26: Chapter 26 Shariat Madari

By the end of January, the number of mobilizable militia reached 3,200. There was still a gap from the target of 5,000, but the trend was positive.

Political front—two major events.

First: Tabriz.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari's reply arrived on January 15th.

The letter was brief, with polite but distant phrasing—the typical "polite distance" a religious authority maintains from secular political figures. The gist was: thank you for Your Highness's concern, Your Highness is welcome to visit Tabriz at your convenience, but I am currently in poor health and fear I cannot engage in deep political discussions.

Translated into plain language: You can come, but don't expect me to stand with you right now.

Reza was not disappointed. This reaction was within his expectations.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari was different from Montazeri. Montazeri was a "reformist," fundamentally dissatisfied with the Pahlavi regime and willing to cooperate with the opposition. Shariatmadari was a "conservative moderate"—he didn't want to overthrow the Shah, only to make him accept constitutional constraints. In his view, the "anti-American sentiment" of a prince from a minor branch was merely an internal family conflict, not worth betting on.

But February 18th would change everything.

On that day, people would die in Tabriz. Ayatollah Shariatmadari's students would die at the hands of the Shah's soldiers.

By then, the illusion of a "constitutional monarchy" would be shattered. Shariatmadari would be forced to choose between "continuing the illusion" and "accepting reality."

Reza needed to appear before him at that moment—with strength, with a plan, and with an "option better than Ayatollah Khomeini."

So he decided: he would set out for Tabriz in late January. Instead of waiting for February 18th, he would be in place ahead of time.

Second: The bait in Tehran has already been cast.

Professor Mortazavi, at a "private gathering" at the University of Tehran, "accidentally" mentioned some of Prince Reza's deeds in Khuzestan Province—funding irrigation projects, distributing food, and his cold attitude toward Americans.

At least three people at the gathering had connections to religious circles.

The news would reach Rafsanjani's ears.

Reza estimated—at most a month, and Rafsanjani's people would come looking for him.

Intelligence front—Karimi's restructuring work was in full swing.

Six sets of Soviet-made radio encryption equipment had arrived—smuggled in from East Germany via Turkey. Karimi personally modified four of them, changing the encryption algorithm from the standard Soviet format to a "shift cipher" of his own design—not as secure as regular military codes, but enough to deal with those amateurs at SAVAK who only knew how to use wiretaps.

The access registration system at the Governor's Mansion was also upgraded—all personnel entering and leaving had to record their time, identity, and belongings. Guards kept handwritten records, which were summarized for Karimi daily.

"These measures can only stop petty thieves," Karimi confessed to Reza. "If the CIA or Mossad gets serious—using satellite reconnaissance or sending high-level agents to infiltrate—our security level won't hold them back."

"I know. But we don't need to block all threats—only those of the current stage. In 1978, the Americans' attention is on the Soviet Union and the Egypt-Israel peace talks. Israel hasn't listed Iran as a priority target yet. We have a window of opportunity."

"How long is this window?"

"Two years at most. After 1980, if we successfully seize power, the eyes of the United States and Israel will turn toward us immediately. At that time—"

"By then, we must have enough strength to hold them back."

"Correct. So these two years are the life-and-death line."

Karimi nodded and said no more.

The old lieutenant colonel was not a man of many words. Once he understood Reza's timeline, he did only one thing—he moved the security restructuring schedule forward by three months.

January 27th.

Reza left Ahvaz with Hassan and four guards, departing in an inconspicuous civilian off-road vehicle and heading north.

Destination: Tabriz.

The drive was over 1,400 kilometers and would take two days.

Before departing, Reza went to Cyrus Workshop.

Fatima was in the assembly workshop calibrating the gyroscope of the fourth guided missile. She squatted beside the missile body, holding a torque wrench with micron-level precision, moving extremely slowly—stopping after every turn to check the readings on the dashboard.

Reza stood at the door for two minutes without making a sound.

Two guard soldiers stood seven meters away, their gazes alert but bored.

Without looking up, Fatima said, "What are you here for?"

"Just to let you know, I'm going on a long trip. Two weeks at most."

"Where to?"

"Tabriz."

Fatima's movements paused for a second. Then she continued tightening.

"Tabriz is far."

"Yes."

"Be careful on the road."

"Mhm."

No more words were said.

Reza turned to leave.

"Wait."

Fatima stood up, took a four-folded blueprint from a workbench drawer, and handed it to him.

"What's this?"

"A preliminary conceptual drawing of the Persia-2 Missile. It has a range of five hundred kilometers. I started thinking about it after the guidance system stabilized. The core improvement is multi-stage propulsion—the first stage uses the existing engine, and for the second stage, I plan to use a new propellant formula that could theoretically increase the specific impulse by thirty percent."

Reza unfolded the drawing and took a look.

Hand-drawn, the pencil lines were clean and sharp. It was completely different from the "simplified blueprints" he drew himself—Fatima's drawing had rigorous annotations, calculations, and parameter labels. It was the work of a professionally trained engineer.

"Five hundred kilometers..." he muttered to himself.

Five hundred kilometers. Launched from Khuzestan Province, it could hit Baghdad. Launched from northwestern Iran, it could hit Ankara. Launched from the Persian Gulf coast, it could hit Riyadh.

"When did you start working on this?"

"Last month. Did you think I only calibrate gyroscopes every day?" Fatima pushed up her glasses. "That kind of repetitive labor leaves seventy percent of my brain idling. The idling part was calculating this."

Reza folded the drawing and put it in his inner pocket, close to his chest.

"We'll discuss it in detail when I return."

Fatima gave an "Mhm" and squatted back down beside the missile body, continuing to turn the wrench.

Reza walked out of the assembly workshop.

"Your Highness."

He looked back.

Fatima still didn't look up at him, but her voice clearly crossed the seven-meter distance:

"Come back alive. The Persia-2 Missile needs your blueprint foundation."

Reza didn't answer.

The cold, hard line of his mouth curved slightly.

Then he strode toward the surface exit, walking into the dry, cold winter wind of Khuzestan Province.