On Monday morning, Daniel scheduled a staff meeting, bringing together Seth, Iggy, and a half dozen others. The conference table consisted of four plain desks pushed together. He asked questions and complimented his colleagues on their work. The men grew more relaxed and talked about the headway they had made—the workshops, training, and farmers who longed for new skills, equipment, and plans. Daniel nodded, thanking them. He loathed the story he was about to tell them, but it was the only one he could allow. He explained that the timeline for the Reform had changed. He showed them the same document he’d shown Sherzai. The air left the room.
After glancing at the Gulzar report, Seth skidded the papers back across the table. Slumping in his chair, he drummed his fingers, peering at Daniel over his heavy glasses. Iggy asked questions, rubbing his brow now and then. “I don’t get it. Why can’t it wait?”
Seth answered on Daniel’s behalf. “Because Daniel here says it can’t. Never mind that we’ve been working day after day, week after week, month after month on the Yassaman field. After he talked us into it.”
“So you should be happy we’re postponing that,” Daniel said.
“Can’t you tell that no one in here is happy right now?” Seth drew an imaginary circle around the room with his pen.
“Quit it,” Iggy said, scribbling notes as he spoke. “Let’s stay calm.”
They asked questions. Daniel answered. “I know it’s unexpected,” he said. “But we have to get working on this.”
The men traded glances, the local farming experts and hydro engineers seeking an explanation from their American counterparts. Iggy shook his head in a small movement Daniel pretended not to see. He also ignored Seth, who was humming a tune through gritted teeth.
“There’s a lot of work to do and not much time,” Daniel said.
“And whose fault is that?” Seth muttered, scraping his chair across the floor as he rose.
Daniel asked him to stay behind, wishing the others a productive day. “Do you have some kind of problem with me?” he said when they were alone.
“There were a couple of things you left out of that presentation, that’s all.”
“Like what?”
“Like what does Smythe think of all this? What does Sherzai say? How come he’s not here backing you up on this?” Sweat seeped through Seth’s shirt as his monologue gained pace. “And what about the money? I’ve been at this a long time, and this is going to cost a fortune. Redoing the equipment, digging channels and pipes bringing water from the river?”
“It’s all been taken into account and worked out.”
“What, over the weekend?” Seth snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”
“You don’t need to worry about those kinds of decisions.”
“No, that’s apparently your job, and you must take it very seriously. Everything was working fine—”
“Everything was not working fine. I have reasons for switching gears.”
“Is that what you call this? ‘Switching gears’? See, that’s not what I’d call it. I’m an engineer, so I understand how gears work, okay? Let me explain something. When you switch gears, you go from one to two to three. Or from forward to backward.” Seth moved his hands like he was driving a stick shift. “It’s a sequence. A closed linear system. This? What you’re doing here?” He tossed a glance at the door as if about to let Daniel in on a secret. “What you’re doing here is, you’re jumping right off the train and grabbing an entirely new set of gears on a different train going in another direction nobody’s ever heard of. We have a special term for that, but it’s pretty technical. We call it ‘fucking things up.’”
“Your concerns are noted,” Daniel said.
Seth stood with his hands on his hips, his tie hanging crookedly over his short-sleeved shirt. For once, he had removed his jacket, which lay crumpled on the table. “Kauffman would never have done this.”
“Kauffman meant well, but things went wrong under him. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
“No. You’re here because—”
“That’s all, Seth.” Daniel returned to his office, his staff falling silent as he passed.
Seth had asked what Smythe thought as if he’d known Daniel hadn’t told the undersecretary. Evidently, though, someone else had, because the Teletype was stuttering out a message from the State Department, and all the buttons on Miss Soraya’s phone blinked red as she shot from one line to the other, telling every caller that Daniel was unavailable.
He locked himself in his office and drank the strong black tea she’d brewed. It was bitter and hot enough to burn. He beat back the temptation to pour himself a drink from the liquor cart. Miss Soraya held his calls for several more minutes, until he told her he was ready. The conversation with Smythe could only be described as catastrophic. It wasn’t Iggy who had alerted Smythe, nor any of the others at USADE. It was Sherzai. Daniel scarcely heard the words that poured forth from the undersecretary. Until this moment, he had imagined Sherzai might back him up, or at least wait until they had spoken again before doing this. But agha had not truly betrayed him: Smythe didn’t seem to know the file was a forgery. He only knew that Sherzai was against the new proposal. Daniel set the receiver down on the desk and leaned his head in his hands as Smythe’s voice thundered.
