27: Chapter 27 Heading North

The off-road vehicle headed north along the highway leading to Isfahan.

The road conditions were poor. Except for a few main arteries connecting Tehran, most of Iran's inter-provincial highways were two-lane asphalt roads in disrepair, riddled with potholes. The off-road vehicle's average speed could only be maintained at around sixty kilometers per hour.

But Reza was in no hurry.

He couldn't afford to be.

Before departure, Karimi had given him a "Route Risk Assessment"—the old lieutenant colonel had divided the 1,400-kilometer journey into six segments, marking the checkpoints, SAVAK fixed monitoring points, and "safe zones" suitable for resting along each segment.

"The greatest risk is on the stretch from Lorestan Province to Kurdistan Province," Karimi said. "That area is an active zone for Kurdish militants, and SAVAK has set up at least three mobile checkpoints along the way. Your Governor's credentials will pass through fixed checkpoints, but the soldiers at mobile checkpoints are sometimes 'meddlesome'—especially toward people with armed retinues."

"How should we handle it?"

"The best way is to take a detour. Take the eastern route from Isfahan around southern Tehran, then go from Tehran through Zanjan to Tabriz. It's four hundred kilometers longer, but it avoids all the checkpoints in the Kurdish area."

Reza rejected the idea.

"An extra four hundred kilometers means an extra day. Time is more important than safety."

"Then we'll have to force our way through the checkpoints. But if something happens—"

"Nothing will happen. Take this."

Reza took something out of the safe—an official letter stamped with the Pahlavi royal seal.

This item was part of the "standard configuration" given to him by the Royal Secretariat when he took office in Khuzestan—a blank royal official letter, stamped with the King's personal seal, for the Governor to use in "emergencies." It was originally intended for mobilizing local troops or requisitioning supplies, but in practice, the power of this piece of paper went far beyond that.

In 1978 Iran, the King's seal still held absolute authority. No checkpoint soldier would dare stop anyone carrying an official letter with the King's seal, regardless of who they were or where they were going.

"This is a one-time weapon," Karimi reminded him. "Once used, the record of the letter's use will be reported to the Royal Secretariat. They will know you went to Tabriz."

"It doesn't matter. It's not illegal for a Provincial Governor to go on an 'inspection' of another province."

The first day's journey went surprisingly smoothly.

From Ahvaz to Isfahan, six hundred kilometers, ten hours. They passed through three fixed checkpoints along the way, and Reza's Governor's credentials meant the soldiers didn't even make him roll down the car window.

The only minor incident occurred within Lorestan Province—a military truck had broken down in the middle of the road, blocking it for nearly an hour. Hassan got out to negotiate and found that the truck was carrying spare parts for American-made M113 armored personnel carriers being transported from Tehran to Abadan.

"American goods," Hassan said after returning to the car. "The truck driver said these parts are for the Iranian Army's 92nd Armored Division."

"The 92nd Armored Division is stationed in Ahvaz," Reza said. "King Pahlavi placed his most elite armored units in Khuzestan—ostensibly to guard against Iraq, but in reality, also to keep an eye on me."

"These parts—"

"Note them down. Once we take power, all the American-made equipment of the 92nd Armored Division will be ours. Finding out their equipment models and quantities in advance will save a lot of trouble later."

Hassan took out his notebook and silently recorded the cargo list from the truck.

He was becoming more and more accustomed to this way of "preparing for the future." After spending so much time with Reza, even this captain of the guard from a humble background had begun to learn to "look three steps ahead."

While staying overnight in Isfahan, Reza did something unplanned—he went to see Montazeri.

It wasn't a formal meeting.

He had Hassan deliver a message to the mosque: Prince Reza was passing through Isfahan and wanted to attend evening prayers at the mosque.

After the evening prayers, Montazeri "happened" to run into him in the backyard.

The two stood under that three-hundred-year-old walnut tree and spoke for less than five minutes.

"Have you heard about what happened in Qom?" Reza asked.

Montazeri's face looked even older under the moonlight than it had last time.

"I heard. Two of my students in Qom were injured. One had his kneecap shattered, and the other was thrown into a SAVAK cell."

"What do you think?"

"The King has gone mad," Montazeri's voice was soft, but every word was as heavy as a lead weight. "Opening fire on students in the Holy City. He is digging his own grave."

"February 18th—the forty-day mourning period—something will happen in Tabriz."

Montazeri glanced at him.

"How do you know it will be in Tabriz?"

"Because Tabriz has the angriest young people in all of Iran, and the most incompetent local military commander in all of Iran. That commander will do just as they did in Qom—he will open fire."

Montazeri fell silent.

"What are you going to Tabriz for?"

"To see Ayatollah Shariatmadari."

"He won't see you. He isn't seeing anyone right now—he's waiting for the King's response. He still clings to the illusion that the King will make concessions."

"Then let the gunshots of February 18th knock on the door for me."

Montazeri let out a long sigh.

"Young man—you are walking a path on the edge of a blade."

"I know. But on the path atop the blade's edge, there are fewer people, and one can see further."

Montazeri said nothing more. He reached into his robe pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and handed it to Reza.

"This is the address of an old friend of mine in Tabriz—Imam Mousavi of the Zargani Mosque. If you need a place to stay in Tabriz, go find him. Tell him I sent you."

