54

Tehran, Iran

Rashidi’s mobile phone rang.

He excused himself and left the room. Then Esfahani leaned close to David and whispered, “What I say next needs to be kept very quiet. Are we understood? It must never be spoken of to anyone.”

“Of course,” David said.

“We need to buy twenty secure satellite phones,” Esfahani explained. “State-of-the-art. Encrypted. Absolutely impenetrable. You make them, right?”

“Well, we don’t make them ourselves,” David replied. “Nokia has a joint venture with someone who does. But they’re built for European government officials. They’re not for export.”

“The Saudis have them.”

“That I wouldn’t know.”

“The Pakistanis have them.”

“Again, that’s not my area.”

“The Moroccans have them. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“I think so.”

“Then can you get them for us?”

“I can ask Ms. Fischer.”

“No,” Esfahani said, “that’s not what I asked. I’m asking you—you personally—can you get them for us?”

“I don’t know. Ms. Fischer is the real expert on such things, sir, but I don’t think even she could get an export license for them, given all the international focus on . . . well, you know . . . the situation here. I don’t know how I would get the licenses, much less the phones.”

Esfahani said nothing. There was a long, awkward pause. It was quiet. Too quiet. All David could hear was a clock ticking in the living room and the faint sound of rattling dishes in the kitchen.

“I can try,” David finally said.

“Without involving Ms. Fischer?” Esfahani pressed.

David pretended to ponder that a while longer. He knew he could get the phones in a heartbeat. Zalinsky would happily build them by hand if he thought that would help the mission. But David knew he couldn’t seem too eager or too accommodating.

He looked back at Esfahani and assured the man he would do his best, and without Fischer’s involvement. It was a lie, of course. Fischer would be intimately involved. But it was what the man wanted to hear, and it seemed to work.

“Good, because you know there are more telecom infrastructure contracts coming in the next few months,” Esfahani reminded him. “Each one is worth hundreds of millions of euros, and Mr. Rashidi and I would certainly want to look favorably on your bids.”

“That’s what I want too,” David said. “MDS values your business a great deal.”

“Very well. How soon could you get them?”

“How soon do you need them?”

“Five business days.”

“Five? That’s pretty fast.”

“Perhaps we should go to the Chinese.”

“No, no, I’ll figure out a way,” David promised, suddenly fearful that he was playing too coy. “You need twenty of them?”

“Yes.”

“Done,” David said. “After all, we can’t let the Saudis or the Zionists have something you don’t have. I’ll get right on it.”

“See that you do,” Esfahani said. “I can assure you, success will be handsomely rewarded.”

“It will be my honor to bless Iran in every way I can,” David said. “Which reminds me. I need to call Dubai and tell our tech teams to get here tomorrow. Will your staff be able to pick them up at the airport, orient them, and show them where to get started? I’ll need to head back to Munich to fulfill this other request.”

“Yes, we will take care of everything,” Esfahani assured him. “Just tell my secretary who is coming and when.”

“I will do that, but could I just ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“If it’s inappropriate, please forgive me.”

“You needn’t hesitate. What’s your question?”

“Well, I’m just curious. Why such urgency?”

The moment the words left David’s lips, Rashidi reentered the room. David sensed he had finished his phone call some time before and had been listening to most of the conversation, presumably approving of its direction.

“That one I would like to answer,” the CEO said. “Mr. Tabrizi, have you ever heard of the Twelfth Imam?”