According to Smythe, the great obstacle to the Gulzar Reform was not the Ministry of Planning, whose influence he called “as limited as my first wife.” Nor was it his own department or the committees in Congress. As long as the result was big, and could be filmed, a different field was not impossible. But Dannaco-Hastings’s contract gave them the right to withdraw their equipment. The final say lay with them, just as Greenwood had said, and Dannaco wanted more than a spectacle. It wanted a test, numbers and statistics that showed Agent Ruby could lay waste to acre upon acre of the most resilient plants, a pesticide that could be used by farmers and soldiers alike.
“As for me,” Smythe said, “I need footage of a whole lot of poppies coming out of the ground. It doesn’t have to be the Yassaman poppies.”
“There aren’t that many growing in Gulzar, sir. There won’t be enough for a show.”
“There could be.”
“How? We can’t transplant thousands of poppies and then yank them out for the camera.”
“Footage of poppies can’t be that hard to find,” Smythe said. “Anyway, it’s a moot point. If your evidence doesn’t convince Dannaco, and it’s not going to unless Greenwood says the same thing you did, sayonara to this new plan of yours. That’s Japanese, by the way, and it doesn’t just mean goodbye, it means you’re deep fried. Do you follow?”
“Can’t you put pressure on them? We’re the client, and we’re also the damn US government.”
“Easy there. Sure, we can put pressure on them. But first of all, I don’t want to. Second, it’s a contract and it’s their equipment. You still listening?”
Daniel was.
“Third, they just gave a barrel of dollars to the Democrats, and Carter’s already gearing up for reelection. He’s been in office seven whole months, for chrissake. Time to start planning his next campaign. Fourth, follow the goddamn plan. Fifth—and this is important—let’s never talk about this again.” His parting words were about Greenwood. Daniel was to “entertain the kid, do whatever tourists do in countries where fun is illegal.”
Miss Soraya came in with the telex, which was a more polished version of Smythe’s tirade, likely composed by one of his analysts. Shortly after, the intercom squawked, and Miss Soraya announced an urgent call from the Ministry of Planning. Daniel did not wish to speak to Sherzai. She told him it was someone else, a man whose name she wasn’t familiar with. Maybe Sherzai could not bear to speak with Daniel any more than Daniel could bear the thought of speaking to him. He told Miss Soraya to put the caller through.
“My illustrious friend, what a pleasure to find you there. I so enjoyed your party.”
“I don’t think you did. Don’t get me wrong. It was memorable, especially the part where I got to throw you out, but I think Mr. Greenwood scared you.”
“He does cut a frightening figure, doesn’t he?”
Daniel nearly laughed. But when Taj cleared his throat and emitted a chuckle, it sounded dry and strained. “I have faith in you.”
“Like I said before, it’s not just about me. Even if I wanted to delay your inevitable and highly desirable ruin, you would have to blackmail a corporation with more money than the Saudi king.”
“If I was foolish enough to do such things, I would have done them long before meeting you. I won’t be blackmailing anyone else.”
“A wise decision.”
“You will be.”
Before Daniel could ponder what this meant, the khan added, “Again, I look forward to the privilege of your company on Wednesday at the Zoroaster.” The khan’s voice held a tremor, and he spoke more slowly than usual, as if every word was an effort. The more time passed, the more Daniel thought something had rattled him and that Greenwood may indeed have changed how Taj saw things. Daniel hung up. Sherzai called later in the afternoon, but Daniel could not speak with him. Sherzai left a message that Miss Soraya conveyed: he wanted Daniel to know that he had not discussed the anonymous source with Smythe.
He mentioned none of this to Rebecca when he came home after a day of silences and worried looks from his staff. She knew enough. All day at the embassy, she had heard Sutherland’s side of a dozen telephone calls, which she mentioned to Daniel. The ambassador had spoken with people in Washington and here, and USADE was mentioned in every call, seeming to have disrupted the interests of an array of people on both sides of the world.
