54: Chapter 51 Najari's Chess Game

September 3, 1978, Ahvaz.

Seven days after Hemmati and Ghazali left, Najjari arrived.

There was no advance notice, no appointment; just a black government sedan pulling up outside the main entrance of the Governors Mansion. Najjari stepped out himself and told the guard he needed to see the Governor, citing "routine security communication" as the reason.

When Reza received the notification, he was in his study reviewing the latest materials sent by Fatima—a fuel formula optimization plan for the Persian-1 Type B. It was over thirty pages of dense text. Fatima's handwriting was very small but extremely neat; every piece of data was followed by its derivation process, making it look less like a technical report and more like a mathematical thesis.

He turned the materials face down on the desk and had someone show Najjari in.

When Najjari entered, Reza took a look at him.

He was not yet fifty, but nearly half his hair had turned white. It wasn't the kind of white that makes one look old, but rather silver threads woven into the black hair, as if brought on prematurely by some burden. There was no superfluous expression on his face, nor any deliberately affected seriousness; it was just flat—that flatness found only in those who have survived long-term in the power system and have turned emotion management into an instinct.

"Director Najjari, please sit," Reza said.

"Your Highness." Najjari sat in the chair opposite him. Without any small talk, he went straight to the point: "I came here because I want to discuss a private matter with Your Highness."

"A private matter." Reza repeated, his tone calm. "Let's hear it."

"My nephew, Daoud," Najjari said. "Your Highness should recognize the name."

Reza neither denied nor admitted it; he simply watched him, waiting for him to continue.

Najjari paused, as if reorganizing his words, but Reza judged that this pause was not true hesitation; it was the habitual action of an experienced agent observing the other party's reaction.

"My nephew is in the Chemistry Department at the University of Tehran. He participated in the July demonstrations and was taken in for questioning by my men, but he has since been released," Najjari continued, his tone devoid of any emotional fluctuation, as if describing official business completely unrelated to himself. "After the questioning, he wouldn't answer my calls, nor would he return to Ahvaz. I asked his classmates to check on him, and they said he stays at that bookstore until very late every day, mixing with people I don't like him associating with."

"Is the Director here to ask for my help in persuading him?" Reza asked, his tone carrying a hint of understatement. "I don't know him."

"No." Najjari shook his head. "I came to tell Your Highness something." He paused for two seconds. "Last month, the Khuzestan branch received an internal bulletin from the Tehran headquarters. The content concerns the relief distribution operation Your Highness organized after the Abadan fire, as well as Your Highness's meeting with worker representatives at the Governors Mansion. The bulletin listed these two matters as 'abnormal trends requiring continued attention'."

The temperature in the study seemed to drop by half a degree.

Reza did not move. His hands were on the table, his fingertips lightly resting on the stack of face-down materials, his face devoid of any expression.

"'Requiring continued attention'," he repeated slowly. "Are those the exact words from the bulletin?"

"The exact words," Najjari said. "I am the director of the Khuzestan branch. This bulletin was copied to me, and according to regulations, I need to submit an assessment of the local situation to headquarters within three days."

"So, the Director is here to tip me off?"

"No." Najjari denied it directly for the third time. This man had a habit of blocking off all of the other person's guesses before saying what he actually wanted to say. "I came because I want to ask Your Highness a question."

"Ask."

Najjari looked at Reza, and for the first time, something non-professional appeared in his eyes: "Your Highness, how much longer do you think this country can last?"

Once this question was thrown out, silence filled the study for nearly ten seconds.

A SAVAK director, sitting in the study of a royal governor, asking such a question—this was not a professional agent performing official duties; this was a man walking a tightrope, testing whether the person opposite him was also standing on the same wire.

Reza did not answer immediately.

He slowly picked up the teacup on the table, took a sip, placed the cup back in its original spot, raised his head, and met Najjari's gaze.

"Director," he said, "before you came, did you consider the consequences of asking this question?"

"I did," Najjari said. "That is why when I came, the license plate was a private one, not an official one, and I only brought my driver. I am not carrying any recording equipment—you may have someone search me, Your Highness; I don't mind."

Reza watched him for a moment, then turned his head and nodded toward Hassan, who was standing at the study door.

Hassan entered, walked over to Najjari, professionally searched him, found nothing, and retreated to the doorway.

"Good," Reza said, then gave his answer: "It won't last past next year."

Najjari's eyes flickered slightly. It was a minute movement, but on a face that had long been trained to manage expressions, this subtle fluctuation indicated that he had received an answer more direct and certain than he had expected.

"Is Your Highness certain?"

"It is not certainty," Reza said, "it is a judgment, a judgment based on all the information I can see. Oil revenue is falling, inflation is rising, military salaries have begun to be delayed, and the SAVAK informant network in major cities is failing because the informants' neighbors no longer feel grateful to the King, but instead hate him even more. Taken individually, none of these things is fatal, but they are happening simultaneously; piled together, they are a rope that is snapping."

Najjari lowered his head, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers slowly rubbing together, as if sorting something out.

"I have worked at SAVAK for twenty-three years," he said, his voice cracking slightly for the first time. "I believed this country needed order. I have done many things, some of which I knew were wrong, but I told myself it was for the sake of order." He paused. "Now my nephew is sitting in some basement in Tehran, drinking tea with a group of young people who want to overthrow this order. I don't know if he is wrong or if I am."

That was the truth; Reza could tell.

It wasn't a strategy, it wasn't a probe; it was the truth spoken by a man who didn't know how to stand when the things he believed in began to collapse.

Such people are harder to deal with than pure enemies and harder to manage than pure allies, because they themselves don't know where they stand.

But such people are also the most valuable chess pieces, because once their transformation is complete, it will be the most thorough—betraying something one has believed in for twenty-three years doesn't require persuasion, but rather a direction that makes them feel it is worth it.

"Director," Reza said, "how do you intend to write that assessment that needs to be submitted within three days?"

Najjari raised his head.

"I intend to write: The situation in Khuzestan Province is stable; the Governor's relief distribution operation for the local populace falls within the scope of normal local governance, with no abnormalities."

"Why?"