This, he thought, would be the end, because they were really, really not supposed to be doing this. In fact, he could only suspect that it was CIA custody by virtue of lack of specifics. There were plenty of black sites inside the U.S. where they could take him, and of course that violated international law, but hey, small potatoes in the grand scheme of war crimes committed by the U.S. in the last ten years. If it was CIA custody like he suspected, then on paper, the rationale was probably terrorism. Iranian-born boy with the long, funny Iranian name, a guy who had worked with Nils Ortega to undermine American sovereignty to boot. It would be all too easy to slap together some bogus terrorism charges to get his citizenship revoked if they really, really wanted to. Hell, he’d written an entire book about that very thing! Then, off to the very CIA black sites he had helped expose. Poetic, really.

The room they held him in reminded him of the rooms the TSA tended to stash him in when he got “randomly searched” at the airport. It felt innocuous enough, glass windowpanes leading to what looked like an office, except for the part where it was locked from the outside and the fact that everyone who walked by looked like their first internship had netted them some waterboarding experience. The longest he’d ever been held by the TSA was twelve hours. By then, he’d known better than to fly unshaven (he always got “randomly searched” when he had a beard), so really, he only had himself to blame. Well, that and institutionalized racism. He didn’t have a clock, so he was pretty sure this detainment broke the TSA’s record. Congrats, CIA, you are still the agency that sucks the most.

He was trying not to let his imagination run away with all of the worst-case scenarios when (hey, speaking of torture) Sol Kaplan showed up, wearing a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt under a button-up plaid overshirt that spoke, “I have not bought a new album since 1996.” Kaveh sat up straight like this was a job interview and the HR lady had finally arrived with his paperwork. “Are you here to torture me?”

Kaplan stared at him, not daggers, more the look of a god confused at why the mortal clay of the earth was unhappy with the myriad cruelties of his creation. “I don’t really do that anymore.”

“Is that why they shifted you to alien detail? I was curious, to be honest, but I could only speculate.”

Kaplan pulled up a chair and sat catty-corner to him at the table. “Interesting to finally meet you. I did not think I would ever get the pleasure.”

“I . . . feel the same,” said Kaveh, not wanting to push his luck.