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President Yadollah Afshar led them in prayer, then turned to his colleagues.

“I must go on television soon and address the nation,” the president said solemnly. “We must activate plans for the state funeral. And of course, the assembly must move with all haste and discretion to anoint a worthy successor.”

The first two sentences passed without notice. It was the last one that chilled Mahmoud Entezam to his core. Worried that the expression on his face might reveal the shock and horror he felt, Entezam fished through his briefcase and drew out a notepad and pen so he could make a list of actions that needed his attention. The most urgent, of course, didn’t even require being written down. He needed to brief the man sitting across from him on the crisis unfolding in southern Lebanon. Yet he was suddenly having difficulty concentrating, so profound was his contempt for Yadollah Afshar.

It was no secret how long the late Supreme Leader and President Afshar had known each other or how fond they were of each other personally. The two men’s friendship went back decades. While earning his doctorate in Islamic law and jurisprudence, Afshar had been a student of then-Professor Ansari in the Shia seminary where Ansari had long taught in the city of Qom. Yet at Ansari’s encouragement, Afshar had not entered the clergy. Instead, he had pursued a master’s in public administration from the University of Tehran. Ansari had insisted that his disciple possessed a knack for leadership and could be very useful to the regime by serving in the highest levels of government. This counsel had both surprised and inspired Afshar and set into motion a remarkable career of public service.

In the years after graduate school, Afshar had served as Iran’s deputy minister of the interior, then as minister. Later he’d been tapped to be the regime’s minister of finance and still later, the nation’s minister of foreign affairs. What almost no one beyond Entezam knew was that it was the Supreme Leader himself who had secretly encouraged his protégé to run for president.

Elections in the Islamic Republic of Iran were rigged from beginning to end. The public was led to believe that their votes mattered. The truth, however, was that any man the Supreme Leader wanted to serve in the presidency would, in the end, appear to be elected, no matter who the voters wanted to serve. To be sure, candidates went through the motions of campaigning. State newspapers and television and radio networks earnestly covered the would-be horse race. And the people were given a day off to go to the polls on Election Day to mark their ballots. Everyone played their parts convincingly. And why not? Most thought the elections were real.

Entezam knew better. One of the responsibilities of the IRGC commander was to ensure that the Supreme Leader’s hand-chosen man was announced as winner on election night. Ever loyal to the Grand Ayatollah, Entezam had performed this duty not just once but twice. In two successive elections he had made certain that Yadollah Afshar emerged as head of the government. He’d done so despite how little he thought of the man. He’d done so because Afshar was so easy to contain and manipulate that Entezam had never seen him as a threat. The head of the IRGC had been perennially revolted by watching from the front row as Afshar had continued to ingratiate himself to his mentor and political patron. But Entezam had always consoled himself with the knowledge that one day Afshar would harmlessly pass from the political scene.

What horrified Entezam now was the notion that the Supreme Leader might have planned all along to reward his protégé by naming Afshar his successor. Entezam had no proof, yet there was something in Afshar’s tone, his body language, his sense of calm, even his decision to come to this very room—the private personal study of the Supreme Leader—that suggested the man didn’t simply hope to emerge as the assembly’s first choice but actually expected it.

“General? General Entezam? Are you all right?”

The IRGC commander suddenly heard Abbasi calling his name and realized that he had zoned out for who knew how long.

“Please forgive me, Your Excellency—Dr. Abbasi—to both of you I profoundly apologize,” Entezam stammered, realizing both men were staring at him with looks of great confusion and concern. “The death of our esteemed leader is not easy to bear.”

“It is a difficult day, indeed,” said the president.

“Can I get you anything?” Abbasi asked.

“No, no—I will be fine,” Entezam demurred. “I just . . .”

His voice trailed off, and he was embarrassed to have lowered his guard before a man he considered his most serious enemy.

“Perhaps I should ring for the doctor,” Abbasi suggested.

“Thank you, but I will be fine, I assure you,” Entezam said.

“Very well,” said President Afshar, returning to his checklist. “Then we ought to discuss the funeral. Today is Saturday. I think we should aim for Wednesday.”

“Yes, that would be fine, Your Excellency, but before we get to such matters, we have another problem we must address,” Entezam replied, trying to regather his thoughts.

“What could be more serious than the death of our leader?” Afshar asked.

“Well, Your Excellency, as I was arriving at the palace, I received an urgent message from our esteemed brother and ally in Lebanon, Sheikh al-Hussaini. I would have brought it to your attention immediately, but before I could, I heard the wail from inside the leader’s bedroom and we all raced to his side.”

“What is it?” Afshar pressed. “Is the Sheikh all right?”

“He is, but I’m afraid there’s been an event on the Zionist border.”