The crowd visibly tensed as Buzhazi and his bodyguards approached, and the small knot of men, women, and even some kids quickly grew. Rahmati was no policeman or expert on crowd psychology, but he noticed as more onlookers came closer to see what was going on, the others would be pressed farther and farther forward, toward the source of danger, causing them to feel trapped and scared for their life. Once panic started to set in, the crowd would quickly and suddenly turn into a mob; and when some soldier or armed individual felt his life was in danger, the shooting would start and the casualties would quickly mount.
But Buzhazi seemed oblivious to the obvious: he kept on marching forward — not threateningly, but not with any kind of false bravado or friendliness either; all business, but not confrontational like a soldier or glad-handed like a politician. Did he think he was going to drop in on some friends and discuss the issues of the day, or sit down to watch a football match? Or did he think he was invulnerable? Whatever his mental state, he was not reading this crowd correctly. Rahmati began thinking about how he was going to get to his rifle…and at the same time trying to decide which way he could run if this situation completely went to hell.
“Salam aleikom,” Buzhazi called when about ten paces from the growing crowd, raising his right hand in greeting as well as to show he was unarmed. “Is anyone hurt here?”
A young man no more than seventeen or eighteen stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the general. “What does a damned soldier care if anyone is—?” And then he stopped, his finger still extended. “You! Hesarak Buzhazi, the new emperor of Persia! The reincarnation of Cyrus and Alexander himself! Are we required to genuflect before you, or is a simple bow sufficient, my lord?”
“I said, is anyone—?”
“What do you think of your empire now, General?” the young man asked, motioning to the clouds of acrid smoke swirling not too far away. “Or is it ‘Emperor’ Buzhazi now?”
“If no one is in need of assistance, I need volunteers to keep others away from the blast site, locate witnesses, and gather evidence until the police arrive,” Buzhazi said, turning his attention away — but not completely away — from the loud firebrand. He sought out the eldest person in the crowd. “You, sir. I need you to ask for volunteers and to secure this crime scene. Then I need—”
“Why should we help you, lord and master sir?” the first young man shouted. “You were the one who brought this violence upon us! Iran was a peaceful and secure country until you came in, slaughtered everyone who didn’t agree with your totalitarian ideas, and took over. Why should we cooperate with you?”
“Peaceful and secure, yes — under the heel of the clerics, Islamists, and crazies who killed or imprisoned anyone who didn’t comply with their edicts,” Buzhazi said, unable to avoid being drawn into a debate he knew was not going to be won. “They betrayed the people like they betrayed myself and everyone in the army. They—”
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it, Mr. Emperor: you?” the man said. “You don’t like the way you were treated by your former friends, the clerics, so you slaughtered them and took over. Why do we care what you say now? You’ll tell us anything to stay in power until you’re done raping the country, and then you’ll fly off right from your very conveniently located new headquarters at Mehrabad Airport.”
Buzhazi was silent for a few moments, then nodded, which surprised everyone around. “You’re right, young man. I was angry at the deaths of my soldiers, who had worked so hard to get rid of the radicals and nutcases in the Basij and make something of themselves, their unit, and their lives.” After Buzhazi had been dismissed as chief of staff, following the American stealth bomber attacks against their Russian-made aircraft carrier years earlier, he had been demoted to commander of the Basij-i-Mostazefin, or “Mobilization of the Oppressed,” a group of civilian volunteers who informed on neighbors, acted as lookouts and spies, and roamed the streets terrorizing others to conform and cooperate with the Revolutionary Guards Corps.
Buzhazi purged the Basij of the gangsters and rabble-rousers and transformed the remainder into the Internal Defense Force, a true military reserve force. But their success challenged the domination of the Revolutionary Guards Corps, and they acted to try to discredit — or preferably destroy — Buzhazi’s fledgling national guard force. “When I learned it was the Pasdaran that had staged the attack against my first operational reserve unit, making it look like a Kurdish insurgent action, just to hurt and discredit the Internal Defense Force, I got angry and lashed out.
“But the Islamists and the terrorists the clerics have brought into our country are the real problem, son, not the Pasdaran,” Buzhazi went on. “They have gutted the minds of this nation, emptied them of all common sense and decency, and filled it with nothing but fear, contempt, and blind obedience.”
“So what is the difference between you and the clerics, Buzhazi?” another young man shouted. Rahmati could see the crowd was getting bolder, more vocal, and not afraid to get closer every second. “You kill off the clerics and take down the government—our government, the one we elected! — and replace it with your junta. We see your troops breaking down doors, burning buildings, stealing, and raping every day!”
The crowd noisily voiced its agreement, and Buzhazi had to raise his hands and voice to be heard: “First of all, I promise you, if you bring me evidence of a theft or rape by any soldier under my command, I will personally put a bullet in his head,” he shouted. “No tribunal, no secret trial, no hearing — bring me the evidence, convince me, and I will drag the man responsible before you and execute him myself.
“Second, I am not forming a government in Persia, and I am not a president or emperor — I am commander of the resistance forces temporarily in place to quell violence and establish order. I will stay in command long enough to root out the insurgents and terrorists and supervise the formation of some form of government that will draft a constitution and enact laws governing the people, and then I will step down. That is why I set up my headquarters at Mehrabad — not for a quick escape, but to show that I’m not going to occupy legitimate government offices and call myself a president.”
“That’s what Musharraf, Castro, Chávez, and hundreds of other dictators and despots said when they engineered their coups and took over the government,” the young man said. “They said they fought for the people and would leave as soon as order was established, and before you knew it they had installed themselves in office for life, placed their friends and thugs in positions of power, suspended or tossed out the constitution, taken over the banks, nationalized all the businesses, taken away land and wealth from the rich, and closed any media outlets that opposed them. You will do the same in Iran.”
Buzhazi studied the young man for a moment, then carefully scanned the others around him. Those, he observed, were some very good points — this guy was very intelligent and well read for such an age, and he suspected most of the others were too. He was not among normal street kids here.
“I judge a man by his actions, not his words — friend as well as enemy,” Buzhazi said. “I could promise you peace, happiness, security, and prosperity, just like any politician, or I could promise you a place in heaven like the clerics, but I won’t. All I can promise is that I will fight as hard as I can to stop the insurgents from tearing our country apart before we’ve had a chance to form a government of the people, whatever that government will be. I will use all my skills, training, and experience to make this country secure until a government by the people stands up.”