8: Chapter 8 The Price of Genius

When Reza returned to Khuzestan, his right ankle was swollen to the size of a bun.

The military doctor applied a splint to his ankle and said he couldn't walk for at least two weeks. Reza nodded, then, leaning on a wooden crutch, limped to his office.

Hassan was waiting for him in the office, his expression grim.

"The guide has been investigated."

"Speak."

"His name is Jamal. He is indeed a local from Khuzestan, but his younger brother drives a taxi in Tehran and owes a gambling debt to an informant for SAVAK. SAVAK used this debt to blackmail his brother, who in turn forced him to provide intelligence. The night you arrived in Tehran, Jamal sold the address of the rental house."

"Where is he?"

"Locked in the cellar." Hassan paused for a moment. "He begged all night, saying he was forced into it."

Reza was silent for a few seconds.

Chen Feng in his past life was a soft-hearted person.

But this life's Reza could not afford to be soft-hearted.

"How much does he know?"

"He knows you went to Tehran and knows the location of the rental house. He doesn't know who you went to see, nor does he know about the oil well."

"Take care of it."

Hassan did not hesitate.

"Make it clean. Tell his family he died in the line of duty after encountering an infiltrating Iraqi armed force during a border patrol. Give his family five thousand rials as compensation."

"Understood."

Hassan turned to leave.

"Wait." Reza called him back. "What about his brother?"

"Still in Tehran."

"Take care of him as well. We cannot leave any loose ends."

Hassan's footsteps paused for a moment, but only for a moment.

The door closed.

Reza leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Killing is hardest the first time. The second time is much easier. By the third time, it's no different from signing a document.

He didn't like killing. But he disliked being killed even more.

In this era, on this land, mercy is a luxury that only the strong can afford.

He was not yet the strong one.

So he could not be merciful.

Three days later, two pieces of news arrived from Tehran.

The first piece of news: Abbas had evacuated safely. Hassan had used tribal connections in the southern part of Tehran to get him out. The wound on the back of his head had been treated, and it was nothing serious.

The second piece of news: SAVAK's manhunt for Reza had been downgraded.

This surprised Reza. Logically, a member of the royal collateral branch secretly infiltrating Tehran and escaping after being discovered by SAVAK should be classified as high-alert. Why the downgrade?

Hassan brought a clue: "I had someone inquire within SAVAK. The reason for the downgrade is—they believe you went to Tehran to find women."

"What?"

"When Jamal was interrogated by SAVAK, he only knew you went near the University of Tehran. SAVAK's analysts, combining this with your previous reputation as a 'playboy prince,' concluded that you snuck into the capital to fool around with college girls."

Reza was stunned for two seconds, then laughed.

He laughed heartily.

The "drunken playboy" persona he had faked in the court played an unexpected role at this moment. SAVAK's analysts were not stupid, but their judgment was based on "known information"—and the Reza they knew was a useless prince who drank, caused trouble, and chased after women.

Prejudice is sometimes more useful than any disguise.

"SAVAK isn't pursuing it, but what about Brennan? Any movement from the CIA?"

"None. Although the CIA and SAVAK cooperate, intelligence is not fully shared. SAVAK considered this an 'internal security matter' and did not inform the CIA."

"Good."

Reza turned the page of "Tehran Operation" in his notebook.

Now, he just had to wait for Fatima's decision.

A week passed. No news.

The eighth day. The ninth day. The tenth day. Still no news.

Hassan began to get anxious: "Your Highness, she didn't tell SAVAK about the matter, did she?"

"No." Reza was certain. "If she wanted to report it, she would have done so that very day. A person like her wouldn't hesitate for ten days. She is thinking; she will only make a decision once she has thought it through."

"What if she decides not to come?"

"She will come."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because the blueprints I showed her—she will never find a second set like them in her life. A scientist can refuse power, refuse money, and refuse fame, but they cannot refuse a problem they haven't solved yet, but their intuition tells them it definitely has a solution."

The twelfth day.

A young woman wearing a black chador appeared at the entrance of the Governors Mansion in Khuzestan Province.

She had taken a sixteen-hour long-distance bus from Tehran to Ahvaz, and then spent three hours taking a local farmer's donkey cart to the Governors Mansion. She was covered in dust and sweat, her eyes were bloodshot, but she was in an extremely excited state.

She clutched Reza's notebook in her hand, the edges curled from frequent flipping.

When the guards stopped her, she only said one sentence—

"Tell your Highness that his nozzle expansion ratio is wrong. It shouldn't be 1:7; it should be 1:9.3. I calculated it."

Fifteen minutes later, Fatima was sitting in the office of the Governors Mansion.

Reza sat opposite her, his crutch leaning against the table.

