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dark waiter with the white jacket returned with their tea. Two men of military bearing followed him into the room. One, in civilian clothes, bore what Frank thought of as classic Middle Eastern features: swarthy complexion; hooked nose and high cheekbones framing piercing eyes that were as jet black as his hair; of medium height but with tensed muscles that tested the limits of his inexpensive gray suit. The other, in the uniform of an army major, was younger and fair, with a bounce to his step as he led the way into the room.
    He bypassed the others and went straight to General Merid, who stood to greet him. They saluted, shook hands, and embraced.
    “Daheejon,” said the major.
    “My son,” said General Merid in English. “This is Major Nazih, Hossein Nazih, my nephew, my protégé, you might say.”
    Behind their backs, Anwar rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Like Frank and Gus, following the general’s lead, he had stood to greet the new arrivals. He turned to shake hands with the beak-nosed man in civilian clothes.
    Frank noticed Gus studying their waiter, who seemed to linger longer than necessary. At a reproving glance from Anwar, the waiter, moving slowly, left the room.
    “How has it been, uncle?” said Major Nazih.
    “Tiring,” said the general. “Very tiring.”
    “You should not take these things so seriously. We will soon have it all under control.” He turned to the others. “Gentlemen. You must forgive us.” His words had the tone of an order rather than an apology. “But I haven’t seen my uncle for a week now. Pressing matters at the palace.”
    “My nephew is very close to His Imperial Majesty,” General Merid said softly to Gus.
    “Oh? How is the Shah holding up these days?” asked Gus.
    “Ah, are you the Sullivan one? Francis Sullivan?”
    “No,” said Gus. “I’m the Simpson one.” He nodded toward Frank. “That’s the Sullivan.”
    “Ah, I must have a word with you,” said the major, with a lingering glance at Frank. “A plus tard.” He moved to the chair just to the right of General Merid. “May I take this chair, Uncle?”
    “Of course,” said the general. “Please.”
    Until his own name had been mentioned, Frank had taken more interest in the beak-nosed man in the gray suit. Now he realized the man’s piercing black eyes studied him, perhaps wondering why Major Nazih had singled him out. He perched behind the metal chair to Anwar’s left, bent slightly forward, his hands cleaving to the chair back like talons on a tree branch. The coal-black eyes held steady on Frank, who noticed, for the first time, the small, dark, egg-shaped bump high on his forehead.
    “Well, now that we are all here,” said the general, taking his seat and folding his hands on the table, “perhaps we can begin.”
    The man in the gray suit was the last to sit, taking the chair opposite Frank. Frank, uncomfortable, looked away. The dark eyes went on studying him.
    “Perhaps we should all introduce ourselves,” said the general. “Each one telling a little bit about himself. Let’s begin with you, Commander Simpson.”
    The freshman icebreaker, thought Frank. Again, he was glad Gus sat closer to the general.
    “Lieutenant Commander Gus Simpson. U.S. Navy retired.” Frank’s peripheral vision told him the dark-eyed man had at last shifted his gaze as Gus continued. “Second lieutenant in World War II. Background as a Marine Corps public information officer. Military attaché, Athens, London. Briefing officer in Saigon. Pentagon spokesman. Currently on a DOD consulting contract, posted in Rome. Till they asked me to come over here and meet General Merid.”
    “Very good,” said the general, beaming.
    Very good, Frank agreed. Gus had kept his lies close to the truth.
    “And now you, Major Sullivan.”
    “Frank Sullivan. Air force. Before that, a few years as a newspaperman, reporter. Like Commander Simpson, background as a public information officer, civic and community service