Because the entire area was heavily fortified and well patrolled by the military, trade and commerce had started to revive here, and even some luxuries like restaurants, cafés, and movie theaters had reopened. Unfortunately these were frequent targets by Islamist insurgents. A few brave pro-theocratic protesters would organize a rally occasionally in Azadi Square. To their credit, the military did not crack down on these rallies and even took steps to protect them against counterprotesters that threatened to get too violent. Buzhazi and most of his officers knew that they had to do everything possible to demonstrate to the people of Persia, and to the world, that they were not going to replace one brand of oppression with another.
“What’s happening over there?” Rahmati asked as he continued to scan the avenue for more signs of an organized insurgent offensive. Every insurgent attack of late had been preceded by a smaller innocuous-looking one nearby, which diverted the attention of police and military patrols just enough to allow the insurgents to create even more havoc somewhere else.
“Looks like that new ExxonMobil gasoline station off the Sai-di Highway, across from Meda Azadi Park, sir,” a lookout reported. “A large crowd running toward Azadi Avenue. The smoke is getting thicker — perhaps the underground tanks are on fire.”
“Damn it all, I thought we had enough security around there,” Rahmati cursed. The station was the government’s first experiment into allowing foreign investment and part ownership in businesses in Persia. With the world’s fourth-largest oil reserves, petroleum companies around the world were eager to move into the newly freed country and tap its wealth, almost untouched for decades since the Western embargoes against the theocratic Iranian government following the takeover of the U.S. Embassy in 1979. It was much, much more than a simple gasoline station — it was a symbol of a reborn, twenty-first-century Persia.
Everyone understood that, even soldiers like Rahmati, whose main goal in life was to look out for number one — himself. He came from a privileged family and joined the military because of its prestige and benefits after it was apparent that he wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor, lawyer, or engineer. After Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini’s revolution, he saved his skin by swearing fealty to the theocrats, informing on his fellow officers and friends to the Pasdaran i-Engelab, the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and by giving up much of his family’s hard-earned riches in bribes and tributes. Although he hated the theocracy for taking everything he had, he didn’t join the coup until it was obvious that it was going to succeed. “I want a reserve platoon to go in with the firefighters to put out those fires,” he went on, “and if any protesters get near, they are to push them back north of Azadi Avenue and northwest of the square, even if they have to crack some skulls. I don’t want—”
“If you were going to say, ‘I don’t want to let this get out of control,’ Colonel, cracking skulls is not the way to accomplish that,” a voice said behind him. Rahmati turned, then snapped to and called the room to attention as the leader of the military coup, General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, entered the room.
The struggle to free his country from the grip of the theocrats and Islamists had aged Buzhazi well beyond his sixty-two years. Tall and always slender, he now struggled to take time to eat enough to maintain a healthy weight amidst his twenty-hour-a-day duties, infrequent and sparse meals, and the necessity of staying on the move to confuse his enemies — inside his cadre as well as outside — that were relentlessly hunting him. He still wore a closely cropped beard and mustache, but had shaved his head so he didn’t have to take the time to keep his former flowing gray locks looking good. Although he had traded his military uniform for a suit and French-styled Gatsby shirt, he did carry a military-style greatcoat without decorations and wore spit-shined paratrooper’s boots under his slacks, and he wore a PC9 nine-millimeter automatic pistol in a shoulder rig under his jacket. “As you were,” he ordered. The others in the room relaxed. “Report, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir.” Rahmati quickly ran down the most serious events of the past few hours; then: “Sorry for that outburst, sir. I’m just a little frustrated, that’s all. I put extra men on that station just to prevent such an occurrence.”
“Your frustration sounded like an order to retaliate against anti-government protesters, Colonel, and that won’t help the situation,” Buzhazi said. “We’ll deal harshly with the perpetrators, not the protesters. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Buzhazi looked carefully at his brigade commander. “Looks like you need some rest, Mostafa.”
“I’m fine, sir.”
Buzhazi nodded, then looked around the room. “Well, you can’t run your brigade from here all the time, can you? Let’s go see what happened out there.” Rahmati gulped, then nodded, reluctantly following the general out the door, wishing he had agreed to take a nap. Traveling the streets of Tehran — even in broad daylight, within the portion of the city Buzhazi controlled, and with a full platoon of battle-hardened security forces — was never a safe or advisable move.
Every block of the two kilometers from the airport to Meda Azari Park was a maze of concrete and steel chicanes designed to slow the heaviest vehicles down; there was a new checkpoint every three blocks, and even Buzhazi’s motorcade had to stop and be searched each time. Buzhazi didn’t seem to mind one bit, using the opportunity to greet his soldiers and the few citizens out on the street. Rahmati didn’t want to get that close to anyone, choosing instead to keep his AK-74 assault rifle at the ready. As they got closer to the park and the crowds got larger, Buzhazi strode down the street, shaking hands with those who offered their hand, waving to others, and shouting a few words of encouragement. His bodyguards had to step lively to keep up with him.
Rahmati had to hand it to the guy: the old warhorse knew how to work a crowd. He waded into the crowds fearlessly, shook hands with those who might just as well be holding a gun or trigger for a bomb vest, spoke to reporters and gave statements in front of TV cameras, had his picture taken with civilians and military men, kissed babies and old toothless women, and even acted as a traffic officer when fire trucks tried to enter the area, urging the crowds back and directing confused motorists away. But now they were just a few blocks from the gas station fire, and the crowds were getting thicker and much more restive. “Sir, I suggest we interview the security patrols and find out if any witnesses saw what happened or if any security cameras were operating,” Rahmati said, making it clear that here would be a good place to do that.
Buzhazi didn’t seem to hear him. Instead of stopping he kept on walking, heading right for the largest and noisiest gaggle gathering on the northwest side of the park. Rahmati had no choice but to stay with him, rifle at the ready.
Buzhazi didn’t turn around, but seemed to sense the brigade commander’s anxiety. “Put the weapon away, Mostafa,” Buzhazi said.
“But sir—”
“If they wanted a shot at me they could have done it two blocks ago, before we were looking at each other eye to eye,” Buzhazi said. “Tell the security detail to shoulder their weapons as well.” The team leader, an impossibly young air force major by the name of Haddad, must have heard him, because the bodyguards’ weapons had already disappeared by the time Rahmati turned to relay the order.