Shirazi studied the face of Tara Chace impassively, trying to discern the woman who wore it. He didn't know her, he had never met her, all he had was speculation. He knew something of the job in Uzbekistan, and before that the one in Iraq, and another in Georgia. But no details, only guesswork, what SIS had accomplished. What this woman had accomplished.

They would have to send her. The prize was too great, the target too high-value to risk sending anyone else, anyone less subordinate. Neither the British government nor the Americans-and there was no doubt the Americans would become involved-would settle for less. The CIA would demand the British send their best, though how Paul Crocker would get his tall, blond, female Special Operations Officer into Iran without everyone from the Quds Force to the Guardian Council knowing about it, Shirazi had no idea. Nonetheless, he had no doubt that Crocker would accomplish the task; as an adversary, Paul Crocker had long ago earned Shirazi's respect, if not admiration.

There was a knock at the door, and Shirazi quit the files on the monitor as his deputy entered.

"He's in the building," Farzan Zahabzeh said, shutting the door behind him. "I'm having him processed right now."

"How did he take it?"

"The pickup scared him, the way it always does, no matter who. Now he's decided to be indignant." Zahabzeh's grin flickered with malice. "He already asked me if I know who he is."

Shirazi laughed. "And you said nothing?"

"Only that we had questions for him."

"Good, very good."

There was a pause, and Shirazi saw the younger man's attitude change, the pride of power knocked akimbo by a long-ingrained sense of self-preservation. He understood it, and knew what Zahabzeh was thinking, and knew he would have to reassure him; Shirazi could entertain his own doubts, but it was vital that Zahabzeh have none, that he be as committed, in his way, to their course as Shirazi already was.