“Did you know,” he interrupted her, “that the Persian weavers always include a flaw in their work? The idea is that only God should be perfect.” He cut his eyes sideways. A few steps away stood a lone man in a tuxedo. Was he studying his drink too intently?

“It’s a principle that French car makers seem to have carried to an extreme,” said Philippe. “At any rate, I’m not going to try to find the flaw in this monster.”

He was steering her gently through the crowd. The man in the tuxedo did not follow. Paranoia?

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said. “I didn’t know what to expect.” The noisy chatter of a large group nearby made a good screen for her words.

Philippe had time to lean close to hear.

“I would have come anyway,” he said. “The medical call was a piece of luck. Or maybe not so lucky, since it subjects me to a certain amount of scrutiny. The patient, as I’m sure you’ve gathered, is an important one. Are we still on for Tabriz?”

He added the question so casually that Amira almost missed it. This was the moment, she realized: the moment to say no, to forget this crazy scheme, to commit herself to going home and trying to fight Ali on ground she knew.

“Yes,” she said.

“Listen carefully,” said Philippe, smiling as if they were sharing an amusing reminiscence. “Someone will contact you in Tabriz. Do exactly as you are told. Exactly and immediately, do you understand?”

“Of course.”

“Have one small bag packed—no more. Two changes of clothes for you and Karim. One traditional, one Western. Whatever personal articles you absolutely need. And your jewels. You have them?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That’s all.” “You’ll be there?”

“Yes. No more now. It’s dangerous. The shah spies on everyone—on principle or just out of habit, who knows? Say it’s been a pleasure and you hope to see me in al-Remal.”

“How good to see you again, doctor. You must promise to visit us when you’re in al-Remal.”

“With pleasure, Highness. Please convey my regards to your husband again, in case I don’t see him. I’m afraid it’s bedtime for this poor carcass of mine.”

A few words of good-bye and he disappeared in the crowd. He hadn’t touched his food, Amira thought irrelevantly.

Once, in France, she had gone to a circus. There was a trapeze act in which a woman swinging from a bar high above the ring suddenly threw herself astonishingly into space. For one heart-stopping instant, she seemed certain to hurtle to her death—and then she was caught by the strong hands and powerful arms of a man swinging to meet her.