A few more words, a little discussion of the mosque at Tabriz, and the audience was over. The American ambassador materialized to buttonhole Ali. Soon, the two were engaged in a discourse about aircraft. Amira, worn from the day’s journey and feeling distinctly peripheral, wished she could slip away to sleep.

“Highness,” said a familiar voice over her shoulder, “how good to find you here.”

“Philippe! What on Earth—”

“Highness, Mr. Ambassador,” said Philippe to Ali and the American, both of whom greeted him by name.

“Well, this is amazing,” said Ali. “What brings you here, my friend?” “I was about to tell the princess. I’m an interloper, I’m afraid—a party crasher, as you say, Mr. Ambassador? A colleague asked me to Teheran to consult on … on a particularly complicated case. When I learned that my old friends would be here tonight, I wangled my way in.”

Amira forced herself to stop staring at him, to play the part of the pleasantly surprised international acquaintance.

“Well, it’s certainly a small world,” said the ambassador affably. “And your patient? I trust he’s doing well?”

“Ah, my friend Elliott, surely you’re not one of those obnoxious persons who insist on making us physicians discuss bunions and gallstones in our few moments of leisure.”

“Sorry, doctor. Just curious.”

The ambassador allowed himself a speculative glance across the room at the shah. So, Amira noticed, did Ali.

It might be: the Shah was the kind of patient Philippe would travel thou- sands of miles to treat—the shah or cholera-stricken villagers in the back of beyond. But surely, Philippe was in Teheran for another reason—wasn’t he?

“You’re here for long?’’ Philippe asked Ali. “Only through tomorrow.”

“Then we go to Tabriz,” volunteered Amira.

“Ah. Yes, I think you mentioned that the last time I saw you. I leave tomorrow myself.”

What did that mean? Amira searched his eyes. She saw nothing except that his pupils seemed unnaturally dilated, and his face was flushed.

“Please excuse me,” said Philippe. “I haven’t had a chance to eat since this morning.”

He wandered away in the direction of the food tables.

“The doctor looks a little unsteady tonight,” commented Ali.

“The French,” said the ambassador, rolling his eyes. The two men returned to their discussion of the F-14.

Amira felt as if she were going to explode.

“Husband,” she ventured, “forgive me for interrupting, but may I bring you something? I’m going to get a little bite for myself.”

“I’m glad to see your appetite has returned,” he said with a half-smile. “But nothing for me.”

She found Philippe examining the vast carpet that formed the centerpiece of the ceremonial hall. He had a plate loaded with canapes but was not eating.

“Ah, Princess. Someone told me that this carpet is more than two hundred square meters. I’ve seen smaller casinos.”

“Philippe, it’s—”