4: Chapter 4 The Money Underground, the People Above Ground

The oil had been found, but oil did not equal money.

Reza understood this principle better than anyone.

Three days after the oil began to flow, he called Nasser into the tent and asked a critical question: "Based on your experience, if this well were officially put into production, what would the daily output be?"

Nasser rubbed his calloused hands, hesitating for a long time: "Your Highness, based solely on one exploration well, I cannot give you an exact figure. But judging from the thickness and pressure of the oil layer… conservatively estimated, three thousand barrels a day would be no problem. If we drill a few more wells, ten thousand barrels a day is also possible."

Three thousand barrels a day.

In 1975, the international oil price was approximately eleven dollars per barrel. Three thousand barrels meant thirty-three thousand dollars a day, nearly one million dollars a month.

One million dollars in 1975 Iran was enough to support an infantry regiment.

The problem was—how to sell it?

All Iranian oil exports went through the "National Iranian Oil Company," backed by the United States and the royal family.

As an exiled prince of a collateral branch who had secretly drilled a well and extracted oil in his own jurisdiction, how could he turn that oil into money?

Going through official channels was tantamount to walking into a trap.

Reza drew a sketch in his notebook.

The southern part of Khuzestan Province bordered the Persian Gulf, and there were several small fishing ports along the coastline that were not under the jurisdiction of the National Oil Company.

Across the Persian Gulf lay Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.

Oil smuggling in the Middle East was nothing new—collateral branches of the Saudi royal family, Kuwaiti merchants, and even shipowners from Pakistan had all engaged in such trade.

The key was finding a reliable middleman.

Memories from his past life gave him a name.

"Hassan, help me contact someone," Reza said.

"A Kuwaiti merchant named Abdullah Al-Sabah. This man deals in smuggled oil in the Persian Gulf, has a dozen oil tankers under his command, and has connections with mid-level managers at Saudi Aramco. He often frequents Abadan Port; find out if he's around lately."

Hassan had already grown accustomed to His Highness's "all-knowing" ability and no longer asked about the source of his information.

"I will send someone to Abadan today."

"Be discreet. Approach him under the guise of a tribal merchant; do not reveal my name."

"Understood."

Hassan turned to leave, but Reza called him back.

"Also, double the security forces at the oil well. Pull one hundred men from the guard, set up three shifts, and patrol twenty-four hours a day. I will map out the patrol routes, focusing on preventing aerial reconnaissance."

"Preventing aerial reconnaissance?" Hassan frowned. "Who would use planes to scout this desert?"

"The Americans."

Reza did not explain further.

In the data from his past life, the CIA had already begun using high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft to take regular photos of Iranian territory in the 1970s.

Although their focus was on monitoring the Soviet Union border and Iranian nuclear facilities, the oil region of Khuzestan Province was also within the scope of their photography.

Once an unidentified drilling rig appeared on satellite photos, CIA analysts could identify it within three days at most.

Therefore, the oil well must be camouflaged.

He had Nasser paint the drilling rig a desert color, cover the top with camouflage netting, and ensure all oil extraction equipment was at least one meter below ground level.

From the air, this area would look no different from the surrounding desert.

"One more thing," Reza said to Nasser. "From now on, only operate at night. Shut down all equipment during the day, and have the personnel enter the underground bunkers."

Nasser complained bitterly: "Your Highness, if we only operate at night, production will be cut by at least half—"

"Lives are more important than production."

Nasser shut his mouth.

Five days later, Hassan brought back news: Abdullah Al-Sabah was indeed at Abadan Port, looking for new sources of oil for a group of Kuwaiti smugglers.

Reza decided to go meet him in person.

"Your Highness, going yourself is too risky," Hassan objected. "Abadan Port is a mix of good and bad people, and SAVAK informants are everywhere. Your face has been in the newspapers in Tehran; if you get recognized—"

"That is why I will not go as a prince."

Reza rummaged through a cabinet and pulled out a tattered gray robe, then found a dirty Kurdish-style headscarf to cover most of his face.

The person in the mirror looked like a Kurdish smuggler who had fled from the border, having absolutely nothing to do with the word "prince."

Hassan stared at Reza in the mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Let's go." Reza brushed the dust off himself. "Bring four men, all in plain clothes. Don't tuck your guns in your waistbands; strap them to your inner calves."

Abadan Port.

In the 1970s, Abadan was the largest oil refining city in Iran, and the entire city was permeated with an inescapable smell of oil.

Half of the port belonged to the National Oil Company, while the other half was a gray zone—smugglers, brokers, arms dealers, and intelligence agents from various countries were all mixed together here.

Abdullah Al-Sabah was waiting for him in a teahouse near the port.

This man was not quite what Reza had imagined.

The description in the data from his past life was "Kuwaiti oil smuggling tycoon," which sounded like he should be a fat, greasy Middle Eastern tycoon.

But the person himself was a man in his early fifties, thin and gaunt, wearing a simple white robe, with a neatly trimmed gray mustache, and a pair of eyes as shrewd as two polished obsidians.

The teahouse was filled with the sweet, cloying smell of hookah.

There were three cups of tea in front of Abdullah; he had drunk one, and the remaining two were clearly left for the guests.

"Sit," Abdullah said in Arabic, skipping even the pleasantries.

Reza sat down, and Hassan stood behind him, his hands hanging at his sides, ready to reach the gun strapped to his calf at any moment.

