Behrouz watched his team disappear with a trace of regret. He’d done his share of late-night door knocking, early in his career, and he remembered the thrill. Tonight, however, unlike the recent synagogue campaign, he could not take part. He wondered what was happening inside, and admonished himself for not having his men wired so he could monitor their chatter. His reasons for not personally taking part were summed up in that American-coined phrase he had grown to relish: plausible deniability. Behrouz was on a limb to even order this raid, and to be seen as actively involved could prove problematic—a definite risk when every urchin on the street had a smartphone with a camera. As the head of state security, there were only a handful of men in Iran who could call Behrouz to account. But no head of state security was without enemies.

Behrouz saw a flashlight beam slash across the window, and then shadows scurried past the open doorway. He heard a crash as something was overturned, and then the woman’s voice barked, loud and indignant. He frowned. After twenty minutes, the leader of the search team trotted out. Behrouz rolled his window halfway down.

“Well?” he asked impatiently.

“Nothing.”

Behrouz cursed under his breath. To this point the stakes were minimal, but pressing further would raise the risk considerably.

“Do we take her into custody and keep looking?” the man asked.

Behrouz was still for a long moment. They had been watching the old hen for six hours, ever since her son’s motorcade had left. And they’d been discreetly asking questions for a week. By all accounts she was a kindly old soul, well-liked by her neighbors. A distributor of cakes to children and supper to the indigent. None of this told Behrouz what he wanted to know.

He finally said, “No. Tell her a mistake was made and apologize. Say the local police reported a drug stash in the building.”

The brute looked at him as if he’d just been told to dance the tango. “We’re letting her go?”

“Yes, you idiot! Do it!”

The man plodded off toward the house.

The team was clear three minutes later. They tumbled into their cars and the black convoy re-formed, and as Tehran eased toward midnight the team slithered away under a trail of dust. Before turning the corner, Behrouz looked back and saw the old woman appear in her doorway. She paused at the threshold for a moment, hands on her hips in a nightdress and staring indignantly. Then, in a final act of defiance, Ibrahim Hamedi’s mother reached out and pulled her shattered door closed.

*   *   *

“You’re sure?” Nurin asked.

“Yes,” said Ezra Zacharias. “The account was checked on the client’s behalf earlier today.”

“And why are we monitoring this account?” inquired Veron.