The Moving Prison by William Mirza, Thom Lemmons Page B

manifests. He looked at Ezra over the tops of his reading glasses.
    “ Aga Solaiman, how much did you say you paid for the last shipment from Switzerland?”
    Ezra sat in front of the desk, pensively cleaning his fingernails as he stared out the front door. He started and looked at Nijat.
    “Pardon me, Aga , could you repeat your question?”
    Nijat smiled. “Again you are very preoccupied, my friend.”
    “I’m sorry,” Ezra gave a weak smile and spread his hands. “I seem to have a great deal on my mind these days.”
    Thoughtfully Nijat nodded. “Indeed, Aga Solaiman. I asked how much you paid for the shipment reflected on this latest manifest.” He indicated the stack of papers in front of him.
    Ezra squinted as he tried to recall the figure. “Five million tomans ,” he said, finally, “or thereabout. Of course, that was paid several months ago. I am expecting another shipment from Ciba-Geigy within another month or so, for which I can furnish order forms. Its wholesale purchase price was around three million tomans , so the value of the two shipments would be close to …” Again he squinted one eye at the ceiling, in calculation. “Eight-point-three million. Wouldn’t that be about right?” he asked Nijat.
    Nijat nodded, rubbing his stubbly chin. “I would say so, Aga . Or close to it. Do you have a sales ledger?”
    “Of course,” said Ezra. “Look in the bottom desk drawer, on the right.”
    Nijat shuffled around in the drawer. “Ah, yes. Here it is.” Sliding the manifests to one side, he laid the scarred, black leather-bound ledger book in front of him. He turned a few pages and pursed his lips, nodding in approval. “By the way, Aga Solaiman,” he asked, glancing up at Ezra, “which set of books is this—the actual sales or the figures you use for tax reporting?”
    Ezra leveled a steady gaze at the other man. “I don’t keep two sets of books, Aga . The figures you see in that book are the actual figures.” Ezra held his eyes until Nijat shrugged in acceptance and returned his attention to the ledger.
    The bell over the door jangled, and both men looked up. Firouz stood there, momentarily startled by the sight of Nijat huddled behind the stacks of paper on the desk.
    “Come in, Firouz,” beckoned Ezra. “I want to introduce you to Aga Ameer Nijat.” Cautiously, Firouz approached the two other men.
    Ezra glanced at Nijat before speaking, “ Aga Nijat is—a business associate of mine. Aga Nijat, this is Firouz Marandi. He has been with me here for three years.” Firouz, his eyes downcast, nodded briefly at the other man.
    Not to be trusted , thought Nijat. Standing, he said aloud.“ Aga Solaiman, I believe I have seen enough for now. I will call you within a day or two to continue our discussion.”
    “I will eagerly expect your call,” said Ezra, rising to show Nijat to the door.
    When they had reached the doorway, Nijat turned to Ezra. “Tell me, I seem to remember a little restaurant in this area which used to serve an excellent chelow kabob. Is it still open?”
    “If you mean the small open-air café around the corner, yes,” answered Ezra. “Perhaps you would care to meet for lunch sometime?”
    “Good idea,” returned Nijat. “I’ll call soon.” He left, and the bell rattled as the door closed behind him. Ezra turned around. Firouz was staring at the pile of documents on the desk. He glanced up, saw Ezra watching him, and quickly turned to go toward the storeroom.

    Khosrow looked at himself in the hallway mirror, shaking his head at what he saw. A rumpled young man stared back at him—a far cry from his neatly pressed appearance of only a few weeks before.
    This was the accommodation he had made to his father’s wishes, to at least try to avoid looking like a Westerner. He had convinced himself that it did no one any good for him to get killed over the cut of his trousers.
    His family had made the expected adjustments. When his mother and sisters went out,