“Sounds like they’ve already made up their minds,” Buzhazi said. Yassini said nothing in reply. Buzhazi knew he had only one chance left. “Listen to me, Hoseyn,” he said, stepping close to the commander-in-chief so he could lower his voice. “Don’t play along with this. Imprisoning me is just a knee-jerk reaction to a much broader problem. Iran is concentrating too much on foreign affairs and neglecting internal and frontier security — you know this as well as I. They’re masking their inept military policies by blaming it all on me.”
“No. There will be an investigation. I will…”
“You know how these so-called ‘investigations’ turn out, Hoseyn — you’ve conducted just as many as I,” Buzhazi said. “The report is dismissed and destroyed as soon as it reaches the Council. The Supreme Defense Council — check that, the mullahs on the Council — have already decided who’s to blame. I’m the scapegoat, nothing more.”
“I will conduct a thorough investigation,” Yassini insisted, “and if it’s shown that you did all you could to prevent the attack, you’ll be exonerated and restored to duty with all privileges.”
“Have you ever known an officer to be returned to full active duty status after landing in prison, Hoseyn?”
“Yes — you.”
“I wasn’t sent to prison, Hoseyn — I was stripped of my rank and privileges and sent to the hinterlands to be killed by young radical Islamists,” Buzhazi corrected him. “Some of the mullahs thought I defended the republic adequately — all the others wanted to see me dead.”
“I think you are becoming a bit paranoid, Hesarak,” Yassini said. “I’ll protect you the best I can, my friend, but sometimes I think you are your own worst enemy. Serve your detention in silence, accept responsibility, appoint one of the Council member’s deputies to take your place, beg for forgiveness, and I believe you will be given a short time in a work camp and then a common discharge. You have served this nation well — they won’t punish you severely unless they find true negligence or criminal misconduct.”
“The deputies serving for the Council are nothing but brainless spoiled rotten sycophants…”
“Maybe you deserve to spend a little time in prison, General — a little hard labor might improve your attitude.” He shook his head and wrote orders on the message he received from the Supreme Defense Council. “You are to be sent to a Bureau detention facility. I’ll see to it that…”
“A Bureau facility?” Buzhazi retorted. This bit of news really scared him. The Edarehe Hefazat va Ettelaate Sepah, or Intelligence Bureau, was the Pasdaran military and internal intelligence agency, run by a Pasdaran two-star general. If the Pasdaran itself was fearsome, the Intelligence Bureau was a hundred times worse, because it was from their intensive espionage and monitoring activities that the Pasdaran derived its power. Even though the Pasdaran itself had been officially merged into the unified military command, the Intelligence Bureau still operated quite separately from the military. “I thought you said you were handling the investigation? Why don’t you assign me to your staff investigation directorate? Why aren’t they handling the investigation if you have been assigned the task?”
“The Pasdaran handles investigations involving possible security breaches inside military units…”
“No, the Pasdaran handles the ‘wet work’ for the mullahs,” Buzhazi interjected. “You might as well just put a bullet in my brain now, Hoseyn. They’ll come up with whatever verdict the mullahs want.”
“Be sure not to say any of that at your deposition, General,” Yassini said, nodding to the guards to take him away.
The Pasdaran headquarters, including their directorates of operations and intelligence, was located at Doshan Tappeh Air Base on the eastern outskirts of Tehran; the heavily fortified installation was also the headquarters of Iran’s air force, air logistics command, and several aircraft maintenance, repair, and modification centers. Buzhazi was taken inside the Pasdaran headquarters compound, a thirty-acre walled fortress on the northwestern side of the air base, and turned over to a very large, burly, bearded jailer who looked as if he lived in the subfloor jails. He was ushered into the central building, down two flights of stairs, and down a long corridor to the detention facility. He was taken past several dozen locked solid steel jail cells to an in-processing room, which had a fingerprint station, desk, computer, stainless-steel examination table, file cabinets — and, Buzhazi noted, sound-deadening tiles on the walls and ceiling.
“Strip, prisoner,” the big jailer ordered after his handcuffs had been removed.
“As you were, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “You’re speaking to a general officer.”
“I said strip, prisoner,” the jailer growled again.
“My name is General Hesarak al-Kan Buzhazi, commander in chief of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. You will address me as ‘sir’ or ‘general.’” The jailer reached out to grab Buzhazi, but the general deflected the jailer’s hands away. “You dare use physical force against a superior officer?” He was careful not to scream or curse at the jailer — he wanted to sound authoritative, not crazy or threatening. “Before I was chief of the general staff, I was commander of all Iranian Shock Troops.” The jailer was surprised to hear that his prisoner was the former chief of staff. Buzhazi hoped that the corporal would equate the disbanded “Shock Troops” with “Pasdaran” and back off a bit — the Pasdaran had no respect whatsoever for the regular army. “We were taught how to immobilize the biggest man without weapons. I won’t hurt you, but I will not allow you to abuse me like a common criminal.”
“You will stop resisting and comply, prisoner.” He reached for him again, eyes blazing in fury. Buzhazi let the jailer grasp him by his tunic, then easily broke the jailer’s grip and shoved him away, digging the tip of his thumb into the man’s sternum. Even though the jailer easily had thirty kilos on the general, Buzhazi knew exactly where the vulnerable pressure points on a man were.
Now the jailer was completely confused. Buzhazi saw him glance at the red alarm button on the wall, and he knew if he reached that button, Buzhazi would be restrained…or, more likely, shot for resisting. “Corporal,” Buzhazi said quickly, in a bit more conciliatory voice, “I am not going to tell you again: I am a general in the Iranian military, and I have not been charged with a crime. You will address me as ‘general’ or ‘sir,’ and you will not attempt to touch me, is that clear? If you extend to me this ordinary sign of respect, I will comply with your instructions.”
The jailer was obviously now concerned that he couldn’t handle this thin, older man by himself; afraid that he would be dismissed from this post, perhaps even punished, for not doing his job. “You must obey my orders…”
“And so must you, Corporal,” Buzhazi said. “What are your orders?” The jailer blinked and said nothing. “You were not given any orders, so you assumed I was to be treated like any other prisoner and processed in the usual manner, correct?” The jailer was obviously still mentally wrestling with this very nonstandard encounter. “What is your name, Corporal?”
“Tahmasbi…” Buzhazi let his eyes dig into the jailer’s until he added, “Sir.”
“Corporal Tahmasbi, as your superior officer,” Buzhazi said in an even, trusting, measured voice, “I instruct you to secure me in a conference room, with access to a telephone and computer if available. Bring in some fresh juice for me from the mess. If there are any other flag grade officers in this facility that have not been charged with a crime, bring them in here as well.” The jailer just stood there, dumbfounded. “Corporal? Do you understand these instructions?”