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wearing a wire?”
    “I don’t care if you brought a film crew.” I took a sip and set aside my cup. “What’s the play here? Did you really set this whole thing up, the snipers and all, just so you could debate politics with a tourist?”
    “Ah,” he snorted with a sour smile. “‘Tourist.’”
    “Ah,” I said with a nod in his direction. “‘Human being.’”
    “The spies—”
    “Hikers.”
    “‘Hikers,’ whatever, are not the issue, Captain. We will get them back.”
    “Not a chance.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Pretty sure. If I had to guess, I’d bet you a shiny ten-rial piece that they’re eating lunch at the U.S. embassy someplace safe. Kuwait, maybe.”
    “Then why are you still here?”
    “I’m doing touristy things. I even went to a few museums. Want to see my ticket stubs? Right now, I’m doing nothing more sinister than having a cup of coffee and reading the paper.”
    “While waiting for a pickup car, perhaps?” His smile faded. “Captain, let’s not—what’s the American expression? ‘Jerk each other off’?”
    I grinned.
    “Frankly I don’t much care about the hikers , even though I know you were involved.”
    “Yeah? How about the mosque bombing? You don’t want to try and hang that on me, just for shits and giggles.”
    “I have no interest in arresting you for anything.”
    “Better for everyone,” I said. “You wouldn’t survive the attempt.”
    “You are very sure of yourself,” he said.
    “Yes,” I said. “I am. I’m not saying that your guys couldn’t take me—we’re in your country, not mine—but not with you still sucking air. Might even be worth it, though.”
    If Rasouli was frightened by my threat he managed not to show it. “We are wasting time neither of us has.”
    “Okay. So why are we here? What do you want to talk about?”
    His eyes glittered like cold green glass. “Let us talk about saving the world.”

 
    Chapter Seven
    The Agriculture Building, 7th floor
    Tehran, Iran
    June 15, 7:59 a.m.
    “We have to go,” said the tallest of the four women. She was a blocky Serbian with a knife scar across her mouth.
    “You go,” said the Italian woman by the window. Although she was younger by twelve years than the Serbian and had less field time than either of the other two—a Castilian brunette and a French blonde—the Italian was the team leader. “I want to watch this.”
    The others nodded and began packing their gear—disassembling their sniper rifles and scopes—but the Serbian lingered. It was her laser sight that had danced over the heart of the American agent; it was hers that had wandered down to burn with ugly promise over his crotch. She would have taken that shot, too. Without hesitation or remorse. Now her black eyes bored into the younger woman’s.
    “Another team is already on Rasouli,” said the Serbian. “They’ll pick him up when he leaves the café. Why are we wasting time?”
    The Italian woman turned slowly away from the window and fixed her gaze on the tall Serbian. She held that stare for five full seconds, not blinking, not allowing a trace of emotion to change her expression. It was an old trick, one of Lilith’s—something her mother had used on her countless times—and it worked now, too. The Serbian’s eyes held for four seconds and then slid away.
    “I want to watch the American,” said the Italian, letting her gaze linger a moment longer before she turned without hurry back to the window. She made sure not to turn or acknowledge as the three other women finished packing.
    After the other two filed out, the Serbian lingered in the doorway. “The American isn’t our—”
    “I’ll decide who is and isn’t our concern,” snapped the Italian. When she was angry her tone was identical to her mother’s, and it shut the Serbian up as surely as a slap across the face. It did that with everyone. The Italian gave it a few seconds to set the mood, then she said, “Set up a surveillance post. Two