"Your people said you have good goods," Abdullah went straight to the point. "What quality? What quantity?"

"Light, low-sulfur. Three thousand barrels a day to start, with stable supply within three months."

Abdullah's fingers paused on the rim of the teacup—this was a micro-expression of an old hand hearing unexpected information.

Private oil sources producing three thousand barrels a day were not non-existent in the Persian Gulf, but they were very rare.

"Price?"

"Seventy percent of market price."

"Sixty percent."

"Sixty-five percent," Reza said. "Any lower than that, and I'll go talk to the Pakistanis."

Abdullah smiled.

"Young man, do you know the risks of smuggling oil? I have to use my ships, my people, and my shipping routes to transport your oil. If the ships are intercepted or the people are caught, it's my loss. Sixty percent is already very fair."

"Mr. Al-Sabah, I am not here to discuss risk-sharing with you."

Reza picked up the teacup and took a sip; the Persian black tea had a refreshing hint of mint.

"Your ships load oil from a small port in southern Khuzestan, take the blind-spot route along the Saudi coastline, and unload at Failaka Island in Kuwait. You have been using this route for six years, and Ali Sheikh, the captain of the Third Squadron of the Saudi Coast Guard, takes five thousand dollars in hush money from you every month. Your risk is not as great as you claim."

Abdullah's smile vanished.

He put down the teacup, his eyes turning sharp.

"Who are you?"

"Who I am is not important," Reza said. "What matters is that I have the oil you need, and you have the channels I need. Sixty-five percent, long-term contract, monthly settlement. You earn your shipping fees and price difference, and I take my payment. We will mind our own business."

Abdullah stared at him for a full half-minute.

During those half a minute, the hookah in the teahouse bubbled away. Hassan's hand had already quietly rested on his calf.

Then Abdullah reached out his hand.

"Deal. But I need to inspect the goods first."

Reza shook his hand.

The old man's hand was dry and rough, with a heavy grip—completely different from the deliberately controlled handshake of Brennan; this was the hand of a merchant who had spent decades licking blood off the edge of a blade.

"Three days from now, I will send someone to take you to see it."

Walking out of the teahouse, Hassan let out a long breath.

"Your Highness, how did you know about that route? And that Saudi officer?"

"I did my homework."

"What kind of homework can reach this level?"

Reza did not answer.

He looked back at the teahouse—Abdullah was still sitting in the same spot, lost in thought, staring at the empty teacup.

That old fox must be desperately trying to guess his true identity right now.

Let him guess. He won't be able to figure it out.

On the way back, Reza closed his eyes to rest in the bumpy jeep, but his brain did not stop for a moment.

The oil's sales outlet was resolved.

Calculated at sixty-five percent, the daily income would be approximately twenty-one thousand dollars, six hundred and thirty thousand a month.

After deducting the wages for Nasser's team, equipment maintenance, Abdullah's shipping fees, and various grease payments, the net profit would be about four hundred thousand dollars a month.

Four hundred thousand dollars, what is that enough for?

It was enough for him to do three things within six months—

First, expand the army.

Recruit two thousand young men from the tribes of Khuzestan Province and incorporate them into the guard under the name of "Provincial Defense Militia."

King Pahlavi's decree allowed border provinces to form militias; as long as they did not exceed three thousand men, Tehran would not interfere.

Second, hoard food.

Memories from his past life told him that global grain prices would skyrocket by forty percent in the second half of 1976 due to large-scale purchases by the Soviet Union.

He had to buy large quantities of wheat and rice before the price hike.

Third, build infrastructure.

Seventy percent of the rural areas in Khuzestan Province had no irrigation systems, and farmers relied on the weather for their livelihoods.

He had a simplified "low-pressure drip irrigation system" scheme in his mind—a technology he had seen in a Northwest agricultural project in his past life; it could be done with PVC pipes and simple valves, with extremely low costs but excellent results.

Money begets people, people beget influence, and influence begets power.

This was the "Iron Law of Third World Politics" he had summarized in his past life.

Anyone who wanted to seize power in a Third World country had to first secure three things: money, the hearts of the people, and military force. All three were indispensable, and the order could not be messed up.

King Pahlavi had money from the Americans, but he lost the hearts of the people.

Ayatollah Khomeini had religious appeal to win over the hearts of the people, but he had no money or military force.

And he, Reza, wanted to grasp all three.

The jeep drove past a dilapidated village.

The adobe houses were as low as grave mounds, and a few emaciated children squatted by the roadside watching the convoy pass, their eyes as large as two black holes.

Hassan noticed Reza's gaze and said: "The rural areas of Khuzestan are all like this. The King pours all the money into Tehran to carry out the 'White Revolution,' buying American fighter jets, building palaces, and holding the 2,500-year celebration of the Persian Empire, spending billions of dollars. These provinces? Not a single cent."

"How much was spent on the 2,500-year celebration of the Persian Empire?"

"Officially one hundred million dollars, but in reality…" Hassan sneered, "At least three hundred million. They invited heads of state from over sixty countries to Persepolis, set up fifty tents, and the furniture in every tent was airlifted from France. The food at the banquet was all custom-ordered from Maxim's in Paris. Three hundred million dollars, just so the King could save face in front of foreigners."

"How many schools could three hundred million dollars build?"

"At least three thousand."

Reza said nothing.

But Hassan noticed that His Highness's fists were clenched.

It was not anger.

It was calculation.