58: Chapter 55 The Scalpel Arrives

September 23, 1978, Ahvaz, Governors Mansion.

Mousavi arrived half a day earlier than expected.

This was his trademark first cut—arriving early to disrupt the opponent's rhythm and see what their initial reaction would be when they weren't fully prepared. Panic, excessive enthusiasm, deliberate calmness—each reaction was a piece of information.

When Reza received the report from the guard, he was in the middle of reviewing a report on a provincial water conservancy project—a real one, not just for show. He closed the report, changed into a clean jacket, had someone invite Mousavi into the small reception room, and waited two minutes before entering himself.

The two-minute delay was calculated. Too fast and it would look like he was waiting; too slow and it would look like he was hiding. Two minutes was just the right amount of slight, enough to convey a signal: You are a guest, but you are not my most important guest.

Mousavi sat on a chair in the reception room, not looking around, his hands resting on his knees, watching the door, waiting for Reza to enter.

He was in his early fifties, thin, and wore glasses. The eyes behind the lenses were small but had a steady focus—the kind of gaze peculiar to someone accustomed to finding loopholes in details—not rushing, just looking, observing very carefully.

"Deputy Director Mousavi," Reza sat down, his tone ordinary, neither cold nor warm, "It must have been a tiring journey from Tehran."

"Not at all," Mousavi said, his voice moderate, neither high nor low, "His Highness has been very busy lately."

This sentence was a probe, not small talk.

Reza responded naturally: "There's a lot to do in the province—livelihood matters like road repairs, grain storage, and the tax season starting in autumn. I'm very busy, but it's all trivial stuff, nothing compared to the major affairs in Tehran." He sighed softly, showing a hint of genuine fatigue, "To be honest, I'm not really cut out for handling big matters. When His Majesty arranged for me to come to Khuzestan, I actually felt relieved, less involved in all that drama."

After listening, Mousavi did not take the bait and changed the subject:

"After the fire in Abadan last month, Your Highness organized the distribution of supplies, but the Provincial Department of Civil Affairs did not participate. Was this a private arrangement?"

"It was a private arrangement," Reza replied without hesitation. "That group in the Department of Civil Affairs is too slow; I couldn't wait, so I paid out of my own pocket, got a few trucks of supplies, and sent them over, mainly for the families of the victims." He shrugged, "They are, after all, the people of Khuzestan. So many people died; as the governor, it wouldn't be right for me to just sit by and do nothing."

"Your Highness met with worker representatives."

"We had a cup of tea," Reza's tone was flat, as if he were talking about a trivial, boring matter. "They came to me to report the actual difficulties the workers were facing. I listened, took a few notes, and intend to pass them on to the Department of Civil Affairs to handle. That's all."

Mousavi paused again and changed to a third direction: "Your Highness has had several financial transactions within the province that went through private channels, involving significant amounts."

This was where the real blade lay.

Reza had long been prepared for this cut. He sighed and switched to a slightly lower tone, as if speaking about something a bit embarrassing:

"Deputy Director, you should know better than I do what my position is within the royal family." He paused, letting the meaning of his words sink in. "I am in Khuzestan not because of how capable I am, but because they don't want to see me in Tehran. For a royal family member who has been pushed to the sidelines, what can I rely on if I want to have even a little bit of leeway in the future?"

He didn't finish the sentence, instead looking at Mousavi, waiting for him to fill in the blank himself.

Behind Mousavi's glasses, his eyes moved slightly.

"It relies on connections, it relies on accumulating a little… popularity locally," Reza continued slowly. "This is no secret, Deputy Director. You've been in this line of work for over twenty years; you've seen plenty of such people in the royal family. I am not the first, nor will I be the last."

What he was describing was the self-management of a politically frustrated person—the gap left for Mousavi after clearing the field, allowing him to find the conclusion Reza wanted him to find within that gap.

That conclusion was not that he was innocent, but that he was harmless.

A collateral prince trying to regain a foothold within the royal family, buying hearts and minds in the province, accumulating capital—SAVAK had plenty of files on this. There was never a shortage of such cases, and the handling method was fixed: record, monitor, strike when necessary, but unless there was a real political threat, they wouldn't take heavy-handed action.

Mousavi looked at Reza without speaking, letting the silence drag on for nearly half a minute.

This was his habit: using silence to pressure the other party to continue speaking, because most people, after being pressed by silence to a certain degree, would start filling in unnecessary information, and within that unnecessary information often lay the most truthful things.

Reza did not fill it.

He just looked back at Mousavi, his expression relaxed, even carrying a hint of helplessness, like the justifiable reluctance of someone who had been subjected to unnecessary scrutiny.

Mousavi finally spoke: "Your Highness, I still need to review some of the provincial financial accounts. Please ask the Provincial Department of Finance to cooperate."

"No problem," Reza said. "I'll have them open up tomorrow. You can come anytime."

Mousavi stayed in Ahvaz for four days.

On the first day, he checked the financial accounts. The two analysts who came with him spent nearly seven hours in the archives of the Department of Finance, but didn't find any obvious anomalies—Reza had started separating key cash flows three months ago, and what remained in the provincial accounts were only the explainable parts.

On the second day, he visited two provincial government departments and spoke with several mid-level officials. Their assessment of the governor was very consistent: he didn't do much, but was generous with money, not harsh to his subordinates, had no particular political enthusiasm, and overall projected the image of a royal prince just coasting through life.

These assessments were genuine, not rehearsed, because that was truly how those officials viewed Reza—from the very beginning, he had been careful to maintain a low-key yet generous image within the bureaucracy, making those above think he was no threat. This image had been maintained for three years and had long since grown into those people's daily perceptions.

On the third day, Mousavi went to Abadan.

Reza did not stop him, nor did he send anyone to follow, just letting him go. Karimi had only been in contact with Hemmati and Ghazali there. Those two had already been briefed by Reza through intermediate channels over the past two weeks, knowing that someone might ask questions soon. They had pre-planned responses for what would be asked and how to answer.

Reza wasn't really worried about Hemmati. As an old worker who had been a team leader in the province for twenty years, it wasn't his first time being questioned by SAVAK. He knew what could be said and what couldn't, so Reza didn't need to worry about him.

Ghazali was more rational, and his sense of boundaries was clearer than Hemmati's. He would only answer to the extent of what Mousavi asked, and not a word more.

On the fourth day, Mousavi returned to Ahvaz and came to the Governors Mansion for a final conversation. It was very short, about twenty minutes, asking only insignificant, wrap-up questions, then he stood up and said he was returning to Tehran.

Reza walked him to the door, shook his hand, and exchanged a few polite pleasantries.

Before getting into the car, Mousavi looked back at Reza. There was something in that gaze that Reza didn't fully read, but it wasn't hostility; it was closer to the state of wrapping up after an assessment had concluded.

The car drove away.

Hassan stood next to Reza, and the two of them watched the black sedan disappear at the intersection before turning back.

"How did it go?" Hassan asked.

"I don't know yet," Reza said. "I have to wait for his report to come out after he returns to Tehran. Najjari will let me know."

He paused, then said: "But judging by that look on the fourth day, it's highly likely that everything is fine."