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?”
“Yes, sir, but…”
“But what? Do any of my orders violate your general orders or any other orders you have been issued since you have assumed this post?”
The jailer thought for a moment, and his eyes brightened. “No, sir, they do not.”
“Then get your ass in gear, now,
“Yes, sir.” The jailer averted his eyes and opened the door to the processing room.
“Corporal Tahmasbi.” The jailer stopped as if stuck in concrete. “You can’t just let me walk out of here, can you? I’m supposed to be in your custody.” The jailer meekly nodded and carefully, almost gingerly, took Buzhazi by the arm. “And, Corporal?”
“Sir?”
“Just because you work in the jails and generally only see the scum of our proud military does not mean you can go around with an unkempt beard, dirty uniform, and unpolished boots,” Buzhazi said, looking the man directly in the eyes, not raising his voice at all but speaking firmly and authoritatively. “If you want to act like a soldier, look like a soldier. And get yourself into a gym and replace that fat with some muscle. I can teach you how to control a man with the lightest touch, but I need something to work with first. Get yourself into shape and I’ll make a shock trooper out of you in no time.”
Things went much easier from that moment on. Buzhazi allowed himself to be led by the upper left arm — it would look better to others if the jailer physically held him — through the hallway to a large briefing room where each shift was briefed before beginning their tour of duty. That was where they found a Pasdaran master sergeant at a desk, doing paperwork. As soon as Buzhazi saw the noncommissioned officer in the room, he loosened himself from the jailer’s grasp and strode ahead of him. The master sergeant saw the general enter the room, shot to his feet, and stood at attention. “Room, atten-shun!” he said.
“As you were, master sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “I am General Buzhazi, commander of the Iranian Internal Defense Forces. I have need of this room.” He turned to the jailer. “Thank you, Corporal. Carry on.” The jailer snapped to attention, then got out of there as fast as he could. Buzhazi turned back to the NCO. “Your name, Master Sergeant?”
“Fattah, sir.”
“Do you recognize me, Master Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. You…are the former chief of staff. I believe you are currently commander of the Basij…”
“I prefer they be referred to as the Internal Security Forces,” Buzhazi corrected him. The master sergeant nodded, his mind obviously still in a bit of confusion as to what was going on. “You were notified of my arrival here?”
“The message informed me that you are to be held here until further notice. You will be sent to a separate wing until…”
“Until my office is ready, this room will suffice.”
The NCO hesitated. “Office, sir?”
“I’m here to organize the detail that will be sent out to hunt down the terrorists that perpetrated the attack on my units in Orumiyeh.”
“But I thought…er, I thought…”
“We don’t think around here, Master Sergeant — we have orders which must be obeyed until officially countermanded by legitimate orders from a verified higher authority. What are your orders regarding me, Master Sergeant?”
“I…I was told in the message to hold you and await instructions.”
“I am issuing additional instructions to you now,” Buzhazi said, “that do not violate any other orders and as such you will obey immediately. You will clear two phone lines for me and give me the passcodes to access the secure high-speed computer network lines. Where are my staff officers?”
“‘Staff officers,’ sir?”
“I was assured that other officers that are to be under my command were sent here, with orders that they are to be detained until further notice. They were to report to me as soon as possible. Where are they?”
“I’m sorry, General, but I’m not familiar with any officers sent here to be detailed to you,” Fattah said. He paused for a moment, then added, “We have several in detention awaiting interrogation or disciplinary action, but I don’t think they would be suitable for any activities such as you are describing.”
“That’s for me to decide, Master Sergeant,” Buzhazi said. “Have them report to me immediately.”
“I can bring them here to you, sir,” Fattah said, “but I may not release them to you without written orders from headquarters.”
“Understood. The passcodes?” Fattah handed Buzhazi a card. The passcodes on the card, which were changed regularly, were combined with each soldier’s own personal code to allow access to the secure worldwide network. “Very well. Carry on.” Fattah snapped to attention and departed.
As soon as he departed, Buzhazi hurriedly composed several messages on the computer to his staff officers and unit commanders around the country — using coded phrases and “virtual” e-mail addresses so the Pasdaran or their Intelligence Bureau investigators would hopefully find it more difficult to trace and decipher the messages or their intended recipients — advising them on what happened in Orumiyeh and the Supreme Defense Council’s reaction. He knew it was very possible for the Pasdaran to keep him here permanently without anyone else knowing he was here, or for him to just disappear without anyone being able to investigate or question any action. All communications in and out of all headquarters complexes were screened in real time by the Intelligence Bureau, but hopefully at least one message would make it out.
If none did, he would end up worse than dead — it would be as if he never existed.
He had barely hit the “SEND” button on the last message when Fattah returned with three men, all secured at the wrists with waist chain restraints. Two of the men wore gray and white striped prison overalls; the third, to Buzhazi’s surprise, wore a battle dress uniform with subdued brigadier-general’s stars on it! Like Buzhazi himself, it appeared he had come in directly from the field, without the opportunity to change uniforms or clean up. “Here are