Reza took the paper.

"Thank you."

"No need for thanks." Montazeri turned and walked deeper into the backyard. After a few steps, he turned back. "Reza—if you truly intend to walk this path, there is one thing you must remember."

"What?"

"A revolution can be watered with blood, but it cannot be built with blood. It is easy to overthrow a tyrant; building a nation that is not a tyranny is the real challenge. Do not let yourself become the kind of person you seek to overthrow."

Under the moonlight, the old cleric's figure vanished into the shadows of the backyard.

Reza stood under the walnut tree, silently folding the paper and putting it in his pocket.

He had taken Montazeri's words to heart.

But he also knew—in the coming two years, "not becoming a tyrant" would be one of the greatest tests he would face.

Power is the strongest corrosive. In his past life, Chen Feng had seen too many people within the system consumed by power.

But those people didn't have a "reference point" like he did—the memories of his past life were not just war scripts and military-industrial blueprints; they also contained the fates of all dictators.

Saddam Hussein, Gaddafi, Ceausescu, Pol Pot—every case of a "revolutionary leader" eventually turning into a "tyrant" was a warning monument carved into his mind.

He didn't want to become any of them.

But whether he could achieve that remained an unknown.

The next day.

From Isfahan to Tabriz. Eight hundred kilometers.

This stretch of road was indeed as difficult as Karimi had warned.

Within Kurdistan Province, the off-road vehicle encountered a mobile checkpoint—four gendarmerie, a dilapidated military jeep, and a barrier across the road.

When the gendarmerie saw the armed retinue in the off-road vehicle, they immediately became alert. One of them walked to the car window with a rifle in hand, sternly demanding that everyone in the vehicle get out for inspection.

Hassan's hand had already moved to the pistol at his waist.

Reza pressed down on his hand.

Then he rolled down the window, took out the royal official letter, and unfolded it before the gendarme.

The King's personal seal—the golden Lion and Sun, with a red wax seal applied.

The gendarme's expression changed the moment he saw the seal.

Without a word, he snapped to attention and waved to have the barrier raised.

"Please pass, Your Highness!"

As the off-road vehicle drove through the checkpoint, Reza glanced back at the gendarme—he was standing stiffly at attention, watching the car go.

"The power of a piece of paper," Hassan said.

"It's not the power of the paper. It's the power of fear. He isn't afraid of the paper—he's afraid of the person behind the paper. As long as Pahlavi still sits on the throne, this piece of paper can make the legs of every soldier in Iran go weak."

"But what if one day Pahlavi is no longer there?"

"Then this paper will be scrap. When that time comes, what determines whose legs go weak will be the missiles and guns in our hands."

The evening of January 28th.

Tabriz.

The off-road vehicle stopped in a narrow alley on the edge of the city. Hassan got out first, circled the area to ensure it was safe, and only then let Reza step out.

Tabriz was a cold city. At an altitude of over 1,300 meters, winter temperatures often dropped to minus fifteen degrees. Coming here from Khuzestan in the south, the temperature difference was nearly thirty degrees. Even wrapped in two overcoats, Reza still felt the chill.

The address Montazeri had given—Zargani Mosque—was in the old city district to the west. It was a small mosque sandwiched between two rows of dilapidated residential buildings; if not for the blue-tiled arched entrance, it would have been almost indistinguishable from the surrounding structures.

Imam Mousavi was a thin, small old man in his sixties. He spoke softly, but his eyes were as sharp as an eagle's.

After reading Montazeri's handwritten letter, he wordlessly cleared out a storage room behind the mosque for Reza to stay in.

"A friend of His Eminence Montazeri is a friend of mine," Mousavi said. "But please understand, Your Highness—Tabriz is not peaceful right now. After the events in Qom, SAVAK has tightened surveillance throughout the city. I cannot guarantee absolute safety here."

"I don't need absolute safety. I just need a place to stay and a pair of ears."

"What kind of ears?"

"Ears that can hear the voices on the streets of Tabriz. I want to know—what the people of this city are thinking, what they fear, and what they expect."

Mousavi studied him for a moment.

"You are not like the playboy prince of rumors."

"Rumors are not to be trusted."

"Then what is?"

"Results are. What I have done, what I have achieved—those things can be verified."

Mousavi nodded. Then he poured Reza a cup of hot tea.

The tea was very hot, but Reza finished it in one go.

In the early hours two days later, the shouts of a crowd rang out on the streets of Tabriz.

It wasn't February 18th. That day hadn't arrived yet.

But the news from Qom had already been fermenting in Tabriz for over twenty days, and the city's anger came sooner than Reza had anticipated—on January 30th, over three hundred students from Tabriz University spontaneously organized a protest march, starting from the campus and advancing along the main road toward City Hall.

They held high portraits of Ayatollah Khomeini and shouted slogans like "Death to the King."

The scale of the march was small, and SAVAK's reaction was relatively restrained—they dispersed the crowd with tear gas and batons and arrested a dozen or so student leaders, but did not open fire.

But it was a signal.

The powder keg of Tabriz had already begun to smoke.

On February 18th, all it would take was a single match.

Reza stood behind the second-floor window of the mosque, watching the tear gas smoke drifting in the distant streets.

He was waiting.

Waiting for the day whose outcome he already knew.