2: Chapter 2 The Knife in the Governor's Mansion

On the third day after Reza arrived in Khuzestan Province, an uninvited guest came to the Governors Mansion.

It was Mark Brennan, the Deputy Station Chief of the CIA in Tehran.

He was in his early forties, blonde and blue-eyed, wearing an out-of-place light-colored linen suit and a tie, as if he were heading to a cocktail party in Miami rather than visiting a desert province in Iran.

Reza knew this man, not from the original owner's memories, but from the data in his past life.

Mark Brennan was the number two figure in the CIA's "Middle East Division."

He was stationed in Iran from 1975 to 1979, responsible for monitoring instability within the Iranian military and the royal family.

Declassified files mentioned that this man operated at least fifteen local Iranian informants, three of whom were in the Royal Guard.

For a person like this to personally travel to Khuzestan, it could only mean one thing: Washington had already taken notice of this prince who had scolded the American ambassador.

He was not here with good intentions.

"Your Highness, it is an honor to meet you."

Brennan's Persian carried a thick American accent, and his smile was as blindingly bright as the Khuzestan sun.

"On behalf of the United States Embassy in Iran, I have come to offer my congratulations to the new Governor."

"Congratulations on my exile to the frontier?"

Reza leaned back in the chair with one missing leg in the Governors Mansion office, smiling with a devil-may-care attitude.

"Mr. Brennan, you Americans are always so polite, but I am Persian, and Persians do not like to beat around the bush. Why are you here!?"

Brennan's smile stiffened for a moment, then became even brighter.

"Straightforward. I like that."

He sat down opposite him and crossed his legs.

"Then I will be direct as well. Washington feels... regret regarding your remarks at the banquet, Your Highness. You know, the friendship between the US and Iran is the cornerstone of stability in this region, and His Majesty the King has always been America's most trusted ally. As a member of the royal family, such remarks will be... exploited by certain people."

"For example, exploited by that bunch of people around Ayatollah Khomeini!?"

"You are very sharp."

"I am not sharp."

Reza picked up the teacup on the table and swirled it.

"I just had too much to drink and spoke a few truths. How much oil have you Americans extracted in Iran? How much money do Iranians get per barrel of oil? I won't calculate that for you, lest it embarrass you."

Brennan's eyes changed.

It was a very subtle change, like a snake tensing its body, while his surface remained a relaxed smile.

But deep within his pupils, a cold light had ignited.

"Your Highness, there is actually another matter for my visit today."

Brennan took a document out of his briefcase and pushed it in front of Reza.

"It is a supplementary clause to the US-Iran Joint Oil Exploration Agreement. Any new oil fields discovered within Khuzestan Province shall have exploration and extraction rights granted primarily to the US-Iran Joint Oil Company. Your Excellency the Governor just needs to sign it."

Reza picked up the document and scanned it.

Good heavens.

The core meaning of this agreement, translated into plain language, was that if any new oil fields were discovered in this province, he wouldn't be able to keep even a single drop; everything would belong to the Americans and the Tehran royal family.

This was to guard against him.

King Pahlavi and the CIA were not stupid.

Khuzestan was an oil province; if this exiled prince were lucky enough to stumble upon a new oil field, he might cause trouble once he had money.

So, they were using legal documents to plug the loophole first.

Intelligence from his past life confirmed one thing:

This "supplementary clause" was real. But in the original timeline, because the previous governor had already signed it, this document was just a formality.

But now that the previous governor had been removed and he was the new governor, it needed to be signed again.

Reza put the document down and looked up at Brennan.

"What if I don't sign it?"

"That would be very regrettable."

Brennan's tone was airy.

"Security in this province has always been poor. There are armed militants infiltrating from the Iraq border, and there are some... unstable tribal forces within the province. Your Excellency the Governor needs security guarantees, and security guarantees require funds and equipment. The United States is willing to provide these, but on the premise of cooperation."

A threat.

This was a naked threat.

If he didn't sign, they would make sure he had an accident here.

Reza sneered inwardly.

When he studied CIA files in his past life, he had seen too many of these tactics. In 1953, when the CIA overthrew the Mosaddegh government, they used similar methods: first inducement, then threats, and if that didn't work, assassination.

