43: Chapter 43 The General's Tea

June 9, 1978, Isfahan.

The mosque domes of this city, under the noon sun, looked like a cluster of giant blue blisters, floating quietly above the ancient stone city center.

Isfahan was not Tehran; the political temperature here was lower, the protesting crowds were fewer, and the merchants in the bazaar were still doing business, though their brows were furrowed deeper than a year ago.

Reza was in disguise.

It wasn't that kind of dramatic fake beard and wig, but rather a change into ordinary dark trousers and a cheap cotton shirt, his hair flattened with hair wax, and a pair of worn leather shoes on his feet. He looked like a middle-aged businessman from Khuzestan coming up to discuss business, with no royal aura at all.

Only Karimi accompanied him. The two drove a rusty Fiat 126 and parked it by the side of a remote small street in the old city of Isfahan.

"Here?" Reza looked at the small eatery opposite. The signboard was handwritten, the ink had bled, and it read "Nasr's Lamb Soup."

"The location specified by General Shapour," Karimi said. "He has a distant relative who runs this place. He said this is the only place he has trusted in his life."

The two walked in.

There were only four tables in the eatery, and at one of them sat an old man in grey casual clothes, with a bowl of barely touched lamb soup and half a cup of cold black tea in front of him.

Shapour Mohammadi, former Chief of Staff of the Iran Army, sixty-one years old this year.

Three weeks ago, he was still the second-in-command in the Iran military, second only to the King, with the power to deploy two hundred thousand regular troops; three weeks later, he was planting tomatoes in his own courtyard, followed twenty-four hours a day by two plainclothes SAVAK agents.

Reza sat down opposite him.

The old man looked up and sized up Reza for a moment; there was no surprise in his eyes, only a bone-deep weariness.

"You are younger than I imagined," Shapour said.

"You are more haggard than I imagined," Reza replied directly.

The old man gave a bitter smile and stirred the cold soup with a spoon: "After losing power, everyone becomes haggard. This is not strange."

"But you haven't truly lost power," Reza said. "You have been in the military for twenty-eight years, and the division commanders and brigade commanders you personally promoted add up to more than forty. These people are scattered in field units all over the country. Pahlavi can relieve you of your duties, but he cannot uproot the connections you have planted over twenty-eight years overnight."

Shapour was silent for a while.

"What do you want?" he asked directly.

"I want a list," Reza said. "A list of people you believe are truly principled in the military and will not betray the country for personal gain at critical moments. It doesn't need to be long; twenty people are enough."

"Give you the list, in exchange for what?"

"In exchange for a chance," Reza said. "This country will undergo a huge change within a year. I am not prophesying; I am telling you a fact that is about to come. Pahlavi's throne will not last until next spring, and if the people who inherit this country are that group of clergy led by Ayatollah Khomeini, the military will be completely marginalized, and the professional officer system you have cultivated for twenty-eight years will be purged within three years."

The old man's fingers tightened slightly, but there was no expression on his face.

"But if the person taking over this country is me," Reza continued, his voice neither high nor low, as calm as if he were talking about something that had already happened, "the military's professionalization system will not only be preserved but will also receive unprecedented investment from me. I spent three years in Khuzestan; you can go and check. Every penny there, I spent on two things: industrial capacity and military capacity. I don't need an army that can only parade; I need an army that can truly fight."

Shapour finally picked up the cup of cold tea and took a sip.

"The huge change you mentioned..." He put down the teacup. "How certain are you?"

"One hundred percent."

The old man looked at him for a long time.

"Prince Reza," he said, "I have seen many confident young people, but I have only seen one kind who speaks like you—either they have truly seen through something, or they are crazy."

"Then which kind do you think I am?"

The old man did not answer immediately but took a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, wrote seven names on a napkin, folded it, and pushed it across the table.

"These seven people," he said, "are the ones I truly trust in the military. Not twenty, but the weight of these seven is heavier than twenty. Their units add up to more than three armored brigades and two artillery regiments."

Reza did not immediately take the paper.

"You have conditions," Reza said, not a question.

"Two conditions," Shapour said. "First, no matter what happens in the future, the military's command system must be led by professional soldiers and cannot be sidelined by clergy or politicians. Second, if one day you need to use this army for external warfare, it must be against a true foreign enemy, not used to suppress your own people."

"Deal." Reza did not hesitate, reached out, and put the napkin into his pocket.

Shapour watched him put the paper away and suddenly said something unexpected: "I heard you were the one behind the Majnoon incident."

Reza picked up the teacup in front of him, neither denying nor admitting it, just taking a sip.

"Saddam Hussein recently added two infantry brigades in Basra," Shapour said calmly, as if talking about the weather. "He is observing, but his courage has not been broken; rather, it has been stirred up. A dictator with extreme self-esteem who has been touched will only make him want to regain face, not retreat."

Reza put down the teacup, his mouth twitching slightly.

"I know," he said. "But I need his self-esteem to expand a little more, to be more impatient, impatient enough that he will make a move when he should least make a move."

The old general showed real surprise for the first time in this conversation. He stared at Reza for a full five seconds, then let out a very light laugh.

"You want to fish for him."

"No," Reza said. "I want to feed him. Fishing is waiting for a rabbit to hit a tree stump; feeding is actively throwing bait, letting him think he has found prey, and then the moment he opens his mouth, sending the hook into his throat."

Shapour pushed the bowl of lamb soup in front of him aside and leaned forward slightly.

This was the first time he had truly focused his spirit in three weeks.

"How do you plan to feed him?"