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Army. And this second piece is all produced, directed, and released through Al Jazeera. With exclusive, breaking news the major networks can’t afford to ignore.” He broke into an anchorman’s standard standby, “ ‘As Al Jazeera is now reporting—’ ” Then clapping his hands to his knees for effect. “You’re at the table whether they like it or not.”
    The Jazz Man was silent for a moment.
    “That’s larger than anything we anticipated. But I see what you mean.”
    Johnson hoped so, because he wasn’t sure what he explained even made sense to him. He took a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “I made a tentative list of sites that I’d like to visit. And that, of course, is the bulk of our first effort, regarding your peaceful nuclear program. We can leave the military aspect out of this for now.”
    Jazril took the printed list of sites and, without glancing at it, folded and put the paper in his jacket pocket. “Do you have any other concerns?”
    “First, that we should start soon for obvious reasons. The U.S. could go either way now. Secondly, I want a free hand. Nothing impresses the West more than a free hand. So obviously a forced or willing conversion of this reporter to Islam would not work in your favor.” He waited for some laugh or smile or even a curling lip from one of his listeners. Nothing. No sign of recognition. “In any event I’m not what they call ... a churchgoing man.”
    Johnson extended his hand to the Sheik, rising to leave with these words of farewell: “I seem to recall the word Kumtar means ‘Herald’ or ‘Messenger’ in the Albanian language. Why I know this absurd fact can be laid at the feet of a liberal education, as well as some time spent on the Adriatic in the Dardanelles. Perhaps Sheik Kutmar’s name means something similar in Farsi? Herald or Messenger? In any language, an auspicious name.”
    The soft, moist cough from Sheik Kutmar stopped him in his tracks. The man spoke, still not looking directly at the American.
    “Do you know the Muslim mind, Mr. Johnson?”
    After a breath, Johnson said, “I don’t claim to know anyone’s mind, Your Eminence.”

    “It’s well that you don’t. Do you know why we are going to win, Mr. Johnson, ‘ daring reporter ’?” Using Larry King’s line with a touch of sarcasm, as though he knew how very little Johnson dared in life. He cleared his throat again.
    “I shall tell you. The Jews and weaklings of the West love life. So that is what we shall take away from them. We are going to win because you love life and we love death. The war is as simple as that.” Then with a smile in his voice. “As to the matter of your conversion, forced or willing—I think we can leave that in the hands of Allah. Though the prospect of you kneeling beside me in a mosque has the aspect of a farce even Allah could wish on no one.”
    Johnson went silent for a moment. “Right,” he said, standing. “ Inshallah , I suppose.” He nodded to the Jazz Man and made a small bow to the Sheik, who did not meet his gaze, before retreating across the Golden Martyrs Tea Lounge. Once at a safe distance Johnson felt the urge to mutter some invective, but nothing sprang to mind.
    All the same he sensed it was them playing him, not the other way round, and his mouth felt dirty as if used in unmentionable ways.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Night Sweats
    D inner was a lonely, desultory buffet of chicken, tabouli, and tahini in a nearly empty dining room. The high spot of the buffet table was the large chilled bowl of caviar, surrounded by limp toast, hardboiled egg whites, egg yolks, chopped onions, and sour cream. Iran was the last place on earth still swimming in cheap and plentiful beluga, ossetra, or the even more rare sevruga. Johnson, an unapologetic Roe Ho, loaded up his plate.
    A group of four middle-aged upper-class women in full chador ate silently in a far off corner, covering and uncovering their faces as their forks went first to their