But he could not turn hostile right now.

He only had a guard of four hundred men and not even any mortars. The 92nd Infantry Division stationed in Ahvaz was the King's direct line, and the division commander, Jafar Amin, was in cahoots with the CIA. If he really went head-to-head, he wouldn't even last three days.

He had to endure it.

But he couldn't endure it for nothing.

Reza picked up a pen and signed the document.

"Fine, I'll sign it."

Brennan was visibly relieved and reached out to take the document.

"However," Reza said, holding the document down and looking at him with a smile, "I have a small additional condition."

"What condition?"

"I want a US-made diesel generator set. A 500-kilowatt one will do; the Governors Mansion keeps having power outages, and even the fans won't turn. Also, I want twenty jeeps. My guard currently relies on horses and walking for patrols; it's the twentieth century, it's too embarrassing."

Brennan was taken aback for a moment, then laughed—this time, a genuine laugh.

A generator and twenty jeeps were a drop in the bucket for the US agencies in Iran. This young prince was indeed just a playboy who craved comfort.

"No problem, Your Highness. It will be delivered within a week."

"Then it's a pleasant cooperation." Reza stood up and took the initiative to shake his hand.

Brennan shook his hand.

His palm was dry and warm, his grip moderate—a typical CIA agent's handshake, neither humble nor pushy, testing the other party's reaction.

Reza also applied slight pressure, then quickly let go.

Brennan left with the signed document.

His two attendants followed behind him.

One of them deliberately lagged half a step behind, scanning the internal structure of the Governors Mansion as he passed through the corridor—the window positions, corridor width, and stair orientation.

A standard pre-operation reconnaissance.

Reza stood behind the second-floor window, watching Brennan's black sedan stir up a trail of yellow dust as it disappeared at the end of the road.

"Your Highness, why did you sign it?" Hassan stood behind him, the unwillingness on his face plain to see.

"It's better that I signed it."

Reza's voice was as calm as the underground rivers of Khuzestan.

"He thinks I am a greedy, good-for-nothing wastrel now, so he won't see me as a threat. Besides,"

He turned around and looked at Hassan.

"I have a great use for those twenty jeeps."

"What use?"

"To transport things."

"Transport what?"

Reza did not answer directly.

He walked to the desk, took an old map of Khuzestan Province out of the drawer, and drew a circle in the southeast direction with a pen.

"At this location, if you drill down four hundred meters, there is oil."

Hassan's eyes widened.

"I won't explain how I know," Reza said, looking up. "But I need you to find me fifty trustworthy men within three days. No soldiers; I want local tribesmen—the kind who are too poor to survive but have strength to spare."

"Your Highness, private oil extraction is a serious crime..."

"That's why no one can know." Reza interrupted him. "Hassan, let me ask you a question."

"Go ahead."

"Do you think there is still hope for Persia?"

Hassan was silent.

This question was too big. Too big for a guard captain to answer.

But Reza did not wait for his answer.

"I think there is. But it must be saved in the Persians' own way—not by relying on the Americans, not by relying on those mullahs, and certainly not by relying on that rotten royal palace in Tehran."

He folded the map and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Work with me, and I will give you a Persia you wouldn't dare dream of. If you don't want to work with me, you can leave right now; I won't stop you."

Hassan looked at him for a full ten seconds.

Then, the dark, thin man bowed and gave a standard Persian military salute.

"Your Highness, the old Prince saved my life, but you have given me a reason worth risking my life for."

Reza nodded, without saying any more sentimental words.

Having spent twenty years in the military-industrial system in his past life, he knew one truth: loyalty is not earned by lip service, but by repeated binding of interests and shared adventures.

Hassan's "loyalty" right now was only worth three points.

The remaining seven points would have to be filled with real money and real weapons.

"Go do it."

After Hassan left, Reza sat alone in the office, reviewing all the information about Khuzestan Province from his past life's memories.

Brennan's visit today, besides the agreement, had another purpose: to assess his threat level. Judging from Brennan's expression when he left, he was temporarily assessed as a "low threat."

This meant he had a window of about three to six months.

Three to six months.

That was enough.