“Is your new friend being helpful?” Rebecca asked as they sat down to dinner.
“Not especially.”
While Rebecca buttered her naan, Daniel told her that on Wednesday night, he would take Greenwood to the Zoroaster because Smythe insisted he be entertained, and visitors always loved the club, which featured drinks, dancing, and dervishes, a combination few had seen.
“Great! I’ll ask Peter and Laila. I’m sure they’d love to come.”
“I didn’t think you’d want to go. Besides, it’s business.”
“I don’t mind. We’ll stay out of your way.” Rebecca smiled weakly. “Are you worried we’ll cramp your style?”
The thought of Taj in a room with Rebecca again made Daniel’s stomach twist. “I just think you might be bored,” he said.
She turned her attention back to her toast, running the knife over it in a rhythmic, deliberate motion. “That didn’t stop you from bringing me here.” Her words hit him like a sandstorm.
“I didn’t bring you. You came with me.”
“I followed. There’s a difference.” After a pause, she added, “You don’t have to do any of this. Your father was just a person. A flawed, ordinary person, and you’re working yourself to pieces doing something you don’t know he would have wanted you to do.”
Where was this coming from?
“It’s what I want to do, darling.”
“How do you do that? Make the word darling sound like an insult?” She looked sad, but then paused and seemed to change her mind. “I’m always on your side. No matter what.”
These outbursts of affection, delivered at regular intervals these past few days, surprised him. She raised her glass and he did the same, but when they toasted the sound was muted and tentative, as if they both feared the crystal might break. They resumed dinner.
“I have an idea.” Rebecca took his hands and pulled him to the parlor, leaving their food behind, and switched on the stereo. To the gentle cadence of a waltz, he drew her into a slow dance in the dimly lit room. They talked about ordinary things—her friend Rita’s engagement, the things they wanted to buy, and letters they needed to write. Daniel asked why she hadn’t played the Beethoven sonata in days, after rehearsing the piece for so many weeks.
She thought before answering. “It was too hard.” She lay her head against his chest. “It just wasn’t worth it anymore.”
“Some things aren’t,” Daniel said, pulling her closer. He had forgotten how much he loved dancing with his wife. When they returned to the dining room, dinner was cold.
As it turned out, Rebecca was right about Peter and Laila, who were thrilled at the prospect of the Zoroaster’s dervish show, which neither had seen. Greenwood seemed more excited than anyone. On Wednesday night, the hired chauffeur steered Rebecca’s Ford from Dollar Djinn Lane at nine o’clock. The mood in the car was festive; Daniel squeezed into the back with Peter and Laila, who were drinking directly from a bottle of champagne that they handed to Rebecca in the passenger seat. She took a swig and let out a laugh.
“Do we have any music?” Laila said. Rebecca looked in the glove compartment. It contained nothing but paperwork, a flashlight, sunglasses, and a city map. Daniel looked away. Before him flashed the Neil Diamond tape he’d meant to play the day of the crash. The album was ten years old. Just for You.
As the chauffeur poked along through the densely packed evening roads, spinning the radio dial, Telaya began to whisper, quoting lyrics from the record, running down its titles, changing the words a little here and there.
Just for him, she said.
Peter made one joke after another. “A Soviet soldier was just sentenced to thirty-one years in prison for shouting in public, ‘The premier is an idiot!’ He got one year for insulting the premier and thirty for revealing a state secret.” The women broke into laughter until the driver laughed, too, and Daniel forced himself to laugh until his laughter was no longer fake, forgetting for a moment the real reason he was going to the club.
“You’re silly,” Laila told Peter. He kissed her on the lips. From her reaction, it wasn’t the first time.
They were almost at the club. The ladies drew combs and lipsticks from their handbags, and Peter put on the shoes he had taken off. As the merriment was replaced by a silence full of cheerful anticipation, Telaya went on with her ghostly songs. Daniel caught only snippets.
She eventually stopped singing, but as they drew to the nightclub, she said, The man without arms can’t help having no arms. You chose to be blind and deaf.
