29: Chapter 29 Ayatollah

Ayatollah Shariatmadari was silent for a long time.

Long enough that the clerics present began to fidget.

Then the old man spoke. His voice was lighter than before, but the strength underneath was heavier.

"Young man, I have lived for seventy-three years, and I have seen too many 'idealistic revolutionaries' eventually turn into things more terrifying than tyrants. What you say sounds very nice, but words are the most unreliable things in the world."

"Then what is reliable?"

"Action. Show me your actions. Not today, not tomorrow—but the next six months. If what you do in the next six months is consistent with what you said today—then, at that time, I will talk to you again."

"That is enough."

Reza stood up.

"I will answer for what happens in six months: before the summer of 1978, I will make Khuzestan Province the only province in Iran that can operate on its own without the Pahlavi Government—self-sufficient in food, stable in public order, and with the support of the people. By then, you will be able to judge whether I am a 'politician who talks empty words' or a 'man who gets things done'."

He bowed to Ayatollah Shariatmadari—not the shallow bow of the Persian nobility, but a deep bow from a junior to an elder.

"Ayatollah, take care of yourself. The days ahead will be very difficult."

Ayatollah Shariatmadari watched him walk to the door.

"Wait."

Reza stopped.

"You said you have CIA documents."

"Yes."

"When will you make them public?"

"When the King is at his most vulnerable. A knife must be plunged in when the opponent is least prepared to be fatal."

A complex light flashed in Ayatollah Shariatmadari's eyes—it contained scrutiny and wariness, but also a trace of something he might not have even realized himself.

Expectation.

An expectation that should not appear when a seventy-three-year-old man looks at a young man.

When Reza walked out of the courtyard, the sky over Tabriz was lead-gray.

In the distance came the sound of military truck engines and occasional gunfire—the second day of martial law, and sporadic resistance continued.

Hassan was waiting for him at the alley entrance.

"How did it go?"

"He didn't agree."

"Then—"

"But he didn't refuse either. He gave me six months."

"Is six months enough?"

Reza wrapped his coat tighter and exhaled a puff of white breath.

"It's enough. Tabriz in six months—no, the entire Iran in six months—will be a completely different country. By then, it won't be me begging him to cooperate; it will be him coming to me on his own initiative."

"Why?"

"Because by then, he will realize—that except for me, no one can speak for him in front of Ayatollah Khomeini. Ayatollah Khomeini's iron fist will make all the 'moderates' understand one truth—going it alone is a dead end; only by sticking together can one survive. And I will be the only group they can stick with."

After returning to the Zargani Mosque, Reza lay on the simple bed in the storage room for ten minutes.

Not to rest. To organize his thoughts.

He rearranged the current chessboard in his mind—

Military: Cyrus Workshop is operating normally, and Fatima's missile upgrade is proceeding as planned. Getting twenty guided Persia-1 Type missiles within eight months is not a big problem. The accumulation of Anti-tank mines and the militia is also on track.

Politics: Professor Mortazavi in Tehran—the banner of the academic circle and intellectuals—has been contacted. Montazeri in Isfahan—the representative of the religious reformists—initial contact has been completed. Ayatollah Shariatmadari in Tabriz—the core of the nationalist religious forces—has given a six-month observation period.

Three cities, three fulcrums.

One is still missing.

Rafsanjani—the 'target for recruitment' within Ayatollah Khomeini's camp. There is no movement on this line yet, but the bait in Tehran has been cast. Just need to wait.

Then there is the biggest variable—King Pahlavi himself.

In the history of his past life, Pahlavi's performance in 1978 could be called 'textbook suicide': hesitating when he should be tough, being tough when he should make concessions; trusting the Americans when he should trust the army, and still waiting for them to save him when he should have abandoned the Americans.

This capriciousness was not a character flaw of Pahlavi—but the mental state of a terminal cancer patient.

That's right. King Pahlavi had lymphoma.

The history of his past life recorded it very clearly: Pahlavi was diagnosed with lymphoma by French doctors around 1974, but he kept it strictly confidential—only the Queen, his private doctor, and the French treatment team knew. The entire Iranian government, American allies, and SAVAK were all kept in the dark.

By 1978, the cancer had entered its middle stage. Pahlavi's judgment, physical strength, and willpower were all declining rapidly.

A normal dictator facing a revolution would make reasonable decisions—either suppress it with an iron fist to the end, or decisively concede and reform. But a dictator who has cancer and knows his days are numbered will make decisions that are chaotic, contradictory, and desperate.

This is the fundamental reason for Pahlavi's ultimate failure.

And this 'fundamental reason' is currently known only to Reza in the whole world.

He wants to use this information.

Not now, but soon.

Ten minutes later, Reza got up from the bed.

He took out his notebook, turned to the 'Tabriz' page, crossed out the question mark after Ayatollah Shariatmadari's name, and changed it to a semicircular symbol.

A semicircle—representing 'in progress.'

Then he turned to the next page and wrote a line of text.

"The King's illness. This is the final weapon. Use it at the last moment."

After writing, he closed the notebook and stuffed it back into his inner pocket.

Gunshots were heard outside again.

Not far, about two or three blocks away.

Reza walked to the window.

On the streets of Tabriz, a group of young people were running—being chased. Behind them were three soldiers holding rifles. The young people climbed over a wall and disappeared; the soldiers stopped at the base of the wall, cursed at the air for a few sentences, and turned to leave.

If they couldn't catch them, so be it.

The Pahlavi army in early 1978 was in this state—executing orders, but not risking their lives. The soldiers knew what they were doing, and they knew what they were fighting against.

The history of his past life told Reza that by the end of 1978, more and more soldiers would begin to refuse to shoot at crowds. Some fled, some defected, and some simply threw their guns on the ground and went home.

When military morale disperses, the regime disperses.

This is an empire rotting from within.

And what Reza has to do is to plant his roots deep into the land of Iran before it rots completely.

When the day the empire falls comes—he will be the only one standing.

"Hassan."

"Yes."

"Prepare to leave. We depart early tomorrow morning."

"Not staying a few more days?"

"No need. I've seen the people I needed to see, and said the things I needed to say. The rest will depend on time to verify. Every extra day we stay in Tabriz, we risk exposure."

"Understood."

"After we go back, the first thing—meet with Karimi and brief him on the situation in Tabriz. Have him set up an intelligence point in Tabriz—it doesn't need to be big, one or two people are enough. Just enough to keep track of Ayatollah Shariatmadari's movements and the city's situation changes at any time."

"What about the second thing?"

Reza was silent for a second.

"The second thing—go see Fatima. I want to see her Persia-2 Type design plan. A range of five hundred kilometers..."

His hand reached into his pocket and touched the drawing Fatima had folded in four. It was still there. Warm against his body.

"...I have some new ideas to discuss with her."

The gunfire outside the window gradually faded.

The night in Tabriz was like a heavy lead plate, pressing down on this wounded city.

But under the lead plate, something was sprouting.