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programs, adviser to military public information officers in several African countries.”
    “What were you doing in Ethiopia?” said the youthful Major Nazih.
    Frank hadn’t expected trouble so soon. He felt the burning dark eyes swing back to him.
    “That was a bit different. I was involved with the IEG military, but the Ethiopians asked to have me detached to work with their Ministry of Information.”
    “And with their Imperial Majesty, so I understand.”
    Frank studied the young major, who had come to their meeting directly from the palace. No contact with the palace and the Shah, he’d been told. Absolutely no contact.
    “Well, yes,” said Frank, forcing a smile. “When an emperor makes a request, it’s hard to turn him down. Haile Selassie liked the way I wrote. So I started doing some speeches for him, policy statements, things like that.”
    “You just about ran the country, so they tell me.”
    “Nothing like that,” said Frank. “I was just a fast man at the typewriter was all.”
    “My uncle, ah, not General Merid, my uncle at the palace, he has liaison with your embassy. He has informed the Shah of your presence. The Shah remembers you well. He is fond of you.”
    “I’m honored,” said Frank. “And surprised. We only spoke a few times.”
    “And poor Haile Selassie. He did not end well, did he?” said the major.
    “No,” said Frank. “They said he died in his sleep.”
    “But we know someone helped with a pillow over his face, don’t we?” said Nazih.
    “I heard that’s what happened.”
    “And Ethiopia suffers badly without him. But I suppose all that happened after you left?”
    “Three years after,” said Frank.
    Major Nazih studied him. Frank, tired of being stared at, stared back. He detected a languid, feminine fluttering of the major’s dark eyelashes.
    “Perhaps we’ll have to keep you here forever,” said the major, turning his long lashess toward the general. “We wouldn’t want the Shah to suffer Haile Selassie’s fate, would we?”
    *   *   *
    A beep sounded from General Merid’s wrist. He checked his watch.
    “Ah, four o’clock. I must be going. An important meeting.” The general stood, scraping his chair on the concrete floor. Five chairs echoed the sound. “Shall we adjourn?” said the general. “And at zero eight hundred hours, precisely, tomorrow we will meet again. And Mr. Sullivan will have an agenda for us, am I correct?”
    “Correct,” said Frank. He checked his Timex, which tended to run fast. Five after four. The dark-eyed man, who had introduced himself as Captain Munair Irfani of the Iranian Navy, and Nazih followed the general. Major Anwar Amini of the air force lingered while Frank and Gus struggled into their parkas.
    “You must be fatigued,” said Anwar.
    “I know I should be polite and lie about it,” said Frank.
    He had fought hard to keep awake, stifling yawns and pinching himself after the heavy lunch they’d eaten at their conference room table. The overcooked lamb on soggy rice with cabbage and unleavened bread and sweet tea rebelled in his stomach. He’d ventured into the bathroom after lunch and found it consisted of several holes in the concrete floor, a pitcher of water next to each. Frank, tightening his sphincter, urinated down one of the holes and vowed to stuff a pocket with toilet paper for tomorrow.
    He’d noticed Gus nodding off several times during their afternoon session as the general droned on about the importance of getting the armed forces involved in civic action programs with the population, particularly in the rural areas, which he referred to, often, as “the real Iran.”
    Anwar escorted them down the wide marble staircase under the graceful, unlit chandelier, which Frank now realized had the shape of a crown. Anwar held open the glass doors, and they walked into the bracing air.
    “Tell me something,” said Gus. “Our waiter. Does he speak English?”
    “Hamid? As a matter of fact,”