They were already piling into the car. “Malik! I don’t know what happened!” “Me either, Little Sister. But do you see now? Do you remember what I’ve always told you?”

She had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t take a plane, not yet,” pleaded Farid. “Stay at my place. Let me talk with him.”

“No,” said Malik. “Start the car.”

Amira leaned in the window to keep them from pulling away.

Genevieve, more blond hair tumbling around her face, pushed back her veil and, to Amira’s surprise, smiled.

“You must be Amira,” she said in French. “I’ve looked forward to meeting you. But it seems”—she gestured toward the house—“I’ve come at a bad time.”

“Oh, Genevieve, it’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. The story of my life. I make a terrific impression wherever I go.” She smiled again, more ruefully. The expression reminded Amira of Philippe. She liked this woman, she realized. Would she ever see her again?

“Go back inside, Little Sister,” said Malik. “Don’t get caught up in my trouble. Drive, Cousin.”

“Au ’voir, petite soeur,” said Genevieve. Then they were gone.

Amira stared after the car until it disappeared. Guests were spilling out of the house as if fleeing a fire. She hardly saw them, hardly heard the women’s words of sympathy. Tabriz, she thought. Tabriz and Karim. They were all she had left.

22. Escape

Escape

Something was wrong in Iran. Amira felt it the minute she and Ali entered the Teheran airport. They were met by the Iranian minister of culture—a tall, rather urbane man—and a handful of other dignitaries, but the welcome seemed staged, the welcomers preoccupied.

Perhaps it was because they were all but surrounded by a cohort of hard-looking men in trench coats and sunglasses—SAVAK, Amira knew, the shah’s secret police. One of the sunglassed men escorted her, Ali, and Karim to a line of large black American cars. A driver who made Jabr look like an oversized schoolboy held a door for them.

The SAVAK man slid into the front seat, spoke in Farsi into a handheld radio, and gave the driver a curt order. The limo pulled out in convoy with the others.

Teheran was as unprepossessing a large city as Amira had ever seen, an endless agglomeration of concrete structures softened by the backdrop of snow-capped mountains to the north. The air was a yellow haze, dimming the sparkle of the distant peaks.

Amira’s eyes watered. “Is there a fire somewhere?” she asked.

“Smog, Highness,” the driver replied in accented Arabic. “If you think this is bad, come back in the summer.” He translated for the SAVAK man, who gave a grunt of laughter.