The man named Rafi arrived at Tehran’s Imam Khomeini Airport at 9:50 that Wednesday morning, Iran Air Flight 528 from Amman running its customary one-hour late. When he reached the curb he saw the usual car waiting, a black Mercedes limo. It was the eighth time he had run this gauntlet, a nuisance he blamed—as with Damascus’s faulty sewers, Gaza’s dust-laden air, and the price of vegetables in Beirut—on the meddlesome State of Israel. The Jews, he’d been told, were getting better at monitoring the Internet, and because of it Rafi had not been able to use his mobile phone for anything of importance in a year. In effect, he had been relegated to the role of foot messenger. Indeed, as a man who knew his history, Rafi equated himself to those brave Persian runners who’d been tasked to skirt the grip of Genghis Khan and his crew some eight hundred years ago, a noble and fearless lot who risked life and limb to deliver vital communiqués.

Yes, he thought, we have a great deal in common. Only I have enemies on both sides.

Once inside the Mercedes, he shifted across the plush leather to get a better flow from the air-conditioning vent. Neither the limo’s driver nor the thick man beside him said a word as the big car bolted through intersections heading for MISIRI, Iran’s Ministry of Intelligence and National Security.

Rafi looked out the window and took in the blur that was Tehran. He had never actually set foot in the city, yet it somehow seemed familiar. He saw old women selling vegetables from carts, and suicidal young men doubled up on scooters as they weaved through lawless traffic. It could have been Amman or Cairo, any number of capitals across the region. This familiarity ended abruptly, however, when the big Mercedes swerved through a set of brooding iron gates to be swallowed by the headquarters complex of MISIRI.

Rafi straightened in his seat, and soon the big car skidded to the curb and the door popped open. He was hustled through a maze of hallways, and twenty-two minutes after landing in Iran, Rafi entered the utilitarian office of Farzad Behrouz.

The little man remained seated, his fingers squaring a thick envelope on the desk in front of him. “Well?” he prompted, no hint of cordiality.

“It is as you suspected,” Rafi said. “There will be another attempt on Hamedi.”

“Where and when?”

“I don’t know.”

Almost imperceptibly, Behrouz cocked his head. “What do you mean? Our source has always been quite … forthcoming in the past.”

“Our agent explained her situation to me. It is a delicate thing we ask, and I think she was correct to not press harder than she did. Zacharias is not a fool. But there was something. She said the Jews expect Hamedi to go abroad soon. They see this as an opportunity. If it is true, then you have your answer.”