"Connecting to Frankfurt... Failed. Connecting to Miami... Failed."
Foreign Minister Reza stared at his phone, his thumb hovering over the screen with violent intent. He hit refresh.
"Connecting to Tokyo... Failed."
Reza threw the phone onto his bed. He was the chief diplomat of a regional superpower, a man who regularly threatened the total annihilation of Western hegemony on live television, and he couldn't even get a stable enough VPN connection to download the season finale of The Great British Baking Show.
He cursed the Ministry of Communications. They had throttled the internet again because of some student protests over the price of poultry. Reza completely supported crushing dissent, but he strongly felt cabinet members should get a bypass code. How was he supposed to survive a flight to Pakistan without watching someone named Nigel mess up a Victoria Sponge?
Resigned to his fate, Reza went back to packing. He grabbed three identical, collarless white shirts. He hated the collarless shirt. It made him look like a pharmacist from the 1980s. But wearing a necktie in the Iranian government was essentially a treasonable offense—a symbol of Western decadence. So, no ties. Just chafing.
He threw the shirts in his suitcase next to a massive, two-pound bag of premium pistachios. Sanctions had tanked the Rial so badly that Reza found it was often easier to just tip foreign hotel staff in raw nuts.
Two hours later, Reza was standing in the VIP departure lounge at Imam Khomeini International Airport, desperately trying to buy a decent cup of coffee.
"Brother Reza!"
Reza squeezed his eyes shut for a full three seconds before turning around. It was Hamid.
Hamid was twenty-four, an officer in the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps, and possessed the terrifying, unblinking energy of a guy who actually listened to political podcasts at 2x speed. He was assigned to make sure Reza didn't accidentally agree to anything without shouting "Death to America" at least twice.
"Hamid," Reza said, pasting on a tight smile. "Peace be upon you."
"The Supreme Council expects a bloodbath at the negotiating table today, Minister!" Hamid aggressively whisper-shouted, adjusting a heavy briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. "We will show the Great Satan that our uranium enrichment is a sacred right! We will not bend! We will break their capitalist spine!"
"Yes, exactly," Reza said, pointing at the duty-free kiosk. "Do you think they take Apple Pay? I forgot."
Hamid looked at him, horrified. "Apple is a tool of the CIA, Minister."
"Right. Cash it is."
Reza walked over to the kiosk and picked up a massive, airport-sized Toblerone. He hadn't had decent chocolate in months. The domestic stuff tasted like brown crayons.
Hamid scurried over, his eyes narrowing at the golden, triangular packaging. "Minister? Why are we purchasing the confections of the infidels? This is Swiss. The Swiss host the World Economic Forum. This is practically eating a bribe."
Reza sighed. He didn't have the energy for this. He just wanted the chocolate. He held the Toblerone up to the fluorescent airport lights with a look of intense, fake religious gravity.
"Look closely, Hamid," Reza said smoothly. "The West claims their alliances are strong. Yet, they fracture their own candy into these weak, easily breakable triangles. I am buying this so I can snap it in half right in front of the American Vice President. It is psychological warfare."
Hamid gasped, his hand flying to his chest. "Brother... that is brilliant."
"I know. Pay the man. Get two, in case I need to psychologically destroy the Chinese guy, too."
Ten minutes later, they were sitting in first class on a state-owned Airbus A300. Reza buckled his seatbelt just as the pilot's voice crackled over the intercom with a heavy dose of static.
"Uh, greetings passengers. We are slightly delayed. Inshallah, the ground crew will finish borrowing a fan belt from a baggage cart to fix the left engine, and we will be on our way to Islamabad shortly."
Reza leaned his head against the vibrating window. He closed his eyes. He was going to get this treaty signed. He had to. He couldn't fly on planes held together by prayers and spare tractor parts anymore.