I wander around like a tourist until I find the Tabriz Carpet Company, an unusually large shop that specializes not only in Persian carpets but also in silk and spices. A woman greets me when I enter and nods enthusiastically when I ask for Reza Hamadan. She goes through drapes to a back room while I examine the intricate work of the carpets on display. I'm always amazed by the craftsmanship that goes into these things. Carpets are not made just to cover your floor--in this part of the world a carpet is a symbol of wealth or an integral part of a religious or cultural festival. From what I can see here, Reza Hamadan is a master carpet maker.

He comes out of the shop, dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt with baggy sleeves, dark trousers, and sandals. He appears to be in his fifties, clean-shaven except for a small, Chaplin-esque mustache. His deep blue eyes sparkle and exhibit warmth.

"I am Reza Hamadan," he says, extending his hand.

I shake it. "Sam Fisher."

"I have been expecting you, Mr. Fisher. Welcome to Tabriz," he says. His English is very good.

"Thank you."

"Come with me to a more comfortable place. My wife will mind the store." He calls to the woman I saw earlier. She enters the shop, smiles, nods her head at me, and allows us to go through the drapes and into the back room. Hamadan leads me to what appears to be his office. The walls and floor are covered in magnificent carpets, a mahogany desk that looks English sits in a corner, and large pillows occupy the middle of the room.

"Please sit. Would you like some tea?" he asks.

"I would love some."

"Please," he says again, gesturing to the pillows. I sit cross-legged and then find it's better to lounge sideways. It feels really good to be off my feet. Hamadan leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a tray. "Normally my wife would serve us, but she has a customer."

It's what I expect-- chay, the unofficial national drink. It's a strong tea, served hot and black in a small glass cup. I'm not a huge fan of the stuff, but at the moment it tastes like heaven. The highway dust of the trip from Mahabad has infiltrated my throat, and the tea works wonders in clearing the air passages.

"How was your journey, Mr. Fisher?" Hamadan asks.

"As pleasant as it could be," I say tactfully.

"I'm glad to hear it. Now that you are here, I am authorized to lend you a car. It's my son-in-law's and he is away on business for an extended period of time. Feel free to use it as long as you need it. You can take it anywhere except into Iraq."

"That's quite kind, thank you."

"I suppose you have questions for me?"

"I do, but before we get to business, I'd like to ask you something personal."

"By all means."

"How did you get to be a CIA mole?"

Hamadan grins, revealing a wide set of sparkling white teeth. "I spent my early twenties in the United States, during the 1970s, before the fall of the Shah. I went to a small college in West Texas, where other Iranian students attended. The school had an exchange program with Iran at the time. I studied political science and English. During that period, men from your government came to talk to us. It was quite blatant--they wanted to recruit young men to help the U.S. spy on Iran. The money was good. I was young and didn't know better, so I accepted. I've been earning extra income from the CIA ever since. I have no complaints."

"Fascinating," I said. "It's a small world, isn't it?"

"It grows smaller daily. Now then, to the business at hand." He sets down his teacup and looks me in the eyes. "Mr. Fisher, I have many connections in the underworld and in law enforcement in this country and surrounding areas. Before your government contacted me and said to expect you here, I had heard your name mentioned in . . . other places."

"Oh?"

"Mr. Fisher, there is a price on your head. You are a marked man."

14

" WELL, that's nothing new," I say.

Hamadan looks at me as if he's sizing me up. "I detect that you are either a very brave man, Mr. Fisher, or a very foolish one."

"Call me Sam, please."

"Very well, but you must call me Reza."

"All right, Reza. What exactly do you mean?"

"You appear not to take what I say seriously."

"Of course I do. I take all death threats seriously."

"Forgive me, then. Perhaps I mistook your self-confidence for indifference."

"Reza, I've been in this business for a long time. It takes a lot to shake me up. Now, why don't you tell me what it is you know?"

He nods and smiles. "I like you already, Sam. You have . . . what's the word? Aplomb." He takes a sip of tea and continues. "I assume you knew Mr. Benton?"

"Not personally. Rick Benton worked for the same organization as I."

"I had dealings with Mr. Benton. I was one of his informers. I liked him as well. I find it difficult to believe he was killed. He was also a man with great self-confidence."

"Go on."

"You must know that Mr. Benton was trying to track down the Shop. He wanted to know where they were based, who was in charge, how they worked. For the last two years this had become his obsession. I helped him the best I could. I found out things for him, guided him in certain directions. I believe he may have shown his hand too soon, though. The Shop became aware of him. Mr. Benton told me as such right after your man in the Far East was killed. Mr. Lee?"

"Yes. Dan Lee. In Macau."

"Right. After that happened, Mr. Benton told me that he thought the Shop had a list of names. Names of possible agents with the National Security Agency. He was afraid the Shop had begun a campaign to eliminate everyone on the list."

I consider this. "I don't question Rick's suspicions, but I think you both give the Shop too much credit. If the Shop really does have a list of names, then I can't imagine how they got it."

"That is exactly what Mr. Benton said. Very mysterious."

"I tell you, Reza, I'm not going to worry about it," I say. I mean it, too. I have more important things to think about. I spend a great deal of energy watching my back when I'm on an assignment. It's routine. "Now, what can you tell me about Rick's investigations?"

"Mr. Benton was working on tracing an arms supply line coming into Iraq. He believed the arms come from Azerbaijan, but he wasn't completely sure. I tend to agree with him. If this is true, then there are two routes the arms could take--one through Iran, and one through Armenia and Turkey. I'll tell you what I think. I don't believe they're coming through Iran, although maybe the Shop wants to give us that impression. There are arms that do come into Iran, but they do not originatein my country. I know for a fact that our government is working very hard to keep illegal arms out of Iran. They do not want to be perceived as a contributor to international terrorism, despite how the world arena has portrayed us. Our government is particularly concerned about radical terrorist groups that may have Iranian connections."

"Like the Shadows, for instance?"

Hamadan smiles again. "You are very perceptive, Sam."

"They are quickly becoming a priority for us," I explain.

"Yes, well, as they should. There have been some suspicions in the media and in our government that the Shadows are based in Iran. I hope it's not true. I don't believe it."