The car slowly came to a stop. The Zoroaster was on the fringes of downtown, this side’s Studio 54 for denizens of the night. Armored tanks were visible on the road perpendicular to the alley, but none of the clubgoers seemed to mind. The military often roamed the city since the coup four years ago, and the recent protests and army presence struck many as nothing more than a few extra snails in a garden. Ironically, the nightclub was a force for unity, because all quarreling factions agreed it should be closed. To the Communists, the place was an emblem of Western decadence with its thumping music, alcohol, and half-naked dancers. To Islamists, the place was an emblem of Western decadence with its thumping music, alcohol, and half-naked dancers.
The chauffeur let Daniel’s group off at the mouth of the alley. Greenwood was leaning against the wall near the entrance, which consisted of unmarked lead doors guarded by a man with a gun and an attitude. The consultant hurried toward Daniel but kept his eyes on the tanks until the bouncer beckoned the group through the door.
Plain and utilitarian, the facade of the building belied the Zoroaster’s interior. Sequined cushions adorned low-slung sofas. Glittery scarves were hung in swooping patterns along a wall. Waiters with slick ponytails balanced bottles of Veuve Clicquot and Black Label on trays. Four men sat cross-legged on long pillows against a wall, testing their instruments, amplifiers magnifying the booming bass of tabla drums and the electronic strains of a keyboard. Daniel led his group toward the high tables that ringed the dance floor, the strobe lights reflected in their mirrored surfaces.
“This place is amazing,” Greenwood said. “Check out those chicks.” He pointed unsubtly to several girls in skintight dresses and heeled boots. They stood in a close circle, glancing at men over their shoulders, sharing opinions between sips of wine.
After seating the women, Daniel and Peter ordered cocktails at the bar, where a bottle blonde offered cigarettes and the bartender mixed cocktails with flamboyant skill. It was past ten o’clock. Walking back toward the table with overflowing glasses, Daniel searched for Taj in the sea of strobe-lit faces.
“Watch it,” said a man, tripping out of Daniel’s way.
Greenwood thanked him for the Coke and slapped him on the back. “You know it’s not gonna work, right? My company can’t go along with it.”
“Let’s not talk about it now.”
“The Yassaman land is good soil, at least for these parts. We’re excited about it. You will be, too. You’ll see.”
Maybe he meant it, or maybe he just wanted to make Daniel feel helpless. Either way, he reminded Daniel of the inexorable victory of forces he might never be able to control.
Daniel scanned the room. Still no sign of Taj. In the club, the crowd swayed in anticipation, bass pulsing against the walls. Just as the emcee announced the dervishes, the opium khan came into view in the entryway.
“Hey, there’s your friend,” Greenwood said.
Rebecca jerked anxious eyes toward Taj but lowered them before he could acknowledge her. Peter and Laila were too fascinated with each other to notice. Beckoning a waiter, Daniel asked for a bottle of whiskey, wishing Ian were here. But Ian loathed the Zoroaster, which he described as “kind of tawdry but not really, and basically a place that makes no sense.”
Amid a riot of applause, three dervishes took their places on the floor: one in his early teens, one Daniel’s age, and one an old man, all wearing cropped white jackets and matching skirts that grazed the floor.
It was a scandal for a traditional religious dance to be performed in a discotheque. From the bass drum rose a sluggish rhythm, a deep and echoing beat followed by two shorter ones. The dervishes began to twirl, heads tilted, arms hugging their shoulders.
Taj never cut his gaze from Daniel, standing on the steps near the coat and chaderi check. Rebecca pretended to be mesmerized by the show. Greenwood had drifted to some other world, staring at other patrons, including a group of young men accompanied by older gentlemen in gold chains and thick rings. Daniel used the break in conversation to think through his next move. He wouldn’t easily be able to reach Taj, who was past the giant wall the crowd had formed.
The music grew louder and faster, and other instruments joined in. People hooted to the beat. Heads bobbed and bodies swayed. The teenage dervish whirled vertiginously, faster than the others, his long hair like black water under the searching lights. Greenwood looked uncomfortable. He leaned toward Daniel and laughed. “They do like spinning tops, don’t they?”
