28: Chapter 28 Forty Days

February 18th arrived as scheduled.

The forty-day memorial service for the victims in Qom turned into a bloody battlefield in Tabriz.

From early morning, the various mosques of Tabriz were packed. Memorial scriptures spread through every street and alley via loudspeakers, but mixed within those scriptures were increasingly dense slogans—"Down with the King," "Yankees go home," and "Ayatollah Khomeini is our leader."

By noon, the memorial had turned into a parade.

It wasn't a student demonstration of a few hundred people; it was a city-wide mobilization of over twenty thousand. Workers, students, vendors, and housewives—men and women, young and old, poured into the streets, the crowd flowing like a flood along the main thoroughfares of Tabriz.

The Pahlavi Government's response was exactly as Reza had predicted—first tear gas, then water cannons, and finally, bullets.

Around three in the afternoon, the Gendarmerie opened fire on the crowd in Bazaar Square in the city center.

The first round of fire struck down over a dozen people.

The crowd screamed and scattered in flight, but three minutes later they gathered back—even more numerous, even angrier. Some began throwing bricks and stones at the Gendarmerie, while others set fire to cars along the roadside.

By six in the evening, Tabriz had spiraled completely out of control.

There were at least forty fires across the city; City Hall was smashed, a branch of the Pahlavi Bank was set ablaze, and even a regional office of SAVAK was stormed by the enraged populace—documents and files were thrown out the windows and burned to ashes in the street.

The official death toll released afterward was nine.

The actual number exceeded one hundred.

Reza watched all day from behind a second-floor window of the mosque.

He did not go out.

It wasn't out of fear, but because it was not yet his time to appear. Today, Tabriz belonged to the angry masses—they didn't need a prince to lead them; their anger had its own direction.

But what after the anger?

What happens when the gunfire stops, the bodies are carried away, and the bloodstains are washed thin by the rain?

At that point, what Tabriz would need is not anger, but direction.

That was what Reza was going to provide.

February 19th.

Tabriz was under martial law. The army entered the city, and a curfew began at eight in the evening. The streets were empty, save for military trucks and patrolling soldiers.

Zargani Mosque was also ordered to close. Mousavi ostensibly obeyed the order, but the back door remained open—injured citizens were brought in one after another to have their wounds dressed in the mosque's backyard.

Reza did one thing—he had Hassan donate all the first-aid supplies they had brought. It wasn't much, but in a state of martial law with a shortage of medicine, these bottles of iodine, bandages, and painkillers were more precious than gold.

Mousavi watched as Hassan moved the boxes of medicine in one by one and remained silent for a while.

"Your Highness, you brought these to Tabriz... did you know something would happen?"

"I guessed."

Mousavi squinted and looked at him for a long time.

Then the old man said something—the weight of which Reza would not fully understand until much later.

"Those who know the future bear a heavier burden than those who do not."

February 20th.

People from Ayatollah Shariatmadari arrived.

It wasn't Ayatollah Shariatmadari himself—it was his chief disciple, a young cleric named Kazem Shams. In his early thirties with a serious face, he wore white robes stained with dust and blood—he had been treating the wounded in a mosque near the square yesterday, working until dawn.

Shams came with a message from Ayatollah Shariatmadari.

The message was very short:

"His Highness was right—something has happened in Tabriz. The grand ayatollah wishes to see you. This afternoon."

"I'm coming."

Ayatollah Shariatmadari, who had kept him at arm's length two days ago, was now proactively requesting a meeting.

The reason was simple—the gunfire of February 18th had shattered his illusions.

Constitutional monarchy? A joke. A king who would fire upon his own people did not deserve to be 'constitutional.'

Ayatollah Shariatmadari's residence was in a small courtyard in the northern suburbs of Tabriz. During martial law, the army had set up a post outside, but they did not enter the yard—the Pahlavi Government was not yet so mad as to move directly against a grand ayatollah. At least not yet.

Reza went in wearing civilian clothes. Hassan stayed outside.

Seven or eight clerics sat in the courtyard, all core disciples of Ayatollah Shariatmadari. When they saw Reza, their expressions varied—some were curious, some wary, and some clearly unwelcoming.

