The air in the VIP conference room was so thick with geopolitical tension you could have cut it with a drone strike.
The four men sat around the mahogany table. On the left sat Brad, nursing a massive steel Yeti thermos. On the right sat Reza, adjusting his collarless shirt and silently mourning his lack of Swiss chocolate, which Hamid had confiscated at the hotel lobby. At the head of the table sat Tariq, beaming like a game show host. And at te foot sat Wei, happily pouring himself a cup of four-thousand-dollar dirt water.
For forty-five years, the United States and Iran had strictly adhered to "shuttle diplomacy." They refused to sit in the same room. Mediators would usually have to sprint between different luxury hotels in Geneva or Doha, carrying pieces of paper back and forth like highly paid errand boys.
Today, to save time, they were in the same room. But protocol was protocol.
Brad cleared his throat, stared aggressively at a bowl of decorative plastic fruit in the center of the table, and spoke.
"Tariq," Brad said, his voice flat. "Please inform the Iranian delegation that the United States is prepared to discuss the lifting of maritime embargoes, provided they commit to a cap on uranium enrichment."
Tariq's eyes lit up. This was his moment. He puffed out his chest, turned his head exactly forty-five degrees to the right, and looked at Reza.
"Brother Reza," Tariq proclaimed, his voice booming with unnecessary theatricality. "The American delegation, in its infinite but perhaps misguided wisdom, wishes to express its desire to—"
"I heard him, Tariq," Reza interrupted, not taking his eyes off the opposite wall. "He is sitting thirty-six inches away from me. I can smell his peppermint nicotine gum."
"Yes, but protocol dictates I must convey the message!" Tariq insisted, visibly sweating.
"Fine. Convey it."
"He says they will lift the ships if you stop spinning the centrifuges," Tariq whispered loudly.
Reza didn't blink. He stared at a painting of a horse behind Brad's head. "Tariq, please inform the representative of the Great Satan that Iran's nuclear program is for peaceful, civilian energy purposes only. And tell him we demand the unfreezing of our sovereign assets before any embargo discussions."
Tariq whipped his head back to the left, leaning so far over the table he almost knocked over the mint chutney. "Brad! The Iranians say their nuclear program is completely peaceful, like a gentle dove, and they want their money back first."
"Tariq, tell the Foreign Minister that I am not an idiot," Brad snapped, staring at the plastic fruit. "You don't enrich uranium to sixty percent just to power a toaster in Isfahan."
Tariq whipped his head to the right. "Brother Reza, the American says you are making too much spicy energy for your toasters."
"Tell the American," Reza shot back, "that what we do with our toasters is none of his imperialist business!"
"Brad, he says his toasters are sovereign!"
Wei watched this unfold with the serene, fascinated joy of a man watching two monkeys try to assemble a piece of IKEA furniture. He opened his laptop, brought up his Excel spreadsheet, and calmly adjusted his projection for the collapse of the Western world from 2045 to 2038.
The tennis match of diplomacy continued for twenty grueling minutes. Brad to Tariq. Tariq to Reza. Reza to Tariq. Tariq to Brad. Tariq was physically panting. His neck was getting a cramp. In a desperate attempt to add value, he had started adding his own Pakistani political flair to the translations.
"Tariq, tell him the IAEA inspectors need full access to Natanz," Brad grunted, tapping his pen.
Tariq turned to Reza. "He says the inspectors need access. Which, as a Pakistani, I must advise against. Never let inspectors into your facilities! Just tell them the gate is locked and the guard went to lunch. It works for us every time."
Brad slammed his hand down on the table. The plastic fruit rattled.
"Tariq, do not give him advice on how to hide nuclear material from the UN!"
"I am merely offering regional best practices!" Tariq squeaked, holding up a plate. "Samosa?"
Brad exhaled a long, shuddering breath. He looked down at his Yeti thermos. It was empty. He had zero caffeine left in his system, he was operating on three hours of sleep, and his patience for the theater of international relations had completely evaporated.
He slid his chair back, breaking his stare with the plastic fruit. He turned his head and looked directly at Reza.
Reza stiffened.
"Reza," Brad said, exhausted. "I know you speak English. You went to Georgetown."
"It was Rutgers, actually," Reza replied instinctively, making direct eye contact before he could stop himself.
"Whatever. New Jersey. Close enough," Brad said, leaning forward. "Can we please cut the middleman? If I have to watch Tariq whip his head back and forth one more time, I'm going to throw up."
Reza glanced at Tariq, who was currently rubbing his neck and looking deeply offended. Reza then looked over at Wei, who was happily typing away on his laptop, completely undisturbed by the chaos.
Reza sighed, dropping the revolutionary posture for just a second. "Fine. But I am still not wearing a tie."
"I don't care if you wear a Batman costume," Brad said, opening his binder. "Let's talk about the Qatar money."
History had just been made, not through the triumphant bridging of cultural divides, but because an American was under-caffeinated and deeply annoyed by a Pakistani mediator.