Aban, the month his American handlers called October or November, was his last at the nuclear facility. The weather had pinned him down. He had suffered much under the arm of this overlong summer. He wanted his Samsonite aloft, Europe-bound on a jet. Instead, it would bump over land, toss onto boats, offload to sand—he paused.

He picked up speed to get a little closer.

It was smoke. It rested like a gray shelf, unnaturally low, just above the western roof of the lab building. Had there been an explosion? How he hated the clogged river of incompetence that pushed through everything. It was curious, this muck in the air. Maybe it was industrial exhaust. The temperatures and stillness were no doubt a factor. He should check.

He opened his mobile. Soon he had Ali.

“What the fuck is that shit in the sky?” He was inching along as if squeezing through traffic.

“Where are you?” The connection was weak. Ali’s voice was small.

“Right outside the inner complex.”

“There was a problem at the wind tunnel last night. Nothing serious.”

“That’s almost two kilometers.” The wind tunnel? It couldn’t be.

“It took this funny drift. The fire sprinklers got broken. Look, you’re going to be on time. So don’t fuck it up. Just get over here.”

Hoseyn hung up and picked up speed. Soon he was at the wall. He waved at the guard. The guy didn’t wave. He never did. So that was normal. Hoseyn made the right to his numbered spot, watching for the guard in his rearview. He was taking a drink from a thermos. That was okay.

After he parked, he made sure he’d left the trunk in the unlocked position, so his Samsonite could be retrieved and sent to him. His crepe soles slowed into the heated macadam. Ahead, the cooking air rippled. His collar was sopped by the time he paused under the awning and pulled out his badge for the guard behind the window. This was the last one.

This guard was a type you didn’t often see anymore—burly. His biceps were thick. His beard was dense and black. He looked young, but not new. Most guards Hoseyn saw looked malnourished. They weren’t unlucky to have these jobs; they paid well, for Iran. The country was looking underfed. It didn’t have enough, even for those who were khodi. Hoseyn had been “one of us,” reviled by 85 percent, protected by 15. That would be over. His wife was as yet uninformed about this switch, which was—he looked at his watch—less than a few minutes away.

“You look at your watch, not the clock,” the guard said.