By Hour 14, the diplomatic glamour had completely burned off, leaving behind a room that smelled distinctly of cold samosas, stale sweat, and the sheer, physical exhaustion of middle-aged men arguing about money.
It was 11:45 PM. Outside, the Islamabad riots had quieted down to a manageable, low-level smolder. Inside, the climate control was struggling.
Brad had long since abandoned his Tough But Fair face. His jacket was draped over his chair, his tie was pulled down, and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked less like a global superpower's envoy and more like a divorced accountant trying to finish his taxes at a Denny's at 3:00 AM.
Reza wasn't faring much better. The rigid, collarless revolutionary shirt was now visibly rumpled, and he was periodically massaging his temples like he was trying to push his brain back into his skull.
At the end of the table, Wei was fast asleep. He had produced a silk eye mask from his pocket two hours ago, leaned his chair back, and was currently taking a deeply restorative nap, completely unfazed by the fate of the Middle East.
"Okay, let's go over this one more time," Brad rasped, his voice raw. He tapped a ballpoint pen against a legal pad. "Six. Billion. Dollars. It is sitting in a frozen account in Doha. Washington agrees to unfreeze it, but—and this is a big but, Reza—we need verifiable, audited proof that the money is only being used for humanitarian goods. Food. Medicine. That's it. No funding proxy militias, no buying drones."
Reza sighed, reaching into his leather briefcase. "You Americans are obsessed with receipts. Fine. I brought the preliminary expenditure ledger for the first tranche of funds. As you can see, it is entirely humanitarian."
Reza slid a slightly crumpled piece of paper across the mahogany table.
Brad picked it up. He blinked, rubbing his tired eyes, and looked at it again.
Roughly eighty percent of the document was crossed out with a giant, aggressively applied black Sharpie.
"Reza," Brad said slowly. "This is just a black rectangle."
"Look at the unredacted items," Reza urged, waving his hand dismissively. "It is very transparent."
Brad adjusted his reading glasses. "Okay, let's see. Item four: Three million dollars for baby formula. Great. Excellent. Item five: Twelve million dollars for... therapeutic, medicinal titanium alloys?"
Reza nodded sagely. "For dentistry. We have a lot of cavities in Tehran. It is the sugar in the tea."
Brad glared at him over the rims of his glasses. "Item six: Eighty-five million dollars for agricultural tractors... with reinforced blast-shielding and radar-evading paint."
"Farming is a very dangerous profession in the Middle East, Brad. You never know when a localized weather anomaly might strike a wheat field."
Brad dropped the paper. He reached down to the floor, grabbed the handle of a massive, color-coded, four-inch-thick binder, and slammed it onto the table with a thunderous THUD. Wei didn't even stir.
"This," Brad said, slapping the cover, "is the U.S. Treasury Department's list of front companies operated by your Revolutionary Guard. You have shell companies in Dubai selling 'artisanal rugs' that are actually importing guidance microchips. I need real concessions, Reza, or I can't sell this to the Vice President."
Reza slumped back in his chair. The bravado was gone. The truth was, the Iranian economy was bleeding out. He didn't care about the tractors or the titanium. He just needed cash to stabilize the Rial before the poultry protests turned into a full-blown revolution.
"Brad," Reza said quietly, dropping the diplomatic theater. "Just give me the six billion. I will personally let the IAEA inspectors walk through the front door of Natanz. They can count every single centrifuge. I'll even give them the Wi-Fi password."
Brad stopped. He looked at Reza. It was the most honest thing the Iranian had said all day. The Treasury binder suddenly felt heavy and useless. They were just two tired guys, thousands of miles from home, trying to prevent a war neither of them actually wanted to fight.
"The main Wi-Fi?" Brad asked softly. "Not the guest network?"
"The main Wi-Fi," Reza confirmed. "No bandwidth throttling."
Brad exhaled. "Okay. Okay, we can work with that. Let's draft the framework."
Suddenly, a blinding white light flooded the room.
Brad and Reza both recoiled, throwing their hands over their eyes.
"Say cheese, gentlemen!"
Tariq was standing at the head of the table. He had quietly set up a portable LED ring light and was holding his iPhone high in the air, capturing Brad's exhausted scowl and Reza's temporary blindness.
"Tariq, what in the name of God are you doing?" Brad shouted, blinking away spots.
"Digital diplomacy, Brad! The world must know we are making progress!" Tariq began furiously tapping on his screen. "I am just posting this to my Instagram story. Let's see... Late night grinding with the boys! #PeaceMakers #IslamabadAccords #Blessed #PakistanZindabad."
Reza slowly lowered his hands from his face. He looked at Brad. Brad looked at Reza.
For the first time in forty-five years, the United States of America and the Islamic Republic of Iran were in complete, unshakable alignment.
"Brad," Reza said, his voice deadly calm. "If I strangle him, will the United States condemn my actions at the UN Security Council?"
"Reza," Brad replied, not breaking eye contact with the Iranian. "If you strangle him, the United States will veto any resolution brought against you, and I will personally pay for your Uber to the airport."
Tariq laughed nervously, quickly lowering the phone. "Ah. The legendary Western-Persian sense of humor! So dry! Almost... hostile! Shall I order more tea?"
"No tea," Brad said, turning back to the legal pad and sliding it toward Reza. "Just sign the framework, Reza. Let's finish this before he brings out a TikTok tripod."