20:00
Espinas Palace Hotel, Tehran, Iran
Room service had surprised Sohel with a complimentary omelette alongside his coffee. He finished it quickly, pushing the empty plate aside. Once refreshed, he dressed: a crisp white long-sleeve shirt with the sleeves folded to the elbows, black suit trousers, a sleeveless jacket, and polished Oxfords — their soles reinforced with stainless steel plates. Practical. Subtle.
Downstairs in the reception, Mitali and Leon were already waiting. Leon wore trousers and a plain black t-shirt, his relaxed posture screaming exhaustion. Mitali, by contrast, was composed — black jeans paired with a sky-blue blouse, sleeves rolled back like his, her modest heels striking the balance between professional and combat-ready.
"I'm going to meet with Arash," Sohel said, tugging at his cuffs. "Old friend. And he has a lot he wants to talk about. What about you two?"
Leon yawned and stretched. "I'm gonna get some sleep. Beds here feel like clouds."
Mitali straightened. "I'm coming with you."
Sohel nodded. "Very well. Let's go. See you later, Leon."
Outside, a blue Mercedes purred at the kerb. Behind the wheel, a short man with a wide grin waved energetically. He hopped out and opened the rear door with exaggerated courtesy.
"I'm Hashim," he said warmly. "Mr Kian's driver. Please, come."
The Mercedes shot out of the driveway like a slingshot. Sohel gripped the leather seat as Hashim weaved through Tehran's evening traffic, overtaking two lumbering semis with reckless ease.
"Where are we going?" Sohel asked, voice steady despite the car's lurch.
"Shemiran", Hashim replied, cheerful as ever. "One of the most beautiful districts in Iran. You'll love it."
"Hm." Sohel raised an eyebrow as Hashim clipped past a bus by inches. "If we're still alive."
"Alive?" Hashim laughed, accelerating harder. "Why, who would kill us?"
Mitali shot Sohel a sideways glance. He only exhaled slowly and stared out at the glowing city beyond the windscreen.
Twenty minutes later, Hashim veered sharply onto a secluded road. Towering trees lined both sides, their branches shrouding the path in flickering darkness. The asphalt turned smooth, flanked by immaculate green lawns. At the end, lit by golden lamps, stood a villa glowing like a jewel.
Sohel and Mitali climbed the steps. Before they could knock, the door swung open automatically. A woman's robotic voice — unmistakably ARIA's — echoed from hidden speakers.
"Welcome, Major Choudhury. Sergeant Roy."
A tall Iranian man emerged, broad-shouldered, late forties, with streaks of white hair at his temples. His eyes gleamed with both intelligence and mischief. He clasped Sohel's hand, then pulled him into a warm hug.
"It is an honour," the man said, stepping back with a grin. "To meet the undeads themselves. You are legends, Major. Legends!"
Sohel gave the faintest smirk. Mitali only dipped her head politely.
"Come, come," Arash urged, guiding them down a long wooded hallway until they emerged into a garden. Lanterns glowed among flowers, casting soft light across a hand-carved pond at the centre. Cypress trees formed a natural wall at the edge, while rose bushes lined the paths — most black, some yellow.
"Beautiful," Mitali whispered, impressed despite herself.
Arash's chest swelled. "My pride and joy. More than intelligence, more than politics — this garden reminds me what life is for." He gestured to a small table and garden chairs beside the pond. "Please, sit. The night air here is cooler. A gift of the mountains. What shall I feed you? Shall I order caviar?"
Before either could reply, Arash rang a bell. A young butler appeared instantly. "Yakub. Our guests have arrived. You know what to do."
Yakub bowed politely and retreated. Moments later, he returned with a silver dish of caviar, lemon slices, and handmade flatbread.
Arash scooped a spoonful onto bread, squeezed lemon over it, and popped it into his mouth. "Ah. The taste of the Caspian. Divine. But tell me, Major—" he leaned forward, chewing as he spoke—"what brings you here? What's this about Liora Schmidt?"
Sohel recounted what they knew — the financing trails, the suspicion of Phoenix Company ties, her sudden departure from Frankfurt.
Arash listened intently, but his expression darkened. He swallowed, shaking his head. "Liora Schmidt. The young lady frightens me. My ancestors were Bedouins, warriors of the desert. Blood of fighters flows in me, Mr Choudhury. I fear nothing. But her?" He tapped his temple. "Her kind is more dangerous than armies. Money, influence, ambition. She buys blades sharper than any sword."
Mitali tried the caviar, but her face twisted instantly at the pungent taste. Arash caught the reaction and chuckled. "Ah, not for everyone. Don't worry, Sergeant. I promised you the best dinner in Iran, not the strongest. Caviar is only an appetiser."
He snapped his fingers. Yakub reappeared. "Ready the car. We'll dine in the city tonight."
Sohel raised an eyebrow. "Is here not good enough?"
Arash stood with dramatic flair. "Food, Major, is life. Add wine and laughter, maybe women, and you have paradise. The desert teaches us this: pleasures are rare. Take them when they come." He grinned, eyes twinkling. "And besides, conversation flows better over kebabs than over salted fish eggs."
Yakub stepped forward. "The car is ready, sir."
Arash sighed, mock-dramatic. "Always interrupting my poetry, Yakub. How many times have I told you? A butler with no sense of timing is a curse!" He turned to Sohel and Mitali, spreading his arms wide. "You see what I endure? Surrounded by humourless men. One drives like a lunatic; the other kills my jokes. Where is the peace in this world?"
Mitali smirked faintly. "Maybe at dinner?"
Arash clapped his hands. "Yes! Exactly! Come. Tonight, you taste Tehran as it was meant to be tasted. Trust me, you will leave satisfied."
Sohel and Mitali exchanged a glance. He gave the smallest nod. And together, they followed Arash back toward the waiting car.
Hashim was already leaning against the hood of the blue Mercedes, whistling a tune that didn't match his restless foot tapping. The moment Sohel and Mitali stepped into the backseat, he slid behind the wheel and slammed it into gear.
The Mercedes shot forward like a bullet leaving its chamber. Mitali instinctively gripped the door handle; Sohel pressed his palm against the leather armrest, expression unreadable. The headlights carved tunnels of light through the narrow Shemiran roads, each corner taken as though the laws of physics were optional.
To Mitali, it felt less like being chauffeured to dinner and more like being delivered to her last rites. Hashim, meanwhile, hummed cheerfully, as if the screeching tires were nothing more than background music.
"So," he said, glancing at them in the rearview mirror with a grin far too wide for the speedometer's needle, "hungry?"
Sohel exhaled slowly, his voice calm but laced with irony.
"With the way you're driving, Hashim… it feels like our last meal."