"And joining us live from Tehran, the daring journalist Peter Johnson. The same Peter Johnson who has an opinion about everything and now boasts exclusive access to the Iranian government, its officials, its mullahs, its power brokers. Every beard and every turban." The raspy familiar voice did like its own sound. "So tell us, Peter, how're they treating you over there?"
"Fine, Larry. Fine." Johnson smiled. God, he could feel how pasty and blotched he looked. His skin a moist rubber mask. And the strands of hair he tried to comb onto his forehead from his scalp hinted at the merest plausibility of bangs. A suave geek. The perfect intellectualoid. "I think they're glad to have someone over here listening to them for once."
An awkward pause due to satellite delay, then Larry King's disembodied voice slid into Johnson's ear like sand. But it was too late; Johnson had already started to talk again. He couldn't help it, a natural reflex to fill any dead air. Chat show guestitis. When he finally became disentangled from Larry, the host got out, "I noticed you're growing a beard—does it help you fit in over there?"
"Not much can help a sophisticated New Yorker fit in over here, Larry." Johnson looked unshaven, with blue circles beneath his eyes. He could guess what anyone familiar with his reputation must have been thinking—hung over, maybe barely sober. If only they knew how hard it was to get a drink in this crummy town. Dry mouth, dry streets. The dingy studio room at the Ministry of Culture and Islamic Guidance–Foreign Press and Media Department smelled of unwashed feet; a faded cityscape poster of "exotic" Tehran hung on the wall behind him, his backdrop for the CNN setup. An evening shot, streams of cars, the fairy lights of Scheherazade, all frozen. It might have been snatched from an Iran Air tourist office—about the time of the Shah. Along with the table, the chairs, the grime on the walls. Nothing here was new.
A bearded technician crouched behind the camera, impossible to make out from the glaring single spotlight aimed straight at Johnson. He smelled of tobacco and French cologne. A nice enough fellow when he had introduced himself, helping with the earpiece and mike. Soft, gentle hands; clean, manicured nails. Johnson had already forgotten his name. Was it Mohammed-Muhammed, first name and last?
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