“The Israelis?” Helen said. “How long has this been going on? The last couple of years?”

“All along. Even when the Iranians held the hostages, and even during our doomed little stab at getting ’em back.” He sat a moment, eyes distant. “The real world is an ugly place, my dear.”

“But the Israelis are our friends,” Hamilton said.

“’At the narrow passage, there will be no brother, no friend,’” Belew said. “Old Arabic saying.”

Helen showed a wintry smile. “Somehow I have the feeling Seсor Burckhardt has been here before.”

“Naturally. Iran’s a very interesting area, geopolitically speaking. The Israelis can be very accommodating, when Langley asks nice.”

The waiter arrived. Belew ordered for everyone in French.

“What’d you get us?” Saxon demanded sullenly when the waiter left.

“White man’s food. Don’t worry about it.” Belew turned to Helen. “You looked overwhelmed when I came in. I wouldn’t guess you’re exactly out of your depth in surroundings such as this.”

“I wasn’t expecting such, such opulence. The Iranian revolutionary government is supposed to be quite puritanical.”

“They are. Just as you are yourself.”

She glared. “I am not puritanical. I’m only… careful.”

“A woman for the eighties. Of course, it is the nineties.” The soup arrived. “How come the Revolutionary Guards don’t bust in and trash the place, then?” Hamilton asked as the others raised their silver spoons.

“The Iranians have learned a hard lesson that a lot of other revolutionary societies have had to learn, some harder than others. Nobody goes it alone in this world. You need contact with the outside world – you need trade. And that means you have to cut outsiders a certain amount of slack. Otherwise you end up being the Khmer Rouge.”

He sampled his soup, rolled it around his mouth, nodded. “This hotel is the Vale of Kashmir. Built in 1984. It’s owned by the Sultan of Kashmir. Jalal-ud-din Shah Durrani, grandson of old Abd-er-Rahim Durrani, the Khyber bandit who grabbed the kingdom from the Hindus when the Brits pulled out in ’47. Young Jalu is a heavy hitter in these parts, even though he’s a Sunni and something of a progressive. He’s ethnically Persian, being a Pushtun. Also, he poured a lot of much-needed investment dollars into the country during the war with Iraq.”

“So they tolerate a certain amount of conspicuous consumption on his premises?” Helen asked.

“Not all of them.” He sipped from a champagne glass. “By the way, by all means try this. It’s melon juice from Tashkent, in what used to be Soviet Central Asia. Just recently started importing it. Its miraculous stuff, poets used to write songs about the melons of Tashkent.”

“Nonalcoholic, though,” Helen said.

“There’s only so far you can stretch tolerance. Though if you’re discreet, you can get booze served in your room, at ruinous prices. Still, some of the more fanatical locals have been known to take exception… notice the tall men in the turbans, standing where they can take it all in?”

The others looked around. ’Big bearded sons of bitches,” Saxon said, “so what?”

“So they’re Afridi, Gilzai, and Yusufzai tribesmen. Your real Khyber cutthroats, the very boys who handed the Russian Bear his head over in Afghanistan. And I mean the very ones; these are all hardcore mujahidin vets. The sultan imports them to pull security.”

“The ayatollahs are afraid of them?” Helen asked.

“Back in ’86 a couple of fanatics – schoolteachers, oddly enough – tried a trick they used to pull on movie theaters and other places they thought subverted true Islamic values. They brought chains and big jerricans of gasoline. They were going to pour the gas inside, chain the doors shut, and set it all off to sort of encourage other sinners.”

“My God, how awful. What happened?”

“Afridis caught ’em. Chained them up out front, doused them in their own gas, and lit up.” Belew wiped his mouth. “Didn’t have much trouble after that.”

Helen choked. After a moment Saxon gave an explosive snort of laughter.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asked.

Belew pointed the way. Saxon excused himself. While he was gone, the entrees came: tournedos of beef on toast.

When Saxon returned, he moved more crisply and his eyes were bright. “So even the Shi’ites can be tolerant once in a while.” He laughed. “That’s a mistake.”

“How do you mean?” Belew asked.

“I mean, that’s where they lose it. They’re history. Zero tolerance; that’s the only tolerance level for a society that’s, that’s

He paused, puzzled, then raised a hand and knotted it into a fist. “… Together.”

“That’s what you have in mind for America?” Helen asked. “A society that’s more restrictive than Shi’ite Iran?”

“You got it. See, you’re soft, babe, you got a runny core. Just like a woman. That’s why you aren’t cut out for this work. That’s why”

Hamilton laid a hand on his arm. “Hey. Lynn. Easy does it, man.”

“No. Nothing easy about it. We have the ability now; we know what’s right for people, we can make them do it. It’s our responsibility. All it takes is the will.”

“The New World Order,” Belew said, swirling melon juice in his glass. “High ideals… except you never know when you might run into Afridis.”

“So what’s our next move, Mr. CIA Mastermind?” Lynn Saxon asked, riding up in the elevator after dinner.

Belew smiled at him. “I guess it never occurred to you that we’re in the middle of what has to be considered Indian country, and they don’t much care for the Agency in these parts. Or doesn’t the DEA know about bugging elevators?”

“Jesus, Lynn, will you for God’s sake watch your mouth?” Hamilton said. A sweat catenary had formed along his hairline. “We’re in this, too, you know.”

“Hey, stay out of my face,” Saxon said, but without force.

“In answer to your question, we stay loose and wait to hear from my contacts.”

“Your contacts,” Saxon sneered.

“They have a pretty good batting average so far,” Belew said, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“I guess you think that makes you pretty damned smart, cowboy.”

“I think it makes me a professional in the intelligence trade. One who makes judicious use of carefully cultivated contacts, which are important tools of that trade. Whereas you, I think, are a mean Nintendo pig who’s seen too many Mel Gibson movies.”

For a moment Saxon just stood there. Then he snarled and threw himself at Belew. Hamilton got in between them and trapped his smaller partner against the side of the elevator. Belew stood there watching without especial sign of interest.

“The superior man is satisfied and composed; the mean man is always full of distress,’” he said.

The elevator stopped on their floor. Belew walked out without looking back. Helen came with him, sticking close.

“We’re the professionals here,” Saxon yelled at Belew’s dinner-jacketed back. “We’re the cops. You’re just a fucking burned-out Green Beanie playing spy games.”

Belew unlocked the door of the suite Seсor Burckhardt shared with Seсorita Elena. He ushered Helen in, then turned in the doorway.

“Show me,” he said. “Prove you’re the real cops. Catch Mark Meadows.”

“You bet your ass we will, old man.”

“Good.” Belew started to pull the door closed. Saxon made as if to follow him in.

“Do you mind? You have your own room.” Belew shut the door in his face. “I apologize for the scene,” Belew said, turning. “Confrontation does little to aid the digestion.”

“That’s okay,” Helen said. Her posture was stiff, defensive. “I think I need to get some sleep. I’m dead on my feet.”

“I can have the maid come make the couch up for you.”

She stared at him. “What? I thought -”

“I’m Seсor Burckhardt. This is my room; I made the arrangements for it, my firm is paying for it. The bed is an old-fashioned brass one, and I’m sleeping in it. Where you sleep is up to you.”