Washington, DC
SIX WEEKS LATER
The dinner took place in a small French restaurant, located a few blocks outside of the Georgetown limits. The restaurant itself, sandwiched between a Mexican grill and a bakery, was not much to look at, but it had a reputation for excellent food.
It also had a private dining room, easily accessed by an alley that ran behind the building.
Dre waited in the dining room with Liz Soroush. It was the first time she had seen the older woman since they had been debriefed following their return from Iranian custody. Then, Liz had been in rough shape, with a case of severe bronchitis and a separated shoulder courtesy of her Iranian handlers.
But they had stayed alive. That was all that mattered.
Tonight, Liz was the picture of health. Her dark eyes flashed with laughter when she told Dre how her son, Ahmad, had responded to seeing his mother after her internment.
“He’s so much like his father, it just kills me, Dre,” Liz said. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I said yes to Don.”
“Well, you weren’t thinking about yourself, that’s for sure, Lizzie,” Don said from the doorway. “And Brendan would have kicked my ass for calling you in the first place.”
“Don.” Liz crossed the room and hugged him hard.
Dre gave him a wave. They saw each other every day at work.
In the intervening six weeks since their return from Iran, the world had returned to some semblance of normality. The bioweapons lab had been stripped of all useful intel, destroyed in place, and all US military personnel withdrawn. The State Department worked overtime to calm tensions in the Nile River basin and get the water-management talks between Egypt and the other countries in the basin back on track.
Lastly, tensions with Iran had eased for the moment. There were rumors about restarting nuclear talks, but Dre had her doubts.
Liz poured Don a glass of wine. “Well, can you tell us what’s behind this mysterious meeting now, Don?” she teased.
Don looked at a text that popped up on his phone and smiled. “Yes, I can.” He strode to the dining room door.
A trim man with gray hair and a neatly groomed goatee waited in the hallway. He wore a charcoal-gray suit and carried a slim attaché case.
“May I present Davoud Rashemi, the foreign minister of the Islamic Republic of Iran,” Don said.
Dre saw Liz’s posture stiffen. Rashemi approached Liz and bowed to her before extending his hand. Liz shook his hand reluctantly, the good humor from a few moments ago drained from her expression.
As Rashemi moved to Dre, Liz shot a glance of undisguised fury at Don.
“Miss Ramirez, it is a great honor to make your acquaintance.” His voice was low, and he spoke perfect English with a slight British accent.
Rashemi placed the attaché case on the table and opened it. Inside were two medals, a teardrop-shaped golden flame suspended by a blue-and-red ribbon. He plucked one from the case and held it in his palm for them to see it more closely.
“This is the Iranian Order of Courage. It has been awarded only twenty times in our nation’s history. It is our nation’s highest honor, equivalent to your Medal of Honor, and is only awarded to Iranian citizens.” He looked directly at Liz.
“Until tonight. By direction of the president of the Islamic Republic of Iran, it is my honor to award you both the Iranian Order of Courage for your bravery and for saving the lives of countless Iranian citizens.”
He handed a medal to Dre. The insignia was the size of her palm, and heavy. Rashemi placed the second medal in Liz’s hand and pressed his palm over hers. He leaned in and spoke softly to her. Liz nodded in response.
Rashemi stepped back and bowed again. He offered a wry smile. “As you Americans like to say in the movies: I was never here.”
He turned on his heel and left the room.
Don cleared his throat. “I’m sure you two have already figured this out, but you can’t keep the medals. They’ll go into storage at the CIA. Someday, when this whole affair is declassified, you’ll get them.”
“Well, we can enjoy them during dinner, right?” Liz said. “Let’s eat.”
“What did Rashemi say to you?” Dre asked, as Liz leaned over to refill her wineglass.
Liz touched the golden insignia. “He said Qom is where he grew up. His family still lives there. Even though the world may never know the story of what happened, he is eternally grateful we were there.”
“We made a difference,” Dre said, raising her wineglass for a toast. “That’s what matters.”