CHAPTER THREE
One does what one is; one becomes what one does.
“If they have no bread, where do they get all the energy to stand out here and protest?” Colonel Mostafa Rahmati, commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, muttered as he studied the security barriers and observed the crowds getting ever closer. Just two weeks earlier, Rahmati, a short, rather round man with bushy dark hair that seemed to grow thickly across every inch of his body except the top of his head, was executive officer of a transportation battalion, but the way commanding officers were disappearing — presumably killed by insurgents, although no one could rule out desertion — promotions came quickly and urgently in the army of the presumptive Democratic Republic of Persia.
“More smoke,” one of Rahmati’s lookouts reported. “Tear gas, not an explosion.” Seconds later, they heard a loud
“So I gather,” Rahmati said. He didn’t want to show any displeasure or exasperation — two weeks ago he wouldn’t have been able to tell a grenade explosion from a loud fart. “Watch the lines carefully — it could be a diversion.”
Rahmati and his staff were on the upper floor of an office building that once belonged to the Iranian Ministry of Transportation at Mehrabad International Airport. Since the military coup and the start of the Islamist insurgency against the military government in Iran, the coup leaders had decided to take over Mehrabad Airport and had established a tight security perimeter around the entire area. Although most of the city east of Tehran University had been left to the insurgents, taking over the airport turned out to be a wise decision. The airport was already highly secure; the open spaces around the field were easy to patrol and defend; and the airport could be kept open to receive and send supplies by air.
Besides, it was often pointed out, if the insurgents ever got the upper hand — which could be any day now — it would be that much easier to get the hell out of the country.
The windows rattled again, and heads turned farther southeast along Me’raj Avenue northeast toward Azadi Square, about two kilometers away, where another billow of smoke, this one topped with a crown of orange fire, suddenly rose. Bombings, arson, intentional accidents, mayhem, and frequent suicide bombings were commonplace in Tehran, and none more common than the area between Mehrabad Airport, Azadi Square, and the famous Freedom Tower, the erstwhile “Gateway to Iran.” Freedom Tower, first called Shahyad Tower, or the King’s Tower, commemorating the two thousand five hundredth anniversary of the Persian Empire, was built in 1971 by Shah Reza Pahlavi as a symbol of the new, modern Iran. The tower was renamed after the Islamic Revolution and, like the U.S. Embassy, was seen more as a symbol of the decadent monarchy and a warning to the people not to embrace the Western enemies of Islam. The square became a popular area for anti-Western demonstrations and speeches and so became a symbol of the Islamic revolution, which was probably why the marble-clad monument to Iran’s last monarchy was never torn down.
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, cafes, 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,
“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
