passed, trying to figure what it was.
'Something for your wife?' Lefevre asked.
Clark tried an unconvincing smile. 'Oh, you never know. Anniversary coming up soon.' He stopped to look at a necklace.
'Where are you from?' the dealer asked.
'America,' John replied, also in English. The man had picked out his nationality at once, probably from his clothes, and taken the chance to speak in that language.
'We do not see many Americans here.'
'Too bad. In my younger days I traveled here quite a lot.' It was actually rather a nice necklace, and on checking the price tag and doing the mental calculation, the cost was reasonable as hell. And he did have an anniversary approaching.
'Perhaps someday that will change,' the goldsmith said.
'There are many differences between my country and yours,' John observed sadly. Yes, he could afford it, and as usual he had plenty of cash with him. One nice thing about American currency was that it was damned near universally accepted.
'Things change,' the man said next.
'Things have changed,' John agreed. He looked at a slightly more expensive necklace. It wasn't any problem handling them. One thing about Islamic countries, they had a way of discouraging thieves. 'There's so little smiling here, and this is a market street.'
'You have two men following you.'
'Really? Well, I'm not breaking any laws, am I?' Clark asked with some obvious concern.
'No, you are not.' But the man was nervous.
'This one,' John said, handing it to the goldsmith.
'How will you pay?'
'American dollars, is that okay?'
'Yes, and the price is nine hundred of your dollars.' It required all of his control not to show surprise. Even in a New York wholesale shop, this necklace would have been triple that, and while he wasn't quite prepared to spend that much, haggling was part of the fun of shopping in this part of the world. He'd figured that he could talk the guy down to maybe fifteen hundred, still a considerable bargain. Had he heard the man properly?
'Nine hundred?'
An emphatic finger pointed right at his heart. 'Eight hundred, not a dollar less—you wish to ruin me?' he added loudly. 'You bargain hard.' Clark adopted a defensive posture for the benefit of the watchers, who were coming closer.
'You are an unbeliever! You expect charity? This is a fine necklace, and I hope you will give it to your honorable wife and not a lesser, debauched woman!' Clark figured he'd put the man in enough danger. He pulled out his wallet and counted off the bills, handing them over.
'You pay me too much, I am not a thief!' The goldsmith handed one back.
Seven hundred dollars for this?
'Excuse me, I meant no insult,' John said, pocketing the necklace, which the man not quite tossed to him without a case.
'We are not all barbarians,' the dealer said quietly, abruptly turning his back a split-second later.
Clark and Lefevre walked to the end of the street and headed to the right. They moved quickly, forcing their tail to follow.
'What the hell?' the CIA officer observed. He hadn't expected anything like that to happen.
'Yes. The enthusiasm for the regime has abated somewhat. What you saw is representative. That was nicely done, Monsieur Clark. How long in the Agency?'
'Long enough that I don't like being surprised that much. I believe your word is merde.'
'So, is it for your wife?'
John nodded. 'Yeah. Will he get into any trouble?'
'Unlikely,' Lefevre said. 'He may have lost money on the exchange, Clark. An interesting gesture, was it not?'
'Let's get back. I have a Cabinet secretary to wake up.' They were back in fifteen minutes. John went right to his room.
'What's the weather like outside, Mr. C?' Clark reached into his pocket and tossed something across the room. Chavez caught it.
'Heavy.'
'What do you suppose it costs, Domingo?'
'Looks like twenty-one carat, feels like it too…. coupla grand, easy.'
'Would you believe seven hundred?'
'You related to the guy, John?' Chavez asked with a laugh. The laugh stopped. 'I thought they didn't like us here?'
'Things change,' John said quietly, quoting the goldsmith.
'HOW BAD WAS it?' Cathy asked.
'One hundred four survivors, it says, some pretty beat up, ninety confirmed dead, about thirty still unaccounted for, meaning they're dead, too, just haven't identified the body parts yet,' Jack said, reading the dispatch just brought to the bedroom door by Agent Raman. 'Sixteen Americans in the survivor category. Five dead. Nine unknown and presumed dead. Christ, there were forty PRC citizens aboard.' He shook his head.
'How come—if they don't get along—'
'Why do they do so much business? They do, and that's a fact, honey. They spit and snarl at each other like alley cats, but they need each other, too.'
'What will we do?' his wife asked.
'I don't know yet. We're saving the press release for tomorrow morning, when we have more information. How the hell am I supposed to sleep on a night like this?' the President of the United States asked. 'We have fourteen dead Americans halfway around the world from here. I was supposed to protect them, wasn't I? I'm not supposed to let people kill our citizens.'
'People die every day, Jack,' the First Lady pointed out.
'Not from air-to-air missiles.' Ryan put the dispatch on his night table and switched off the light, wondering when sleep would come, wondering how the meeting would go in Tehran.
IT STARTED WITH handshakes. A foreign ministry official met them outside the building. The French ambassador handled introductions, and everyone swiftly moved inside, the better to avoid the coverage of a TV camera, though none appeared to be in evidence on the street. Clark and Chavez played their parts, standing close to their principal, but not too close, looking around nervously, as they were supposed to do.
Secretary Adler followed the official, with everyone else in trail. The French ambassador stopped in the anteroom with the others, as Adler and his guide went all the way into the rather modest official office of the UIR's spiritual leader.
'I welcome you in peace,' Daryaei said, rising from his chair to greet his guest. He spoke through an interpreter. It was a normal ploy for such meetings. It made for greater precision in communications—and also if something went badly wrong, it could be said that the interpreter had made the mistake, which gave both sides a convenient way out. 'Allah's blessing on this meeting.'
'Thank you for receiving me on such short notice,' Adler said, taking his seat.
'You have come far. Your journey was a good one?' Daryaei inquired pleasantly. The entire ritual would be pleasant, or at least the beginning of it.
'It was uneventful,' Adler allowed. He struggled not to yawn or show fatigue. Three cups of strong European coffee helped, though they made his stomach a little jumpy. Diplomats in serious meetings were supposed to act like surgeons in an operating room, and he had long practice in showing none of his emotions, jumpy stomach or not.
'I regret that we cannot show you more of our city. There is so much history and beauty here.' Both men waited for the words to be translated. The translator was thirtyish, male, intense, and, Adler saw… afraid of Daryaei? he wondered. He was probably a ministry official, dressed in a suit that needed a little pressing, but the
