[b]Saadabad Palace - Tehran, Iran[/b]

Saadabad Palace was a majestic thing - a jewel fit for crown of the Shah of Iran. Inside its gleaming white marble walls was a veritable oasis of trees, carefully-maintained grasslands, and winding walkways with castles dotting the complex. The main driveway led in from Valiasr Street to the south, through a neoclassical gate. It ended in a roundabout driveway that was dominated by a beautifully-carved marble fountain bearing four winged lions. Gardens of exotic flowers flanked the road on either side, while trimmed bushes separated the two driving lanes. The bare trees glittered with snow, seeming almost to blend in with the predominantly marble buildings. Animals like deer frolicked in the vast forests that the Shah walked through daily, and they commonly appeared at the edge of the forest paths to gaze in awe at the strange beings who appeared in their space. Beyond the driveway was the massive fenced garden of traditional Persian style: flowers of all shapes and sizes were painstakingly maintained by skilled gardeners as a part of the palace staff. Yet the regal gardens paled in comparison to the palace that towered over them.

A mix of neoclassical and traditional Persian architectural styles, the Saadabad Palace sported multiple patios and walkways, decorated with intricately-carved stone railings. Towers flanked each the vertices and presented the form of ancient defenses - a rustic touch that somehow heightened the imperial tones associated with such a structure. These were vaguely hexagonal, much like the rest of the palace. In the center of this was another courtyard, with a pond and a gazebo that seemed to float above it. Behind that courtyard, assuming one entered from the south, was the residence of the Shah of Imperial Iran: Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. The young, handsome man had long since retired for the evening, sporting a conservative vest and shirt in lieu of the militaristic uniform he wore for the public. This was unbuttoned, hanging loosely around his shoulders as he moved around to gaze out of his windows at the mountains beyond the palace. All was silent that night: nothing much happened in Tehran on a weekday after dark.

Sitting on a lavish crimson sofa and smoking a cigar was Mohammad Reza's Prime Minister: Ali Mansur. The man was considerably older than Mohammad, being almost double his age, yet still expressed a relaxed tone like the Shah's. A pair of round glasses perched atop his tired eyes while he ran his fingers through thinning hair. Mansur, every once in a while, smirked and let out an amused breath while he stared at the calligraphy covering the ceiling. Mohammad, in turn, would turn his head and smile in turn, a twinkle in his eye that seemed to say that he was simply amused by the old man sitting and laughing at himself. After another minute or so of this, the Shah turned completely and asked with a grin: "What seems to be so funny, Mister Mansur?"

"A joke I read in the papers," Mansur replied, not taking his eyes off of the ceiling. "But it was far too vulgar for your young ears."

"What was it?" playfully demanded the Shah.

"Oh, I don't want to corrupt your soul."

"Someone shot me a few months ago, Ali," reminded Mohammad with a grin: "I'm not a child."

"It was a graze," dismissed Mansur. "Gunman was a half-blind Tudeh."

Mohammad snorted with amusement and turned back around to the window. Mansur continued to puff on his cigar, enjoying the after-meeting relaxation. He had gotten it down to halfway, ash periodically flicked into a nearby wastebin. The prime-minister was an expert smoker, if there was even such a thing.

"So it's a new year," said Mohammad suddenly, turning away from the window again.

"It's not Nowruz yet but alright," Mansur smirked.

"A Gregorian new year," the Shah clarified. "Let's get on the level of everyone else now, Ali."

"I'm just screwing with you, Your Imperial Highness. So what is your point?"

"My point is that we can use this chance to improve. Gone is the decade of war and suffering. We should try to start anew now," Mohammad suggested while he turned back to the window. He began pacing back and forth, rubbing his left shoulder with his right hand and thinking to himself.

"Parliament convenes in a few days," Mansur noted, eying the Shah somewhat suspiciously.

"Good, good. I have policy changes floating around in my head and I'd like them to be seen."

"You're not going to enact them yourself?"

"Ali, I am the leader of Iran. A leader needs to do what his people want him to do. I am the herald of the Iranians, and I will do what I see fit. However, what I see fit may change based on their wants and needs. The wants and needs of both the native Iranians, but the people who decide to live here. Jews, Armenians, Azeris... Afghans. You get the picture, don't you?"

"Heh," replied Mansur as he tapped his ash off into the wastebin. "Did the liberal party get elected or something?"

"Not necessarily," Mohammad pointed out. "I just don't want any kind of revolts."

"You can't exactly please everyone. Sometimes you have to find a group and stick with it. And then you follow the course of that one Italian guy... Who was it? Machiavelli, right?"

"Make them fear you," responded Mohammad. "Until they have enough and they storm your palace and shoot you dead."

"Don't be such a pessimist."

"Remember the Tsar? Well, I wasn't born yet but I'm sure you were a strapping young twenty-something." The Shah began to pace towards Mansur, running his fingers through his black hair.

"I was fighting in the Great War, yes," responded Mansur with an inquisitively-raised eyebrow. He took another puff on his cigar before realizing that it was too flimsy for him to continue smoking it. With a flick of his wrist, the smoldering tip was buried in an ashtray. The Prime Minister thought about reaching for another but declined, instead turning his full attention to Mohammad.

"I'm not going to be overthrown by communists, is the moral of this story. I'm going to make Iran great again," he continued. Mansur cocked his head to the side.

"The West won't allow that."

"Not unless we get closer," Mohammad pointed out. "They'll prop up any friend of theirs with more money than we can ever imagine."

"That is true," Mansur conceded. "But the nationalists will be upset."

"Which is why we need to even out both policies. We become powerful but we don't upset the West. Now, Parliament meets in two weeks and I have new policies I've been thinking up. It's time to become aggressive. We must pursue greatness."

"What are you talking about?"

"We're using this instability to our advantage, Ali. It's time to expand. Let the winged lion fly, and we shall be as bright as the sun."

"And what's my role in this?" asked Mansur, hiding his shock at such an unorthodox suggestion.

"You're friends with the West - the British. Convince them to support us, or at the very least stay out of our way."

The Prime Minister sat up, leather recliner creaking in the process. He stood just shorter than the Shah, looking up into the younger man's steady face. With another swift motion, he held out his hand. The Shah took it and gave a hearty shake before patting Mansur on the back. "We can do this. It is our time, [i]insha'Allah[/i]," he said reassuringly.

"I'm going home," Mansur announced as he reached for the jacket that hung off of the back of a nearby chair. "I'll telephone the British in the morning to set up a meeting. Do you have a plan?"

"I do. I'll bring it to the meeting."