“Like I’ve said, I did tourist things. I visited Golestan Palace. I went to the Milad Tower. I shopped the Grand Bazaar. Isn’t that what people do there?”

That’s what preparation gets you, Nicole thought as she silently thanked the Azeris who had delivered to her last night’s receipts from the palace and the tower and a bag full of souvenirs from the bazaar.

“And where did you stay last night?”

“As I’m sure your people have discovered, I was at the Parsian Azadi Hotel. Fourth floor. You’ll have to forgive me for not remembering the exact room number.” She did know the exact room number. She’d checked herself into it from the van by the warehouse. But it was those little details that made stories believable.

Asadi flipped through the papers. “Room 422.”

“If you say so.” Nicole knew very well that it was 418 and that he was trying to catch her in a lie.

Closing the file again, Asadi said, “What is interesting to me and what makes your story so implausible is that nobody remembers seeing you there. No one from the doors remembers seeing you walk in. No one at the front desk remembers checking you in. It is like you were a ghost.”

Nicole lifted her eyebrows and gave him a What do you want me to say? look.

“Don’t you find that odd?” he went on. “You must admit, you are fairly memorable, especially in a country where the modesty and devotion of so many of the women compels them to remain covered.”

This was the one part of her tradecraft plan she’d been concerned about. Yes, she could check herself in from the van, make a room key, and have a local enter the room and make it appear that she’d slept there. But there’d been no way to get her face into that hotel.

“How can I be responsible for other people’s lack of awareness?”

“Stop lying to me,” he yelled, flinging the file at her. Its edge hit the bridge of her nose, but the folder had flown open, so the contact wasn’t painful.

“I want to talk to my embassy,” she said, making a demand of her own.

“Which one?”

“What do you mean? The one in Tehran.”

A knowing smile spread across Asadi’s face as he sat back in his chair. “No, I mean which one, the South African or the Israeli?”

Nicole masked her shock with laughter, praying that her sudden fear didn’t show through. “The South African, of course. Why would I… Wait a second. You think I’m some Israeli spy?” Now she really started laughing, doing her best to play the part.

The mocking tone seemed to get to Asadi. “It is not a laughing matter, Miss le Roux. We have evidence—”