He was a slender man, in his fifties, his left shoulder sitting at an angle higher than his right, the remnants of a wound taken during the War of Iraqi Aggression. He had come alone, but Shirazi took no comfort in that. As a member of the National Security Council, all it would take was a word, and the whole of Shirazi’s department would turn against him. That was real power, and both men knew who held it. “I am meeting you here, Youness,” the Minister said, “as a courtesy to you and your service, because you have never failed us in the past. And because we wish to hear your explanation for the madness that took place early this morning in Noshahr.” “I appreciate your consideration, sir.” The Minister settled his hands on Shirazi’s desk, folding one atop the other, gazing at him evenly. “I am pleased to hear that, because your position at this moment is an exceedingly delicate one. The Supreme Leader has already been informed of the death of his nephew.
