Which was why, only one week before completing the School, Caleb Lewis had been called out of class by James Chester and directed to report to Paul Crocker in London for immediate briefing by D-Ops. Chester had added, ominously, that Lewis might want to pack up his belongings before he left. Forty-seven hours later, he was getting off a plane in Tehran, his heart trying to climb its way out of his mouth, and his head still reeling with the nearly absurd amount of operational data the Ops Room staff had pumped into it.

Ever since that moment, Caleb Lewis had been desperately pretending he was a spy, and was just as desperately certain he wasn't any damn good at it. The Ops Room had done their best by him, and, in fact, Lewis was doing a far better job of things than he imagined. The briefing, while hasty, had been thorough, comprehensive, overseen not only by D-Ops, but by Terry Ricks, the previous Tehran Number Two. It was Ricks who had done most of the talking.

"First priority on hitting the ground, Caleb, is to figure out what that bastard Shirazi's done to us since we've been on holiday," Ricks said. "Those VEVAK bastards move quick, damn quick, and they'll be looking to make you as one of ours as soon as you land."

"Understood," Caleb said, nodding, head already starting to swim in confusion.

"Play the rulebook, understand? Take your time, identify the opposition, don't do anything-not a bloody goddamn thing-until you're certain you know when you're being followed and when you're not."

"Yes." Caleb spoke with such emphasis that D-Ops, sitting alone along one side of the briefing table, shot him a glare, and Lewis didn't need telepathy to read the man's thoughts. Crocker was nervous about him, and with good reason. Lewis was being sent into a hostile theatre, green as a new shoot. Everyone present for the briefing-hell, everyone in the Ops Room, if not in Vauxhall Cross itself-knew the importance of Tehran.