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other. The rest of us go about our jobs, and raise our kids, and do our best to stay out of it all.
    I watched them come and go. Just folks. I never saw one person that looked alien or evil to me. Not one.
    Until he arrived.
    This was the guy I was here to meet, no doubt about it.
    “Uh-oh,” I murmured.
    No need to worry about them reading my lips—they’d probably expect me to say exactly that.

 
    Chapter Six
    Starbox Coffee
    Tehran, Iran
    June 15, 7:56 a.m.
    He was late forties, average height, with dark hair and fair skin. Iranian without a doubt, and the European heritage was there in the aquiline nose, green eyes, and non-Semitic features. Iranians aren’t Arabs. Most people don’t know that, especially the mouthbreathers who lump all Middle Eastern peoples into one group so they can be more easily despised. The name “Iranian” comes from “Aryan,” but the culture draws on ethnic lines from Europe, Asia, and elsewhere. Lots of nice diversity in a generally good-looking people.
    This guy could be a soap opera star. Women would swoon. If they didn’t know who and what he was. If they did … well, I think even the president of the antigun lobby would pop a cap in him and laugh while he did it. The stakes on this bizarre morning encounter jumped about tenfold.
    I did know who he was.
    He was accompanied by a second man who might as well have had “thug” tattooed on his forehead; he shooed away the only other customers, a pair of middle-aged men, and positioned himself at the door to prevent anyone else from coming in.
    The man I was here to meet bought a cup of coffee, told the girl behind the counter to go into the back room and stay there, and then he walked over and stood in front of me. He wore a blue sport coat over a white dress shirt with only the top button undone, khakis, and a pair of hand-sewn Italian shoes. He looked down at me and I sat there; I smiled affably, holding my coffee between my palms, resisting the urge to kick his kneecaps off and stomp him to death.
    “Captain Ledger,” he said. Not a question.
    When I didn’t reply, he nodded toward the other chair.
    “May I?”
    “Sure,” I said. “It’s a free country.”
    His mouth twitched a little at that. He sat, perching on the edge of the chair like a nervous Chihuahua ready to bolt. He looked around and then stared out through the window for a moment, then nodded. Not sure if it was to the mysterious woman or the shooters or to himself. This was his home turf, so I was curious why he should be skittish.
    He looked at me looking at him. “You know who I am?”
    “Yes.”
    “If we were in your country I imagine you would like to arrest me.”
    “‘Arrest’?” I said, tasting the word. “No … not really.”
    “Then—”
    “‘Kill’? Sure, that would work.”
    He had eyes like a hunting hawk. Piercing, fierce, and almost unblinking. “Why do you believe that it is up to you to judge whether I live or die? I have never killed anyone. I have not spilled a single drop of human blood. Not ever.”
    I crossed my legs and leaned back in my chair. “Jalil Rasouli,” I said. “I always thought that was kind of funny. Same name as the artist. I like the artist. He brings something to the world. He uplifts.”
    “As do—”
    “If you say that what you do also uplifts I will rip your throat out,” I said in a conversational tone, my smile unwavering. Rasouli shut up. I let a couple of seconds pass. I said, “If you know who I am then you should be able to guess that I’ve read your file. Not the public profile, but the real stuff. You say that you don’t have any blood on your hands?”
    He said nothing.
    “Vezarat-e Ettela’at Jomhouri-ye Eslami-ye Iran,” I said quietly. His eyes bored into mine. I translated it just to put it out there. “The Ministry of Intelligence and National Security of the Islamic Republic of Iran. MISIRI. Pretty unfortunate acronym.”
    Nothing.
    “You were the deputy operations chief