“Hmmm.”

The Customs official looked at the visa. “You know that this visa is only good for seven days,” he said.

“Oh?”

“They should not have given you this one. In your case, because it is an important government assignment, you should have been given a six-month pass.”

“It should only take a day or two.”

“But that is the way it should be done.” The customs official reached under his desk and took out a pad. “Take this to the window over there,” he said, starting to write a note. “She will give you the proper documentation.”

“This matter came up in Dubai,” said Nuri. He spoke slowly, struggling with the words. “There was a debate. My boss went to the top official. They asked the ambassador himself. He said, this he said—give him the short visa only.”

“Well, if the ambassador said that. I could not overrule an ambassador.”

“Of course not.”

“He is wrong, though.”

“It wouldn’t be my place to say.”

The customs inspector shook his head, then crumpled the note up and put it in his pocket. He started to wave Nuri through, then realized he hadn’t checked his name against the list.

Slowly, he began leafing through the pages.

Nuri caught sight of Tarid walking out the main entrance.

“I’m sorry. We have procedures,” said the inspector as he found the Italian section.

“Take your time,” said Nuri, turning his eyes toward the ceiling.

44

Tehran

TEHRAN HAD ALWAYS FELT LIKE A FOREIGN PLACE TO ARASH Tarid. He’d been born in the southeastern corner of the country, about as far away from the capital as one could get and still stay in Iran. His first trip to the city had been when he was a teenager on some family errand, now long lost to memory. But he vividly remembered the city, all lit up. Cars whizzed everywhere—there was much less traffic, but just as much pollution. His eyes had stung the whole time he was there, and for three days afterward.

Tonight the traffic was worse, and the pollution just as bad. The taxi driver had asked 80,000 rials for the thirty-five-kilometer ride to the city; the fee hadn’t changed since the airport had opened.

“Returning home from business?” asked the driver, slowing with the traffic as they approached the city.

“Yes.”

“It must be exciting to go abroad.”

“It can be.”

Tarid shifted in the seat. While his leg injury hadn’t been serious, his body still ached from the firefight and the escape from the Sudan holding pen. He decided he would make a detour to Istanbul when his meeting with Bani Aberhadji was done. He would spend several days there, soaking in a bath in the old part of the city. A friend of his swore by the waters and the old man who ran the place, claiming they had curative powers.

And the apartments above were a good place to have drinks, if you knew the owner. He would not drink alcohol in Iran—the possibility of Aberhadji finding out was too great—but in Istanbul a man could relax, and even pose as a westerner if the mood struck him. No one would care.

“So, you were in Dubai?” asked the driver.

The question caught Tarid by surprise. He gripped the back of the driver’s seat and pulled himself close to the man.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“I—uh—I just, I thought you were on the plane from Dubai. It was the one that just landed.”

“How do you know that?”

“The plane—the same plane every night. I take people into the city.”

The driver was trembling. He was in his mid-twenties, already losing his hair.

Tarid sat back.

“Just drive,” he told the man.

TARID COULD HAVE STAYED IN ONE OF THE HOTELS IN THE CITY owned by the Revolutionary Guard; Bani Aberhadji would have seen that his bill was settled for him. But he found their atmosphere stifling, and chose a smaller guest house on the outskirts of the old city instead. The owner recognized him when he came through the door, and came out from behind the counter to personally take his bags and welcome him to Tehran.

“We will get you a very nice room,” said the owner, whose name Tarid tried to recall but could not remember. “But first—a little tea? You look tired from your journey.”

“Tea would be nice.”

“Very good, Arash,” said the owner, turning toward the office behind the desk. He clapped his hands together. “Simin, get our friend some tea. A few cookies, too.”

The hotelier practically pushed Tarid to an overstuffed chair at the side of the lobby, then sat down across from him.

“There are many rumors around the city,” he told Tarid as they waited for the tea. “The president has made peace with the U.S.A.”

“Yes, I’ve heard.”

“The rumor is that he’s going there soon.”

“I wouldn’t trust the devils,” said Tarid. “They’re not truthful.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still, it is an incredible thought.”

“A bad one.”

The host, who had relatives in America, stopped talking, afraid he might insult his guest.

His daughter Simin appeared a few moments later, carrying a tray with tea and cookies. Tarid hadn’t seen the girl in just over a year. She’d grown considerably in that time, blossoming into a beautiful woman. She wasn’t there yet—he was looking at a piece of fruit that had just begun to shade from green, its blush hinting at the sweetness still a week or two away. But the potential was obvious.

Her scarf slipped to one side as she poured the tea, exposing the curl of hair at the back of her neck. As someone who freely traveled the world, Tarid had numerous opportunities to see much more than that on women, yet the modest exposure made his heart surge.

“I’ve forgotten your name,” he said, reaching out to stop her hand as she poured.

“Simin.”

“A wonderful name. Silver. A precious piece of metal.”

Her eyes held his for a moment. Simin felt a confused mixture of emotions—excitement, dread, attraction. She knew from her father that Tarid was an important man, somehow connected with the Republican Guard. That he felt attracted to her—his eyes made that clear—was the most momentous thing that had happened to her since her birth.

Or so she believed. She flushed, and finished pouring the tea.

“Could I have some sugar?” asked Tarid. “Just one spoon.”

She put the teapot down, then bent to one knee to put it into his cup. Tarid admired the curve of her breast against her dress. To his mind, the suggestion was infinitely more seductive than the actual flesh.

The innkeeper saw the glances with alarm. His daughter was still young, not ready for marriage. If she left him, he would have no one to do the work here.

“Simin, off to your chores,” he said sharply. “I will see to our guest.”

“She is a very beautiful girl,” said Tarid when she was gone.

“Yes.”

The innkeeper’s nervousness amused Tarid. He said nothing else as he drank his tea, taking it in minuscule sips to savor the sweetness. Every so often he glanced at the doorway behind the desk, catching a glimpse of Simin as she went about her duties.

Finally, the cup was empty.

“Well, perhaps I will go up to my room now,” said Tarid. “I’ve had a long day and need to rest.”

“Yes, a good idea,” said the innkeeper with great relief. “Let me show you the way.”

NURI HAD THE CAB DRIVER DROP THEM OFF TWO BLOCKS from the hotel where Tarid had stopped.

“You want here, mister?” asked the driver. He spoke slowly in Farsi, forming each word carefully, convinced that it was the only way his foreign fare would understand. “I take you to a good hotel. Better for tourists.”

“This will do,” said Tarid in Farsi.

“But—”