The notebook was spread out on the table between them, and Fatima had filled the blank pages with dense mathematical derivations.

"The Van der Waals correction you mentioned is indeed correct," Fatima began, speaking at a rapid-fire pace like a machine gun. "But your propellant formula is problematic. You are using polybutadiene-based composite solid propellant, right? In theory, it's fine, but Iran lacks the ability to produce hydroxyl-terminated polybutadiene. If we use a domestic asphalt-based substitute, the specific impulse will drop by at least twenty percent. Therefore, I recalculated the nozzle parameters, using the reduced specific impulse to reverse-engineer the optimal expansion ratio, and the result is 1:9.3, not the 1:7 on your blueprints."

Reza took her derivation process and looked at it.

Clean, concise, and logically rigorous. Every step was marked with assumptions and error margins. It wasn't the kind of wild, fanciful theoretical deduction, but a practical calculation that solidly accounted for engineering constraints.

"You are right," he said. "1:7 is based on the parameters of imported propellant. If using domestic substitutes, 1:9.3 is more reasonable."

Fatima leaned forward abruptly.

"Wait—are you admitting that when you drew these diagrams, you didn't consider Iran's actual industrial conditions at all?"

"I considered some, but not in enough detail. That's why I need you."

"You are not an engineer, right?"

"I am, but I am not a rocket engineer. My specialty leans towards overall system design; specific parameter optimization at the engine level is not my strong suit."

Fatima leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms, and stared at him for a long while.

"Do you know what I did before I came here?" she said. "I went to the University of Tehran library to look you up. Reza Farid Pahlavi, King Pahlavi's nephew, born in 1952, graduated from the Tehran American School, average grades, only specialties are horsemanship and shooting. No engineering background whatsoever, never even went to college."

Her voice turned cold.

"A person who never even went to college drew up an overall plan for a solid-fuel propellant thruster. There are flaws in the details, but the overall framework is ninety percent correct. This is not normal."

"So?"

"So you are either lying to me—but these blueprints don't lie, because the framework is correct. Or you obtained classified technical data from some channel—but Soviet and American rocket technology is top secret; an exiled Persian prince could not possibly have access to it."

She paused.

"The third possibility—you are not who you are."

The office was silent for a few seconds.

Reza did not speak.

"I don't care who you are," Fatima said suddenly, her voice changing from interrogation to a strange sincerity. "I took a sixteen-hour bus ride here, not because you are a prince, and not because you are paying me. I came because of these blueprints."

She slapped the notebook on the table.

"This is the most... insane thing I have ever seen in my life. Do you know? When I was researching centrifuge theory, my advisor told me, 'Fatima, Iran doesn't need these things; you should go research how to improve the efficiency of oil refineries.' Not a single person in all of Iran took my research seriously. Then you appeared, you brought me a scheme a hundred times crazier than centrifuges, and told me, 'Help me build a missile.'"

A barely visible curve appeared at the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but more like the expression of someone who had been toyed with by fate for too long and finally grabbed hold of a rope.

"If you want to build a missile, I will help you build it. But I have three conditions."

"Speak."

"First, I have the final say on technical matters. You set the direction, I implement it, and you are not allowed to interfere in the process."

"Agreed."

"Second, I need a laboratory. It doesn't need to be big, but it must have basic instruments—spectrometer, oscilloscope, vacuum pump, high-temperature furnace, and at least two tons of carbon steel and aluminum alloy materials."

"I will find a way."

"Third." Fatima paused, her expression becoming extremely serious. "You have to tell me who you are building this missile to hit. If it is used to hit the common people of Iran, I will leave right now."

Reza looked into her eyes.

When he studied the Middle East in his past life, he had seen too many people like Fatima—born in the wrong era, in the wrong country, possessing talent far exceeding their environment, only to be crushed by the times. If she had been born in the United States, she would probably be at NASA by now.

But she was born in 1970s Iran.

"Hit the Americans," Reza said. "Hit the Israelis. Hit any foreign power that wants to stick its claws into Persia."

Fatima nodded.

Very lightly, a small movement, but very firm.

"Then I will stay."

"Welcome." Reza reached out his hand.

Fatima looked at his hand for two seconds and did not shake it—in conservative Iran, shaking hands between men and women is not appropriate. She just bowed slightly.

Then she returned to that cold expression, picked up the notebook, and flipped to the propellant page.

"I have an idea. Hydroxyl-terminated polybutadiene is hard to get, but Khuzestan Province is full of oil. There are butadiene monomers in the oil cracking products. If we can get a small polymerization unit, I can try to synthesize it myself—the purity definitely won't be as good as the imported stuff, but it will be enough."

She had completely entered work mode.

Reza's mouth twitched slightly.

The fish had taken the bait.