Persian Empire 1845

Chapter 489 Restaurant Conversation
Samwell Restaurant is one of Tehran's most upscale restaurants, serving local cuisine as well as French and Austrian dishes. It's a popular choice for both foreigners and local dignitaries who make reservations there.

The waiter brought the Normandy seafood stew to the table, along with a bottle of wine. Mahdi took a bite and found it very delicious.

"Come on, Hafiz, try this. Being a reporter must be very hard, right?"

Hafez, a reporter for the Tehran Daily, looked at the dishes in front of him. These were dishes that he would have saved up for three years to afford, and now they were laid out before him.

"Old classmate, I never imagined you'd become the Minister of Posts and Telecommunications. When we parted ways, many people laughed at you, saying it was a mistake for you to work at the post office. Now it seems they were all wrong."

Mahdi chuckled and took another bite. "I already told you back then that this is a new era. The telegraph has changed the way we communicate, but you didn't believe me."

"Yes, yes, I wish you success, Minister!"

The two toasted, and then Hafiz asked why he had been brought here today.

"Would you believe me if I said we were just chatting?"

Hafiz rolled his eyes. "Forget it. If that's really the case, you should go to the hospital to get checked out. I suppose you want to ask me for a favor?"

“Oh dear, I can’t hide it from you after all.” Mahdi put down his cutlery and moved closer to Hafiz. “Do you know what’s been happening in Kerman lately?”

Hafiz nodded. "I know. The government wants to remeasure the land, but the locals are preventing it and have even injured a few people. Is there any new development?"

Mahdi kept everyone in suspense, saying, "Well, it's said that after the Grand Vizier told the Shah about this, the Shah was very angry."

"In that case, Kerman and his men are in big trouble."

Hafiz knew what Shah would do; after all, it was government policy, and if the local authorities dared to defy it, they had to be prepared to pay the price.

“Yes, but there are still some twists and turns.” Mahdi’s knife made a soft scraping sound on the porcelain plate as he lowered his voice and said, “Do you know why the landowners in Kerman have suddenly become so bold?” Hafiz’s journalistic instincts were immediately triggered. He put down his wine glass and leaned forward slightly.

“Because someone is backing them up.” Mahdi pulled a folded piece of paper from his inner pocket and quietly handed it under the tablecloth. “Take a look at this.”

Hafez unfolded the slip of paper, which recorded several transfers—a total of 20,000 riyals sent from a bank in Shiraz to Kerman last month, to several large local landowning families. The remitter's code was "ZF".

"ZF" Hafez frowned in thought, then suddenly widened his eyes, "Could it be Interior Minister Zahir Farzadi?"

Mahdi took a sip of his drink, offering no comment, but his eyes spoke volumes. Hafiz gasped—Falzadi was a key figure in the conservative faction, reportedly closely connected to certain distant relatives of the royal family. If even high-ranking officials were secretly funding forces resisting land reform, then the matter was far more complex than a simple local uprising.

“That’s not all,” Mahdi said, pulling another copy of a telegram from his briefcase. “Take a look at the coded telegram sent from Kerman to Tehran three days ago.” The telegram was written in commercial coded language, ostensibly a report on wool prices, but Hafez immediately saw through it—“20 bundles of white sheep” referred to twenty armed guards, and “rising black sheep prices” implied a deteriorating situation requiring more funds. Most fatally, it was signed: “Owner of the Garden.”

“Fahta?!” Hafez nearly dropped his wine glass. This distant relative of the royal family owned a famous rose garden outside Tehran, and the upper class called him “the garden’s owner.” If even members of the royal family were involved in this conspiracy to resist reforms…

The document records several clandestine transactions: on a certain day of a certain month, an official from the Ministry of the Interior accepted gold bars from Kerman Mahmud Khan; on a certain night of a certain week, an official from the Ministry of Education accepted a "gift of gratitude" from a family in Shiraz at a private villa.

Mahdi quickly retrieved the document: "Now you understand why I said 'roundabout,' right? On the surface, it's farmers resisting taxes, but in reality, it's the big shots in Tehran vying for power behind the scenes." He looked at his old classmate meaningfully, "Didn't the Tehran Daily recently launch a 'National Frontier' column?"

Hafiz's pen was already itching to write in his notebook, but he forced himself to remain calm: "This evidence is too sensitive; the editor-in-chief might not dare to publish it."

"Who told you to come openly?" Mahdi chuckled. "For example, you could write an article titled 'The Economic Factors Behind the Kerman Land Dispute,' focusing on analyzing certain 'mysterious capital flows'; or interview several farmers driven to ruin by loan sharks, mentioning incidentally that they 'encountered the carriages of some important figures' when they went to Tehran to file their complaints."

As they were talking, the restaurant door suddenly opened. The two men froze—Falzadi himself, along with several other nobles, walked in! Hafiz quickly covered his face with the menu, but Mahdi had already locked eyes with Falzadi.

"Hmm? Isn't this our newly appointed Minister of Posts?" Farzadi strolled to their table, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the two men behind his glasses. "And this is?"

“This is a classmate I met in college. He’s in Tehran recently, so I asked him to say hello.”

“I see,” Farzadi said. “I thought this was an ally you sought to attack me in the cabinet.”

Mahdi laughed. "You're so funny! Who would dare attack you? You're the backbone of the government!"

"Don't say that. At least the Grand Vizier wants me dead. I've heard you've had a long-standing relationship with him."

Mahdi waved his hand. "Isn't that how it is now? You can't get things done without connections. By the way, would you like to try the Normandy seafood here? It's said to be sturgeon specially sourced from the Caspian Sea."

"No, since that's the case, you can stay here. I won't bother you any longer."

When they entered the private room, Hafiz realized that the back of his shirt was soaked with sweat. He lowered his voice and asked, "Did he see the note?"

“Probably not. If he had seen him, he would have told me already.” He left a few banknotes. “I have to go now. I have to see the Shah tomorrow. Remember—” He pointed meaningfully to Hafiz’s pocket, “journalists must always defend the truth.”

After Mahdi left, Hafiz pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. On the back was an address; these journalists frequently received anonymous tips. If, given the current division within the government, they happened to obtain copies of certain documents, no one could say anything.

"Oh dear, I never thought I'd become someone who stirs up trouble for the government," Hafiz remarked.

(End of this chapter)