From across the room, Taj briefly flashed a yellow envelope. He threaded through the crowd, slipping toward the restrooms. Daniel waited a moment, then followed. The men’s room was empty save for Taj and a man whose bladder could apparently hold several pints. Taj stood before the mirror, combing his hair, leaning against the sink with his other hand. His body swayed slightly. With a silent flick of his gaze, he indicated an empty stall. Daniel went inside and shut the door. The yellow envelope was wedged behind the toilet tank. He opened it and was soon holding the edges of a single Polaroid. The glossy paper felt both sticky and slick.
The clamor of the crowd and the music thumped at the bathroom door. Daniel turned the photo over, unable to look at it any longer. He considered bringing it to the office to shred it; returning it anonymously to its subject, who would certainly destroy it; or tossing it in his fireplace at home. He leafed through his options like pages of a book, already knowing what passage he was looking for. There was only one fate for this devastating photo.
He slipped the Polaroid back into the envelope and exited the stall. The bathroom’s third occupant was finally gone, while Taj remained, leaning patiently against the wall.
“How did you get this?” Daniel asked.
“Surely you knew such places existed. And thus, they must be serving a clientele.” Daniel heard his street-child accent break through his veneer. The smell of wine bloomed on the Manticore’s breath.
“I thought you didn’t drink,” Daniel said.
“I didn’t,” Taj said, as if just realizing himself that this was true.
“Why did you start?” Daniel wasn’t sure why he’d asked, but he sensed an opportunity to humble the khan.
Taj only shrugged. “Why did you?”
“It’s just something people do.”
“If a man must have a vice, he should at least know how it serves him.”
Vice. Rarely had Daniel seen vice on display like in that photograph. Vice or maybe even disease—whatever it was, its entire incarnation was captured on that Polaroid. He knew what he had to do, but if he stayed here, he could delay the task by a few more minutes. “How does drinking serve you, exactly?” he asked.
“It’s a matter of life or death.”
“Nobody ever died from not drinking.”
“As usual, you misunderstand me. I’m trying to save my own life by causing the death of another.”
“You think that talking in riddles makes you sound deep? Anyone from here can tell you’re a fraud, saheb.” He invested all the irony he could into the word.
“Another thing we have in common.” Taj bowed. “Good night, my friend.” Before he slipped out of the restroom, he added, “And you’re welcome.”
Daniel was left alone, clutching the envelope almost tight enough to crumple it. The picture was etched into his mind like the poppies were on Taj’s gun. It laid claim to all his senses. He could almost hear the music coming from the radio on the particleboard table in the photo, smell the stale cigarettes piled in the ashtray. He could hear the din of traffic, the cars and bikes visible through the frosted window, which was dirty and cracked.
Two men pushed into the restroom, apologizing when they hit him with the door. He made his way back to the table, where Greenwood and Rebecca were talking and Peter was feeding peanuts to Laila.
“Do you have a moment to chat?” Daniel asked Greenwood.
“You want to talk shop?”
“Something like that.”
Rebecca protested. “Can’t you take a break?”
Daniel reminded her that tonight was about business. She nodded. Sometimes she was so lovely it took his breath away, and he vowed never again to forget, never to risk losing her to Peter or anyone else. He walked with Greenwood up a staircase to the second floor, where there was a restaurant that operated only during the day.
“Where are we going?” the consultant said as they crossed the darkened dining room.
“Outside.”
The balcony door was closed but not locked. A gust of wind slammed into Daniel’s chest as he stepped over the threshold. The alley below was empty except for a looming tank, which groaned nervously at the corner while a smattering of people argued amongst themselves.
“I told you,” Greenwood said after glancing nervously at the alley. “It’s a done deal. Yassaman is a go.”
Daniel looked up at the sky. “Have you ever noticed that the moon looks like a lens?”
“A lens?”
“You know, a camera lens.”
“Whatever you say,” Greenwood replied. “Look, if you keep pushing this thing with the fields, I’ll have to take steps.”
“Steps? How concerning.”
“I don’t bluff. Learned not to a long time ago. My dad was a gambler.”
“Mine wasn’t. Tell your superiors at Dannaco-Hastings that the plan has changed, and that you’re behind me on this. If you need to, you’ll tell them that you’ve personally seen soil samples and talked to engineers. Even that you’ve talked to my source.”
Greenwood searched Daniel’s face. “What kind of game is this? Daniel, you don’t write the rulebook here. You’ve got your orders, and if you don’t carry them out, the State Department will replace you with someone who will.” In his chiding was a note of genuine concern.