A member of the Pahlavi family appearing in the stronghold of the anti-Pahlavi camp.

It didn't look normal no matter how one viewed it.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari received him in a living room covered with old carpets.

He was seventy-three years old. Small in stature with a completely white beard, but his voice was as resonant as a young man's.

"Sit."

There were no pleasantries.

"I have three questions," Ayatollah Shariatmadari began directly. "First, why do you oppose your own family?"

"Because my family is no longer a family of Persia. Pahlavi is a dog kept by the Americans. I don't want to be a relative of a dog."

These words were crude enough to make the present clerics frown slightly. But Ayatollah Shariatmadari's expression did not change.

"Second, what do you have in your hands?"

"Khuzestan Province. Five hundred well-trained guards. Three thousand militia that can be mobilized. A province's worth of food reserves and oil revenue. And—"

He paused for two seconds, weighing his words.

Then he took a gamble.

"And the original copies of the secret corruption agreements between the CIA and King Pahlavi."

The room went silent for three seconds.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari's gaze sharpened.

"What agreements?"

"The Americans used kickbacks from arms contracts to funnel funds into Pahlavi's personal accounts. The amounts, dates, and account information are all in the documents. If made public, the King will completely lose his legitimacy before the people of Iran."

"Let me see them."

"I don't have them on me," Reza said. "The documents are stored in a safe place. But I can tell you one detail—in 1974, Pahlavi personally received forty-seven million dollars in kickbacks through the procurement contract for Grumman F-14 Tomcats. This money is deposited in an anonymous account at the Zurich Branch of UBS."

Forty-seven million dollars.

Forty-seven million dollars in 1974.

The clerics present looked at each other.

Ayatollah Shariatmadari's expression didn't change, but his left fingers paused on his prayer beads.

This detail was too specific—specific enough that it didn't seem fabricated.

"The third question." Ayatollah Shariatmadari's voice slowed down, each word chewed over before being spoken. "What do you want?"

"I want an independent, powerful Persia that is not a vassal to any great power. I don't want an Ayatollah Khomeini-style theocracy, nor do I want a Pahlavi-style American colony. I want an Iran where Persians have the final say."

"You want to be King?"

"No. The word 'King' has been tarnished by Pahlavi. What I want to be is—the Leader."

"What is the difference between a Leader and a King?"

"A King relies on bloodline; a Leader relies on the people."

Ayatollah Shariatmadari fell silent.

He picked up his prayer beads and slowly clicked through a few.

The only sound in the room was the faint clicking of the beads.

"You know that Ayatollah Khomeini also wants to be the Leader."

"I know."

"You know his influence in Iran is a hundred times greater than yours."

"I know."

"You know that if you publicly contest for leadership with Ayatollah Khomeini, his supporters will tear you to pieces."

"That is why I will not contest it publicly."

Ayatollah Shariatmadari stopped moving the beads.

"Then what do you plan to do?"

"Cooperate with Ayatollah Khomeini. Overthrow Pahlavi first, then resolve the internal issues. Until the revolution succeeds, I will fully support Ayatollah Khomeini's calls. But after the revolution succeeds—how power is distributed will be something we sit down to discuss."

"Discuss?" Ayatollah Shariatmadari gave a cold laugh—his first smile of the day, though it was a chilling one. "Have you ever seen Ayatollah Khomeini 'discuss' anything with anyone? In his dictionary, there are only two options: 'obey' or 'disobey'."

"That is why I need you."

Ayatollah Shariatmadari's cold smile vanished.

"If after the revolution succeeds, there is only one voice in Iran, Ayatollah Khomeini's, then it wasn't a revolution—it was just changing one King for another." Reza's voice lowered, but every word was as heavy as a hammer striking iron. "But if there are two voices—one of Ayatollah Khomeini's and one of yours—then Ayatollah Khomeini will have no choice but to 'discuss'. Because he cannot simultaneously oppose pressure from two directions."

"You want me to be your pawn?"

"No. I want you to be a player. I am simply providing you with a new option on the chessboard."