Yasmine’s voice had risen, so that it seemed she was the one who was crying out against the attackers. Suddenly, she seemed to shrink down into her body, as if retelling the words had intensified Shirin’s terror—and her own. Weiseman saw before his eyes the two slain nudes from New Year’s Eve; he felt the wave swelling, ready to crash. “And then?” he said, urgently. Yasmine took a deep breath. “A Mercedes was parked there. A man got out. He was huge, a big man in a jellaba.” Yasmine was sobbing now. He reached out to steady her, but she had to get it out, to tell everything. “The man drew a long sword out of his jellaba.” She sobbed hysterically as she relived what she had seen. “He raised the sword over his shoulder, and then he swung it at Shirin. She was standing there, and then—” But the words wouldn’t come.
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– Night in Tehran by Philip Kaplan –