Three days later.
Persia, a secret camp of the Revolutionary Guard.
Moradi's teacup rattled on the tray.
His hand was trembling.
The greying intelligence officer stared at the dossier in Avanti's hand, his Adam's apple moving up and down, as if something was blocking his windpipe, making him feel like he was about to suffocate.
He knew very well that disaster was looming over him.
"Four years and seven months."
Avanti sliced open the seal with a paper cutter, pulled out a file from inside, and tossed a sheet onto the table.
"The ballet dancer you 'met' by chance in Munich was actually a CIA agent."
He pulled out a photo and flicked it onto the coffee table.
"Do I need to continue reading your expense records from last year at the Four Seasons Hotel in Istanbul?"
Moradi's eyes began to grow dazed, his breathing becoming rapid; at his temple, a bead of sweat as large as a bean slowly trickled down.
"You disappoint me, Moradi."
Avanti shook his head.
