Tehran Time, September 28th The Ayatollah’s Residence Qom, Iran The dining room of the Supreme Ayatollah’s house was spartan in its furnishings, which was as it should have been. The centuries of Persian decadence had been swept away by the rising tide of the Islamic Republic, and the rich ornamentation once considered traditional had gone with it. Isfahani sighed, sipping his cup of coffee slowly. Their deception had survived the night, at the very least. And there was no reason why it shouldn’t have. His servants were loyal to him and him alone. Those that had not been were no longer. They were in Allah’s hands now… “You slept well, Major?” he asked, without turning to face the man who had just entered the room. Farshid Hossein responded with a short laugh. “As well as could be expected. For a man supposed to be dead.” “To be sure. Coffee?” Hossein nodded. After the events of the preceding twenty-four hours, he would have preferred something stronger–but he had the suspicion that alcohol was not to be found on Isfahani’s premises.
