"Song?" Ferrari's voice came through the speaker, the background noise distinctly that of Kabul—car horns, vendors hawking their wares, and distant prayers, "What time is it over there? Why are you contacting me at this hour?"
"Ten at night." Song Heping sat back on the sofa, "Where are you?"
"Just got back to the Kabul office." There was the sound of shuffling papers and a chair creaking on Ferrari's side, "White Bear and Queen went to Tagab today, won't be back until tomorrow. I saw the message you sent earlier, what's going on? Did that old man from the White House really talk business with you?"
"He did." Song Heping raised his glass, "The poison pill plan. Heard of it?"
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line.
Only the faint hissing of electric current and the gradually fading sound of prayers in the Kabul background.
