problem is solved. We can produce two prototypes in five months, capable of actual interception testing."

"The bombing parameters of that Tu-22 last night," Reza said, "if the Persia-5 was already deployed, what would the interception rate be?"

"Based on last night's actual data, over eighty percent."

"Persia-4?"

"Less than twenty percent."

Reza wrote a line in his notebook and closed it.

"Five months, I will guarantee the parts," he said. "Also, that engineer named Bahrami in your R&D team, what work has he been leading recently?"

Fatima paused. "He did the electronic interference countermeasure module for the upgraded Persia-4. Why?"

"Might need to borrow him for a while."

Fatima didn't ask further, nodded, and went out.

In the afternoon, the French journalist's intermediary sent a second message.

Le Monde's report went further than expected. The Netherlands and Belgium have announced a suspension of dual-use chemical exports to Iraq, and the German Foreign Ministry is being questioned by parliament. More importantly, Peter Walsh, the former deputy director of the CIA Middle East liaison office who now holds the title of researcher at a certain think tank, sent an expression of interest in contact to Reza through three layers of intermediaries.

He attached a sentence: "Not representing any government agency, personal capacity, exploring topics of mutual interest."

Reza pressed the paper under his teacup.

Retiring from the CIA didn't mean having no connection to the CIA. This kind of contact itself was a probe, probing how many chips Reza had in his hand and whether he was willing to trade chips for conditions.

He had the intermediary reply with four words: "Wait for my contact."

Don't refuse, don't accept, don't rush.

When the initiative was in his hands, he wouldn't give it away prematurely.

April 6, 1982, Ahvaz, a small room with only a whiteboard and three chairs.

Reza didn't explain why he put them together.

Karimi sat closest to the door, sizing up the other two. His expression was the kind Reza had seen before—the look of a veteran placed in a strange environment, guarded and quiet.

Mohammed Bahrami, a signal engineer, twenty-seven years old. His hair wasn't combed, he forgot to button the second button of his shirt, and when he entered, he was still clutching a piece of draft paper full of formulas. Only when Reza told him to sit down did he fold the paper and stuff it into his pocket.

Hussein Galani, a front-line commander, thirty-four years old. He had rushed over overnight from the Deir ez-Zor direction, his boots still covered in mud. After sitting down, he placed both hands on his knees without any unnecessary movements.

The three looked at each other but didn't speak.

Reza wrote a line on the whiteboard:

"Iraq will launch an air strike on Supply Route No. 3 tomorrow. You have twenty-four hours to come up with a complete response plan."

He put down the pen.

"No more information. Begin."

He walked out and closed the door.

Three hours later, he pushed the door open and went in.

The three occupied one corner of the whiteboard each. Karimi was listing known conditions and information gaps, as well as intelligence assessment formats—neat and systematic. Bahrami was on the opposite side drawing a spectrum map of the Iraqi Air Force's electronic warfare methods, dense and packed. Galani was sitting in front of a map, marking seven temporary detour routes with a red pen.

No one was talking.

Reza glanced at them, said nothing, and went out again.

Fourteen hours later, he came back in.

The three had started communicating, but they still couldn't piece it together. Karimi said he couldn't judge without intelligence premises; Bahrami said the electronic warfare plan needed to know the aircraft type; Galani said that without knowing the strike time window, detour routes were meaningless.

All three were right, but all three plans were lacking premises.

Reza listened at the door for a minute, didn't speak, closed the door, and left.

Twenty-two hours later, the plan was submitted.

Three copies, not one.

Reza read from the beginning.

Karimi: Intelligence early warning trigger mechanism, locking onto movements twelve hours in advance, adjusting transport time windows so the opponent couldn't find the target.

Bahrami: Deploy mobile jamming equipment at key nodes on the road to disrupt enemy aircraft guidance accuracy, making them miss their targets.

Galani: Do not protect the road, actively disperse transport, turn the road into bait to consume the opponent's ammunition quota, making their strikes useless.

Three plans, each one having flaws when taken alone. Karimi's plan had nothing if the intelligence failed; Bahrami's plan might be completely invalidated if the aircraft type changed; Galani's plan sacrificed transport efficiency and couldn't be maintained long-term.

Reza pushed the three reports back.

"Synthesize them into one. Each person must fill in the loopholes of the other two plans."

Karimi frowned. "The lead—"

"There is no lead," Reza said. "This is not anyone's plan. This is one plan."

Karimi closed his mouth.

This was the first time in their four years of working together that Reza had told him there was no lead. He understood. Reza saw that he understood.

It took four hours to merge the plans. Reza didn't participate, sitting in the hallway outside, listening through the door to the occasional arguments inside, followed by longer silences and the sounds of writing and erasing the whiteboard.

When the plan came out, there was no one's signature on it.

Reza looked at it for ten minutes.

It was better than any of the three individual plans. Better than he had expected.

But he didn't say it on the spot.

"Leave it for now," he said. "New intelligence has arrived."