"I was foolish," the man said, softly.

"You are a spy," Zahabzeh spat, and Shirazi had to fight a smile at the savagery of the declaration. "A spy in service of the British."

"What? No!" The man twisted, unsure who to address, finally settling on Zahabzeh. "No, I swear!"

Zahabzeh plucked one of the pictures from the desk, a black-and-white surveillance shot of their prisoner at twenty-five, seated outside a Tehran cafe, his head bent to the ear of a handsome European. He shoved it angrily in the man's face.

"This!"

"No, I don't-"

Zahabzeh scooped up a handful of the photographs, began dropping them into the old man's lap. "This one. This man, we know him, SIS. This one, his cover was as a trade representative. This woman, a known British whore. Did you sleep with her, too? Or was it only the boys? Is that how they paid you? With sex? Sex and money? This one, do you remember this party? This one, what are you handing him, the so-called trade representative? What secrets did you sell? You were in the Army, you were a soldier. How many men died because of you? How many men died because of secrets the British gave to Saddam? This one. This one. This one."

Zahabzeh continued to assault him with the photos, one after the other, and the prisoner was cringing, drawing back further against his chair, until, with no place to go, he lashed out with an arm. His hand caught the remaining stack in Zahabzeh's hand, sent it flying. They hit the floor with a slap, sliding over one another like an opening fan.

"I'm not a spy!" The old man pushed himself out of his chair, past Zahabzeh, grabbing the edge of the desk. He appealed to Shirazi. "These are the mistakes of a young man, a stupid, foolish boy! Why are you doing this? Why now? I swear to you, I swear by the Prophet's name, it ended thirty years ago!"

Shirazi, his eyes still on the portrait, replied, "Things have changed."