“Fine,” said Aziz, sitting down.

“Are you curious as to why you’re here?”

“My assumption is that you’ll tell me at some point, Minister Bhang.”

Bhang nodded his head up and down, then his lips spread in a forced smile.

“Does China ask much of you, Mr. Aziz?”

“What do you mean, sir?’

“Do we ask much of you? The question is self-explanatory.”

“Do you mean Iran?”

“I mean you, Hasim Aziz,” said Bhang.

Aziz shifted in the chair.

“China is very generous. It’s no secret that the ministry helped us acquire weapons-grade uranium. In addition, your financial aid has been very important. As for me, in my five years as station chief, I have always enjoyed my relationship with the ministry.”

Bhang was silent for several moments. Without taking his eyes away from Aziz, he reached with his left hand to the desk drawer, opened it, and pulled an object from the desk. It was a necklace. He tossed it onto the wood top of his desk so Aziz could see it.

Aziz looked at it. Then his eyes moved back to Bhang. He remained silent.

“For more than a decade, Iran has enjoyed the fruits that come from China’s friend inside Israeli intelligence. I pulled this from around his neck this morning. He was the unfortunate recipient of an ax to the skull.”

“This is most disturbing,” said Aziz, looking perplexed. “As you said, Iran benefited greatly from your man.”

“Do you know what his name was, Mr. Aziz?”

“No, sir. I knew of the existence of a man, of course, but his name was always a secret to me. Nor did I ever ask my contact for further information. As you said, his insights were a benefit to our republic.”

“His name was Dillman.”

Aziz was silent. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“Two months ago, in a Shanghai restaurant, we provided photographs to you,” continued Bhang.

One of the men placed a pair of photos on the desk in front of Aziz. The first showed a tall Iranian, dressed in a suit, walking with a woman. The other photo showed an American, white shirt, blue blazer, stubble, big, tough-looking.

Aziz looked at the photos, sat back, then looked at Bhang.

“Lon Qassou,” said Aziz. “And the American.”

“Dewey Andreas,” said Bhang. He reached for his pack of cigarettes and lit one.

“Yes.”

“It was Andreas who stole the Iranian nuclear bomb, correct?”

“Yes, he did, Minister.”

“And how did he do that?”

Aziz stared dumbfounded at Bhang. His eyes darted left and right.

“He infiltrated the Turkish border.”

“And replaced the bomb with a replica, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How did he know what it looked like? Its dimensions? Even I did not know, despite the fact that I provided the yellowcake, the trigger, and the money to build it.”

Aziz nodded, then was silent as he considered the question.

“I’m thinking of what I know, sir,” said Aziz.

“I suggest you think faster,” said Bhang, impatience in his voice. “How did he know what it looked like?”

“He had knowledge from someone who had seen it,” said Aziz. “Perhaps Qassou?”

“Qassou was a functionary,” said Bhang.

Aziz looked up.

“I realize you would perhaps like to move on to another subject, Mr. Aziz,” said Bhang. “But you will answer. I know you know the answer to my question, as do I.”

“Then why are you asking me?”

“I suppose I would like confirmation.”

“In New York City,” said Aziz, “Andreas kidnapped Iran’s ambassador to the United Nations.”

“Bhutta,” Bhang said, his nostrils flaring.

“Yes,” said Aziz. “Bhutta was involved in the creation—”

“I know who Amit Bhutta is,” said Bhang, his voice rising, staring daggers at Aziz.

“I’m sorry, Minister Bhang,” pleaded Aziz. “I had nothing to do with it.”

Bhang’s eyes darted right, to one of his aides. The man stood and motioned for Aziz to stand.

“Minister,” said the Iranian, his brow furrowing in worry as the aide grabbed his arm. “I’m sorry. I had no control over Amit Bhutta! Please, sir!”

The other aide joined the first, grabbing the Iranian’s other arm and yanking him toward the door.

Bhang’s eyes were black with rage, his pale face flushed red, yet he found a way to control himself. He reached for another cigarette and lit it. As Aziz was dragged to the door, his protestations grew louder, more desperate. Bhang inhaled, then glared at the back of the Iranian’s head.

“Have a safe trip, Mr. Aziz,” said Bhang.

9

LAN AIRLINES

EN ROUTE TO ARGENTINA

Dewey felt a hand on his shoulder, gently rubbing it.

“Wake up.”

He registered the soft, dry whisper of Jessica’s voice, then the smell of her perfume, before he opened his eyes or so much as moved. She rubbed his shoulder. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at her.

“Mile High Club?” he asked her in a whisper.

“Pig,” she said, smiling.

“We could squeeze into one of the restrooms.”

“Don’t you think people would notice?”

“I’ll shut the door.”

“Oh, my God. You’re demented.”

“Probably, but you look so good in that dress.”

“Wait ’til we get to the ranch. We have an entire week.”

“I can’t wait ’til the ranch.”

She glanced around, making sure nobody was looking, then leaned forward and kissed him on the lips. Her hand went down to his crotch and pushed against his jeans.

“Buenos días, señor,” she whispered.

“Come on, we can do it right here. Everyone’s either asleep or reading.”

“You know what I really want right now?” she purred.

“What?”

Jessica reached beside her and picked up a catalog.

“For you to help me pick out our wedding china.”

“You’re evil,” he said.

She giggled.

“I’ve got it narrowed down to sixteen patterns.”

“Oh, God,” Dewey said. “I thought this was going to be low-key. Why don’t we elope? Why do we need china? What’s wrong with good old-fashioned paper plates?”

“This is the only time I’m ever getting married, farm boy. Fine, don’t help me.”

“I’ll help you,” he said. “Just promise you won’t tell anyone.”

Jessica giggled, leaned toward him, and kissed his cheek.

“President Dellenbaugh told me you’re a good hockey player. He said you scored three assists.”

“You don’t score assists, Jess. You make assists.”

“Oh, whatever. What is there, some sort of hockey grammar book you guys carry around? Last time I checked, most hockey players can barely form a complete sentence without drooling.”

“Did he say anything else?” Dewey asked.

“Oh, you mean did he mention how you almost decapitated Tom DeGray?”

Dewey grinned.

“He didn’t tell me,” said Jessica. “Tom did. He called me and said he acted like a jerk. He said he wants to apologize to you.”

“Honestly, I can’t believe you dated that guy.”

“Well, you put him in his place, from what I hear.”

Dewey smiled.

Jessica placed her head on Dewey’s shoulder. She held up her left hand, admiring her ring finger. On it was a beautiful diamond ring: an antique setting, three diamonds of equal size set in a row atop a platinum band. She ran her right index finger over the top of the stones.

“I think it’s sort of cute that you were jealous,” Jessica whispered.

Dewey cleared his throat.

“I wasn’t jealous.”

“Oh, really?”

“The guy’s a douche. He tried to chop my foot off. I exacted a little justice, that’s all.”

“I think you were jealous, and I think it’s cute what you did. I guess I don’t blame you. He’s not that bad, though. Do you get jealous? We should probably talk about that. I mean, I definitely get jealous. If you so much as look at one of these South American bombshells walking around Córdoba, I will…”

Her voice trailed off as she looked at Dewey.

“I’d rather talk about china settings, Jess.”