Seyyed Mehdi held his breath. His hand on the wooden doorknob of Dr. Jalali’s office was slightly sweaty. This time, it wasn’t the time for formal appointments or protocol. The voices of a few representatives echoed from behind the closed doors of the corridor, but he was focused on only one goal. With resolute determination, he opened the door.
The office had a cold, heavy air. Dr. Jalali was sitting behind his large, cluttered desk—only he knew where each document was exactly—staring at his laptop screen with a troubled expression. An old family photo, featuring himself, his late wife, and Seyyed Mehdi as a teenager, sat on a corner of the desk.
“I need to speak with you immediately,” Seyyed Mehdi said without preamble, slamming his thick brown research file hard onto the desk surface, causing the family photo to shake. “This time, it’s no longer suspicion. The plan is designed in advance and is being executed step by step.”
Dr. Jalali slowly raised his head. His gaze was a mix of the day’s weariness and astonishment at his son’s blunt behavior. “Seyyed Mehdi, for God’s sake. This is the parliament, not a university lab. You could have at least called. I have a commission meeting right now.”
“The commission can wait a few minutes. But this information can’t.” Seyyed Mehdi, ignoring his father’s protest, opened the file and pulled out several charts and satellite images. “Look, father. A precise, repeating pattern is evident here. From the events of ’78 to ’88 and ’98. Each time, before a widespread street explosion, we witness three stages: First, an organized wave of fake news and psychological analysis in specific media outlets, domestic and foreign. Second, fueling a seemingly independent union or student protest and turning it into a national crisis. And third, igniting the fire with a tragic event or a deadly clash.” His finger moved over the map. “Right now, we are exactly at the end of the first stage and the beginning of the second. False news about drug shortages and inflation is exploding. And this…” he pulled out a sheet of bank transactions, “…is the money trail. The charity foundation ‘Omid-e Farda’ (Tomorrow’s Hope) in Stockholm, just a month ago, transferred huge sums to the accounts of several domestic media outlets and news websites. This foundation, on paper, is for helping war-affected children, but my research shows its office is a thirty-square-meter apartment and its CEO is just one person.”
Dr. Jalali removed his thick-rimmed glasses and carefully wiped them. This was his habitual move when he needed time to think. “My son,” he began in a calm but heavy tone, “you are a sharp and committed researcher. Your analyses have always been precise and data-based. I believe in your sharpness.” He paused and looked at his son’s eager face. “But here, in this building, I am not just Dr. Jalali, your father. I am the representative of the people of this city. Every word that leaves my mouth, every warning I give, can be interpreted as the official position of the parliament. If I go to the floor today with this evidence—which is still not legally complete—and speak of a ‘foreign hand,’ tomorrow the headline of all hostile media will be: ‘MP Endangers Country’s Foreign Relations Based on His Son’s Conspiracy Theories.'”
Seyyed Mehdi pulled out a chair and sat down, as if his energy had suddenly drained. “So we should wait until the bomb explodes? Until our youth’s blood is spilled? You always said prevention is better than cure.”
“My dear, prevention requires a doctor’s definitive diagnosis.” Jalali rose from behind his desk and walked towards the large window facing his desk. The view outside was of the old buildings and ancient trees of the Baharestan neighborhood. “What you’ve done is like finding the early symptoms of a contagious disease.
It’s alarming, but to declare a general quarantine, we need more definitive tests and an official report from the Ministry of Health—or in this case, the security institutions. I cannot bypass the responsible institutions. That itself becomes disorder and chaos.”
“But father, time is running out!” Seyyed Mehdi said anxiously. “They are like a machine already in gear. Every hour of delay, the people pay its price. I’m getting reports from within the fabric of society. There is real anger, real poverty, and these external elements are precisely investing in these sensitive points to bring the whole structure down.”
Dr.Jalali turned and looked directly into his son’s eyes. This time, his gaze showed a trace of softening and pride. “I know. My eyes and ears aren’t closed either. News from the neighborhoods and people’s reports reach me too. But Seyyed Mehdi, politics is the art of the possible. The art of turning a personal warning into a national consensus.” He returned to his desk and picked up the transaction sheet. “This financial connection you mention… it can be leveraged. But not from the position of ‘Seyyed Mehdi’s father.'”
Seyyed Mehdi raised his head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you go and bring stronger evidence. One step further. Who is this charity foundation in direct contact with inside the country? Who exactly received the money? Can you find the intermediary link? A name, an account number, a documented conversation.” Jalali sat behind his desk again, now speaking with more energy. “As the head of the National Security Commission, I can arrange an urgent meeting with the officials of the relevant institutions. But not based on pattern analysis. Based on a crime document. A proven connection. Then, your warning will be heard from my mouth in that meeting, and we can plan a preemptive action.”
Seyyed Mehdi was silent for a few moments. He felt the heavy burden of responsibility and also the new opportunity his father had placed before him. The wall of distrust and bureaucracy had cracked, but it hadn’t collapsed yet. He had to forge a key.
“Then there’s no time to waste.” Seyyed Mehdi stood up and began gathering his file. “One question, father. If I find this intermediary link, will you really take action? Before it’s too late?”
Seyyed closed the door behind him. Dr. Jalali stared at the closed door. Then, with a quick movement, he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number. “Hello, Mr. Sharafoddin? Jalali speaking. There’s a potential matter I’d like to informally brief you on… Yes, it relates to national security research. If possible, come by my office tomorrow for a simple tea…”
Outside the window, dark clouds were gathering, and the tops of the ancient trees, under the force of a sudden, fierce wind that had begun to blow, were bending in a worrisome manner. The storm was on its way, and now at least two people, without the other knowing, were preparing to face it.