“You have to support the switch to the Gulzar field,” Daniel said. “Or I have to do something I really don’t want to.”
“What, push me over the balcony? Is that your grand plan?”
“No.” Daniel produced the photograph and averted his eyes as Greenwood looked at it. For a moment, he wished the breeze would sweep it away, and take with it the shame and pain. When Daniel looked at Greenwood again, the man had taken a step back, his face inscrutable.
“I thought this would be paperwork about the Gulzar field,” he said. His companion in the picture was younger than the youngest dervish, years younger than the murdered teenager in the Yassaman field. The boy’s chest was hairless, his ribs obvious, his arms long and disproportionate to his torso.
“I know what you must be thinking, but this isn’t what it looks like.”
“I didn’t ask for an explanation.”
“It’s a fake. No one’s going to believe this.”
“And that’s a chance you’re willing to take?”
Greenwood let his shoulders sink. His next words were a sorrowful plea. “Why would you do this? Is it so important to destroy the Gulzar field instead of the Yassaman field?”
“Is it so important to destroy the Yassaman field instead of the Gulzar field?”
“If I tell my boss your data’s good, that we need to change the plan, this goes away?” The young man’s lips quivered as Daniel nodded.
Greenwood wrapped his fingers around the railing and lowered his gaze to the alley, and for a moment Daniel feared he would jump. A soldier glanced up. Daniel walked closer to the ledge, calculating how fast he could stop Greenwood if that was his intention. But the consultant retreated, studying the sky. Searching for the god who had done this to him.
As Daniel turned to leave, Greenwood said, “I was on the top floor of one of the Twin Towers once when I was a kid.” He stared up at the moon. “Have you noticed that no matter how high you climb, the sky never seems to get any closer?”
“And yet it can fall at any time.”
Greenwood turned to him. “Exactly.”
For a fleeting moment, Daniel felt a camaraderie with the man. He left Greenwood on the terrace and returned to the club, the photo wedged in his jacket pocket. The club was rowdier than ever. Rebecca was ready to leave. Everyone agreed it was time. When their group reached the lead doors, the bouncer jangled into sight with a set of keys.
The entrance hadn’t been locked earlier. Guarded, but not locked. The bouncer opened the door just enough for them to slip through, warning them to be careful. Outside, they were quickly caught in the crush. A tank was crawling up the alley like a panther, slow but relentless. Its barrel was aimed at the crowd. Standing in the hatch, a captain shouted into a megaphone.
“Disperse!” he bellowed.
A dozen people were waving flags—some red, some green. These represented not countries but ideas. Daoud had become a traitor and a joke, the Communists shouted, raising banners that read kalq, the more radical of the two main factions. They demanded a revolution and called the Soviets their brothers in arms. Not to be outdone, the religious opposition waved their green flags and called for jihad against the Communist infidels.
Jihad. Daniel had never heard the word used like this before. It usually referred to an inner struggle. You waged jihad against yourself, against personal temptations and petty emotions. Not against other people.
Rioters threw stones and pumped fists as uniforms gave orders and people screamed. A man climbed onto the tank and seized the megaphone. Emblazoned on his red shirt was a gold star. “The land belongs to the people,” said the man as the captain aimed a gun at him, “not the capitalists who want to take it!” He waved a finger in the air. “Down with Daoud! Down with America! They hire Kochis, those stateless savages, and leave us with nothing!” Cheers and boos rose in the air, tangling like smoke. The captain struck the man with the butt of his gun, shoving him off the tank and wrangling the megaphone back. Curses flew, but it wasn’t clear if the men were cursing each other, the soldiers, the Zoroaster, or some other thing entirely. In the club, the show went on, hypnotized partygoers unaware of the chaos outside. Daniel led Rebecca and his friends along the wall to where the car waited, engine already running.
No one spoke on the drive home. Daniel could feel the photo against his chest. Possessing this image felt wrong, like holding the bloodied limb of your fallen enemy. Or maybe it reminded him of his car, which he still had not returned to. Like driving, photography was a modern, useful act, a way to discover places and make memories, but it could become a weapon, destroying a life in the blink of an eye.