“And where is this package?”

“Nowhere near here, that’s for damn sure.”

The Iranian slapped the suitcase. “So this is useless to me!”

“As the term sheet clearly said,” Shaw began in a weary voice, “you get the hardware with fifty percent down and the software when the other half is received in the designated account.”

“And I must simply trust you?” the Iranian said, a nasty undertone to his words.

“Just like we have to trust you. We’ve been doing this a long time, and never had a disappointed customer yet. You know that or you wouldn’t be here.”

The Iranian hesitated.

Come on, you maggot. Sacrifice a little lost face in front of your boys to get the golden egg. You know you want it. Think about how many Americans you can zap with this shit.

“I will have to call someone first.”

Shaw said in an annoyed tone, “I thought you had the authority to act.”

The Iranian shot nervous glances at his men, the embarrassment clear on his finely cut features. “One call,” he said quickly. He pulled out his phone.

Shaw held up a hand. “Hold it! Interpol crashing our little party does not figure into my vacation plans.”

“I won’t be on it long enough for anyone to trace.”

“You’ve been watching too many Dirty Harry movies. That’s not healthy in our line of business.”

“What are you talking about?” snapped the Iranian.

“I know you guys are really into the ninth century and all, but you need to get with the twenty-first century if you want to stay off death row. They don’t need you yakking on a rotary dial phone for two days to trace you. They need exactly three seconds for a satellite to track the digital fingerprint, run a triangulation, isolate the cell towers, burn a signal mark to within ten feet, and deploy the strike team.” Shaw was speaking mostly crap but it sounded good. “Why do you think bin Laden lives in a cave and writes his orders down on frigging toilet paper?”