"There's still time."

Shirazi shook his head. "No. Once he entered the building, there was no going back."

"We could simply question him about anything, about the Greens, say, then let him go. That would do it, that would be all it takes."

"And how would that help defend the Revolution? We must see this through. Think about the result, think about what we will gain. For months we've been pressured to strike back against those who have struck us. This is how we do it. The result will more than justify the means."

Farzan Zahabzeh grimaced, scratched his chin beneath his beard. He was ten years Shirazi's junior, still carrying enough of his youth that the job hadn't begun to show on him. Full of energy and strength, not much taller than Shirazi, but larger, clearly stronger. But his junior nonetheless, and with a lot left to learn.

Another knock, this one more forceful and somehow more formal, the hand of one of the guards, leading the prisoner into their trap.

"It's all or nothing," Shirazi said.

"All or nothing," Zahabzeh agreed, and went to answer the door. The prisoner drew himself up in his chair, cast an angry glance at Zahabzeh standing beside him, then glared at Youness Shirazi.

"Do you know who I am?" the man demanded.

Shirazi considered the question, taking the man in. He certainly looked old, or, at the least, older, though Shirazi thought that might simply be the result of seeing him here and now, rather than as he appeared in photographs taken over thirty years before. Beard and hair both more gray than black, small eyes. None of the clothes of the ulema, the learned Shi'a scholars, but instead a simple buttoned shirt, tan, and even simpler black trousers. While he watched, the man began scratching at the back of his right hand with the nails of his left, an unconscious gesture that persisted for several seconds before stopping.