It was a simple statement, but a sad one, and it stayed with me while I showered, dried, and changed into clean clothes. Jamsheed was a lot smaller than me, but he was well stocked. When I came out of the bathroom I found several choices of clothes in extra-large. I dressed in khakis and a white dress shirt. Jamsheed also left me a makeup kit and a hot cup of tea. I sipped the tea as I touched up the dye job Khalid had given me before we rescued the hikers. My tan only needed a mild olive tint. Jamsheed didn’t have brown contact lenses, but there were plenty of blue-eyed people in the Middle East.

When I came out, Jamsheed inspected the work and nodded approval. Ghost had come in from the storeroom and lay sprawled in front of an oscillating fan, twitching every now and then as he dreamed.

Jamsheed set out plates of food and we ate a lunch of chelo kabab—steamed saffron basmati rice and grilled chunks of goat, accompanied by pomegranate soup. He apologized for it being leftovers, but I didn’t care. It was delicious and I cleaned my plate. When Ghost woke up and saw that my plate was empty, he looked truly wounded. However, Jamsheed fetched a bowl of leftover khoresht beh, a lamb stew thick with rice and vegetables. Ghost nearly fell on him and wept. Jamsheed watched with some amusement as Ghost attacked the food.

Jamsheed was not a talkative man. Perhaps it was because he did not want to know anything about who I was or why I was in Iran. He may have been our local contact, but it did not change the fact that he was Iranian. I wondered what conflicts warred inside his artist’s mind. What was it about his government that made him want to side with people like Church? I’d met a few people like him before, and they ranged from traitors whose souls could be bought to idealists who believed that change for their country was necessary.

Then I saw him cutting quick looks at me and twice he opened his mouth to say something then changed his mind. I set my fork down.

“What is it?” I asked.

Jamsheed furrowed his brow. “The incident last night. The young Americans.”

I waited.

“Was that you? Is that why you’re here?”

I sat back and dabbed my mouth with a napkin.

Jamsheed looked uneasy. “I know, I know—I shouldn’t be asking such questions.”

“Then why are you?”

He got up and walked over to the picture of the children playing soccer. He stared at it for a long time. “We are a warlike people. I don’t mean just us Iranians. I mean all people. Humans. The veneer of civilization is very thin.”

“At times,” I said. “Not always.”