68: Chapter 65 The King is Gone

January 16, 1979, Ahvaz.

The news of Pahlavi leaving Iran arrived at 4:00 AM.

Karimi called from Tehran; without any pleasantries, his first words were: "He has left, just boarded the plane, heading toward Cairo."

Reza was not asleep when he received the call; he was sitting in his study with that deep blue notebook spread out before him. On the latest page, he had just finished writing a summary of the trip to Tehran and the action points for the coming week. The first item written was: "Pahlavi leaves—complete the Khuzestan position statement within twenty-four hours after the news is confirmed."

Now, the news was confirmed.

He put down the phone, retraced that line in the notebook, and then wrote a time next to it: "January 16, early morning."

From the time of his transmigration until now, it had been three years and eight months.

Between Pahlavi's departure and Ayatollah Khomeini's return, there was a vacuum period of about ten days. These ten days were a window for the entire political landscape of Iran to be reshuffled. Every force was racing against time, and the speed at which every move was made would determine who would ultimately play as white in this game.

Reza called for Hassan and told him to notify Karimi: From this moment on, the final version of the Khuzestan position statement must be finalized by tomorrow.

"Tomorrow?" Hassan frowned. "The worker petition from Hemmati's side hasn't been fully completed yet, and there's also the signature of Ayatollah Seyyed—"

"Seventy percent of the worker signatures is enough; the rest can be filled in tomorrow morning," Reza said. "I will go talk to Seyyed tonight."

"You are going to Khorramabad tonight?" It was an eight-hour round trip, and in the middle of the night.

"Not to Khorramabad," Reza said. "It is to have Seyyed come to Ahvaz to see me."

Hassan was stunned for a moment. Seyyed was one of the most influential religious figures in Khuzestan Province. For three years, he had maintained contact with Reza but had never once stepped foot in Ahvaz. His reason for insisting on living in Khorramabad was, "The mosque is my place; without it, I am nothing"—this phrase was his style, and it was also his genuine thought.

"How will you convince him?"

"Give him something," Reza said. "Something that will make him willing to come in person."

That night, Reza wrote a letter and had Hassan send someone to deliver it to Khorramabad overnight. The content was not in Reza's usual style; there was no diplomatic jargon, no preamble, just one paragraph:

"Ayatollah, Your Excellency Seyyed: The King has left, and the next ten days are the watershed moment for the fate of Iran. Khuzestan Province needs your name on this document—not for me, but for the people on this land who truly care about who the oil belongs to. Tomorrow, I will wait for you in Ahvaz. Reza Pahlavi."

After the letter was sent, Reza picked up the notebook again and began to deduce the three questions Seyyed would ask him after arriving in Ahvaz. He had prepared a corresponding answer for each question.

A person like Seyyed would not ask political questions; all of his questions would revolve around one word: "Truth."

Are you real? Is what you want real? Is what you are saying real?

For such questions, the best answer is not words, but letting him see the cards in your hand—those cards themselves are the most honest language.

Seyyed arrived in Ahvaz at ten o'clock the next morning. He was seventy-three years old, with a white beard, wearing a traditional dark gray robe. His steps were slow, but each step was steady. In his eyes was that substance that settles after having seen too many things—not murky, but clear; clear to a certain degree that it seemed deep.

Reza met him at the entrance of the Governors Mansion. There were no royal protocols, no honor guard. The two shook hands. Reza addressed him in Persian as "Ayatollah." Seyyed nodded, then asked:

"Where is the document?"

Reza led him into the study and placed the position statement on the table. Seyyed read it from beginning to end, taking a long time—nearly fifteen minutes. After finishing, he raised his head and asked a question that Reza had not anticipated:

"Your Highness, you did not mention Islam in this document. You mentioned 'national self-determination' and 'Persia's resources belong to the people of Persia.' Why?"

This question.

Reza did not answer immediately. He looked straight into Seyyed's eyes, thought for two seconds, and then opened the notebook to a page he usually didn't show anyone—it was a hand-drawn map of the power structure of Iran, marking the positions, resources, and key figures of various political forces, with lines crisscrossing like a spider web.

"Ayatollah," Reza said, "what I am about to tell you is not because I need your signature, but because I need someone who truly understands the religious and political ecology of Iran to verify my judgment."

Seyyed did not speak, waiting for him to continue.

"The Islamic Revolution is a banner, and under this banner, many types of people have gathered—there are truly devout believers, ambitious people seeking power in the name of religion, ordinary people who rushed in because of anger, and those who have deeper calculations beyond their anger."

He paused. "Ayatollah Khomeini will carry this banner into Tehran; that is certain. But what fills the space behind the banner, and who will define what the revolution is truly trying to build—that matter is not yet decided."

"So you mean," Seyyed said slowly, "that you are preparing for that."

"Yes," Reza said. "I need the people on that land, at least the people of Khuzestan, to know when that day comes that this is not a prince being restored, nor is it a cleric ascending to the throne; it is the people of Persia beginning to take their own destiny into their own hands."

Seyyed picked up the document again and read it once more. This time he didn't read it from the beginning; he just flipped to the signature page, looked at it for a few seconds, then closed the document and took a pen out of his robe.

Before signing, he asked one more question:

"Your Highness, let me ask you a question. In your vision of 'the people of Persia taking their own destiny into their own hands,' what position should religion occupy?"

This was the core question.

Reza did not evade it:

"Religion is the soul of Iran; without it, this country is just a pile of oil and cement. But the soul cannot govern directly, just as the heart cannot think directly—governing requires systems, professionalism, and experience. These are things religion cannot provide, nor should it be forced to. I need religion to maintain its purity; I need a structure that can operate religion and politics separately."

After listening, Seyyed was silent for nearly ten seconds.

Then, he put pen to paper.

After signing and putting down the pen, Seyyed stood up and said one thing:

"Your Highness, I have lived for seventy-three years and have seen too many people. You are the first person to explain this matter clearly to me instead of trying to coax me into happiness."

He walked toward the door, paused at the threshold, and without looking back, said a second thing:

"I hope that when you achieve it in the future, you will still remember what you said today."