44: Chapter 44 Feeding

"No," Reza said. "I want to feed him. Fishing is waiting for the hare to strike the stump; feeding the fish is active baiting, letting him think he has found his prey."

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

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

"How do you intend to feed him?"

June 9, 1978, Isfahan, Nasr's Lamb Soup Restaurant.

Shapour pushed the bowl of cold soup aside, leaned forward, and asked that very question: "How do you intend to feed him?"

Reza did not answer immediately. He fished a folded piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, pressed it onto the table, and pushed it toward the old general.

It was not a map, but something that looked like a financial statement. Densely packed numbers, several columns of Persian annotations, with the top reading: "Khuzestan Province Third Quarter Military Procurement Budget Application—Due to the deteriorating security situation on the northern border, requesting emergency additional funding for army fortification construction."

Shapour glanced at it and frowned: "Is this a document to be submitted to the General Staff Headquarters in Tehran?"

"No," Reza said. "This is a document I will deliberately let SAVAK intercept."

The old general looked up.

"Look here." Reza pointed his finger at a line of numbers in the middle of the document. "I am applying to build 'Northern Fortifications' here, but the actual allocation of funds is directed toward 'Southern Border Position Reinforcement.' The numbers match, and the books make sense, but anyone familiar with the terrain of Khuzestan will spot a loophole—my reinforcing positions in the south implies that I believe the threat is coming from the south, not the north."

Shapour was silent for a moment, then said slowly: "The direction of the Persian Gulf."

"Correct. Once this document falls into the hands of SAVAK, they will have two interpretations—the first, that Prince Reza is embezzling military funds, diverting money meant for 'Northern Fortifications' to the south to build a private army, which fits my consistent 'playboy' persona, and they will believe it; the second, that Prince Reza is guarding against pressure from the United States Navy from the Persian Gulf, indicating that his relationship with the United States is deteriorating."

"Which interpretation will SAVAK lean toward?"

"They will believe both," Reza said. "But the important thing is that this document will eventually flow into the intelligence system of Baghdad through SAVAK's channels. When Saddam Hussein's people see it, they will arrive at a third interpretation—the defensive focus in southwestern Iran, specifically the direction bordering Iraq, is shifting, and defensive strength is weakening."

He folded the paper back up and put it away.

"I am telling Saddam Hussein that the northern gate of Khuzestan is left slightly ajar."

Shapour stared at him, a layer of something he himself hadn't realized was settling in his eyes—it was the feeling of an old hunter seeing one of his own, mixed with a bit of unease.

"But if Saddam Hussein really reaches his hand through that gap..." the old general said.

"Then his hand will be crippled," Reza said calmly. "The defense of the northern border is not empty; I am only making it look empty. I have three pre-set positions there, all of which are concealed anti-armor trenches and pre-buried simplified anti-tank minefields. Once Saddam Hussein's armored units enter that area, the terrain will fight the first battle for me. His tanks cannot deploy formations there at all; they can only follow the road along the riverbank, and I have measured every turn of that road."

"What do you mean by 'measured'?"

"Range." Reza said the two words, then offered no further explanation.

Shapour drank the remaining half cup of cold tea in one gulp, placed the cup back on the table, and it made a slight clinking sound of porcelain.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Those seven people, how do you intend to use them?"

"Not yet," Reza said. "If a chess piece moves too early, it will only be targeted by the opponent in advance. I need you to do one thing for me—maintain normal private contact between you and those seven people. Send greetings during holidays, occasionally have tea, don't talk about anything, just keep the relationship alive. When the day comes that I need them, I will notify you."

"The day you need them," Shapour repeated the sentence, his tone carrying an indescribable emotion. "When exactly will this great change you speak of come?"

"January of next year, at the latest," Reza said.

The old general was silent for a long time. The other two tables of guests in the restaurant changed batch after batch, the aroma of stewed meat drifted out from the kitchen, and the proprietress was calculating accounts behind the counter, the abacus beads clattering.

It was a very ordinary afternoon.

But two men sitting in the corner drinking cold tea were discussing the fate of a nation.

"Fine," Shapour finally said. "I agree. But I have a question, you don't have to answer it now; when you ascend to that position, I want to hear you say it in person."

"What question?"

"Why are you doing this?" The old general looked him straight in the eye. "Not an excuse, not a reason, but the real answer. You are a collateral branch of the royal family; you could have taken your family fortune and lived comfortably in Europe. Why stay behind to wade into this muddy water?"

Reza looked at him, silent for a few seconds.

"Because I have seen what this land will become in the future," he said. "That state of affairs—I cannot bear it."

He offered no further explanation. Shapour did not press further either. The two stood up at the same time, did not shake hands, just exchanged a glance, and then walked off in different directions.

On the way back to Ahvaz, Karimi drove, and Reza sat in the passenger seat with his eyes closed.

The car had been driving for about twenty minutes when Reza suddenly spoke: "Karimi, let the Ahvaz branch of SAVAK get that financial document to be intercepted within three days; it cannot be faster, nor can it be slower. Too fast, and it looks like deliberate baiting; too slow, and it will miss Saddam Hussein's next intelligence aggregation cycle."

"Understood," Karimi said. "Through the Reza line?"

"No, Reza has already resigned, and that line is closed," Reza said. "Use the accounting office at the Abadan Refinery. There is a SAVAK informant there, codenamed 'Key,' a fat man in his fifties who likes horse racing and is often short on money. Let him see a copy of this document in the accounts, and he will find a way to pass it up himself."

"I know this 'Key'," Karimi said, "but his speed in passing intelligence is very slow; it usually takes four or five days to reach the branch."

"I know, so put the document in two days early," Reza said. "Also, add a detail to the document—mark the coordinates of the southern fortifications very precisely, so precisely that it will make the intelligence analyst feel that this document itself is a leak, not a deliberate release. Human instinct is to feel that overly precise intelligence is true intelligence, and thus they will not suspect it."

Karimi was silent for a moment, then couldn't help but say: "Your Highness, have you ever thought about what if Saddam Hussein really takes the bait, but the time he comes in is not the window you expected, but earlier..."