By 8:00 AM on Day Two, the Serena Hotel conference room smelled like a crime scene where the only victims were diplomatic norms and human deodorant.
But Brad didn't care. He was floating on the adrenaline of a historic victory.
Sitting on the table between him and Reza was a yellow legal pad. On it was written a remarkably simple framework: US unfreezes $6 Billion. Iran lets IAEA plug the Wi-Fi router back in at Natanz. It wasn't a soaring treaty that would echo through the halls of history, but it was enough to make gas prices drop in Ohio, which meant Brad was getting a promotion. He uncapped a cheap plastic ballpoint pen and slid it toward Reza.
"Sign the bottom, Reza," Brad said, his voice raspy but triumphant. "I'll text Washington, they'll wire the funds to Doha, and we can all go home and take a shower."
Reza picked up the pen. He looked at the legal pad. He thought about the airplane parts. He thought about the internet speeds. He took a deep breath, lowered the pen to the paper—
"Oh, my apologies!"
A cheerful voice chirped from the end of the table.
Brad and Reza looked over. Wei had removed his silk eye mask, stretched his arms above his head, and was now actively typing on his laptop. He looked incredibly refreshed, glowing with the radiant health of a man who hadn't spent the last twelve hours arguing about the definition of "medicinal titanium."
"My clumsy fingers," Wei said, turning his laptop screen around so it faced Reza. "I accidentally opened my maritime tracking software instead of my Sudoku. Silly me."
Brad squinted at the screen. It was a live satellite feed of the Persian Gulf.
"Wei, we are literally mid-signature," Brad growled. "Put the computer away."
"Of course, Brad, of course. Just one tiny observation," Wei said, his voice dripping with polite innocence. "Reza, my friend. Do you see these five little grey blips right outside your territorial waters?"
Reza leaned forward, intrigued. "Yes. What are they?"
"Well, officially? They are ghost ships. Tankers with their transponders completely turned off, practically invisible to the American Navy," Wei smiled warmly. "But unofficially? They are the Chinese Dark Fleet. And they are currently carrying about three million barrels of your heavily sanctioned crude oil to independent refineries in Shandong province."
Brad's stomach dropped. "Wei. Shut up."
"Brad, please, I am just practicing my geography," Wei deflected smoothly, turning back to Reza. "Reza, I couldn't help but overhear your negotiations last night while I was resting my eyes. Brad is offering you six billion dollars. But he wants your Wi-Fi passwords, he wants inspectors in your facilities, and he wants to check your receipts."
Wei paused, pouring himself a fresh cup of Da Hong Pao tea.
"China," Wei continued softly, "currently buys ninety percent of your oil. We pay in cash. Or gold. Or, if you prefer, un-traceable Yuan. We do not ask for Wi-Fi passwords. We do not care what you do with your centrifuges. In fact, if you want, we can throw in a dozen hypersonic anti-ship missiles just to sweeten the deal."
The room went dead silent.
Brad stared at Wei. The American's geopolitical leverage, painstakingly built over four decades of intricate, crushing financial sanctions, was currently bleeding out on a mahogany table in Pakistan.
"You're buying his oil right now?" Brad asked, his voice trembling with sheer outrage. "There's an international embargo!"
Wei blinked, looking deeply offended. "Brad! How cynical! We are merely purchasing 'unspecified organic liquid' from 'undisclosed independent sellers.' If that liquid happens to originate from the Persian Gulf, who are we to judge? We are a neutral nation just trying to manufacture affordable patio furniture."
Reza looked down at the yellow legal pad. The American pen suddenly felt heavy and humiliating in his hand. Why was he begging Brad for his own money, agreeing to let Western inspectors poke around his sovereign territory, when Wei's fleet was sitting right off the coast, ready to hand him a blank check with zero strings attached?
Reza's posture changed. The exhausted pragmatist vanished, and the hardline revolutionary returned. He dropped the plastic pen onto the table. It landed with a hollow clack.
"Reza," Brad warned, pointing a finger at him. "Do not do this. Do not walk away from this deal. You sign that paper, or I swear to God, the US Navy will seize every single one of those ghost ships by noon."
"Are you threatening my commercial vessels, Brad?" Wei asked, his gentle smile finally vanishing, replaced by a cold, corporate stare.
"They aren't your vessels if their transponders are off, Wei!" Brad shouted, his face turning a dangerous shade of red.
"Gentlemen! Breakfast is served!"
The conference room doors burst open. Tariq marched in, followed by two waiters pushing carts loaded with steaming pots of Halwa Puri, fresh parathas, and a massive silver urn of chai. Tariq was beaming, completely oblivious to the fact that the fragile peace treaty had just been brutally murdered and stuffed into a trunk by the Chinese envoy.
"I brought extra cholay! It is very spicy, very good for the digestion!" Tariq announced, clapping his hands. He looked at the yellow pad. "Did we sign? Are we celebrating? Shall I call the Prime Minister?"
Reza stood up, smoothing out his rumpled collarless shirt. He looked at Brad with total disdain.
"There will be no signing," Reza said coldly. "The Islamic Republic of Iran does not negotiate with imperialists who try to bribe us with our own money. Wei, send the Dark Fleet to the Kharg Island terminal. We will load them by nightfall."
Wei smiled gently. "A wise business decision, Brother Reza."
Brad grabbed the yellow legal pad, ripped the top page off, and crumpled it into a ball. He hurled it across the room. It bounced off a plate of Halwa Puri.
Tariq gasped, clutching his chest. "Brad! The parathas!"