Brad stormed out first. He didn't shake hands. He just grabbed his empty Yeti thermos, aggressively kicked the door open with his dress shoe, and yelled something at his aide about firing up the C-17 and getting him a cheeseburger.
Reza stormed out second. He took a moment to dramatically sweep his crumpled ledgers into his leather briefcase, shot Brad's retreating back a look of pure, concentrated venom, and marched out into the hallway to find a working VPN so he could tweet a poem about martyrdom.
The heavy, soundproof doors of the Serena Hotel conference room swung shut, leaving behind a profound, terrifying silence.
The room was a disaster. There were spilled pots of chai, rogue samosas, and crumpled pieces of paper that had briefly contained the hopes of a peaceful Middle East.
Tariq stood at the head of the table, still holding the basket of complimentary fruit. He slowly lowered it. The smile finally, completely, slid off his face. He looked like a man who had just watched his car roll down a hill and into a lake.
At the other end of the table, Wei was gently snapping his velvet-lined briefcase shut.
Tariq's phone buzzed in his pocket. Not the burner phone. His actual iPhone.
He pulled it out. It was a CNN push notification.
BREAKING: President Trump Orders Immediate Naval Blockade of Strait of Hormuz. IRGC Vows to Turn Persian Gulf into 'Lake of Fire'. April 8th Ceasefire Officially Dead.
Tariq stared at the screen. The entire region was effectively at war. Oil prices were about to quadruple. The global supply chain was about to snap. And, worst of all, Brad had left without signing off on Pakistan's IMF bailout.
His left pocket began to vibrate. The Nokia brick.
The Boys were calling.
Tariq didn't answer it. He just let it buzz against his leg, a phantom limb of impending doom. He looked across the room at Wei.
"Wei," Tariq croaked, his throat completely dry. "It's all ruined."
"Ruined? Tariq, please," Wei smiled warmly, adjusting his immaculate silk tie. "It is simply a restructuring of the global paradigm. A beautiful, chaotic restructuring. Look on the bright side. With the Americans and Iranians busy pointing guns at each other, I have just freed up enough bandwidth in Washington to secure a ninety-nine-year lease on a deep-water port in Peru."
Wei picked up his briefcase. He was glowing. He had never looked healthier.
There was a polite knock on the door. It slowly creaked open.
A man in a sharp tuxedo stepped into the room. It was Mr. Qureshi, the General Manager of the Serena Hotel. He held a black leather folio tightly against his chest. He looked at the spilled chutney, the crumpled papers, and the sheer volume of uneaten Halwa Puri.
"Minister Tariq," Mr. Qureshi said, bowing slightly. "I apologize for the intrusion. But as the American and Iranian delegations have literally run to their motorcades... there is the matter of the final invoice."
Tariq blinked. "The invoice?"
Mr. Qureshi opened the folio. "Yes, sir. For twenty-one hours of our VIP Executive Suite rental. Plus sixty-four pots of black coffee, fourteen platters of snacks, the hazard pay for Kamran the waiter, and the replacement cost for the wall socket the American Secret Service tried to pry open with a pocketknife."
Mr. Qureshi slid the bill across the table.
Tariq looked at the total. The number had a lot of zeros. Too many zeros. Tariq's personal bank account currently held roughly forty-two dollars, and the national treasury was practically paying in IOUs.
Tariq looked at Wei. A desperate, wild light appeared in his eyes.
"Wei, my dearest, oldest friend," Tariq whispered, stepping toward the Chinese envoy. "The iron brotherhood between Pakistan and China is higher than the mountains, deeper than the oceans... can the Belt and Road Initiative cover room service?"
Wei paused. He looked at Tariq with an expression of profound, gentle pity.
He opened his briefcase, reached inside, and pulled out one of the small, beautifully painted tins of Da Hong Pao tea. He placed it delicately on the table next to the hotel bill.
"A gift, Tariq," Wei said softly. "For your impeccable hospitality. This tea was grown on a cliffside by monks. It costs four thousand dollars a pot. Drink it slowly. I find it is excellent for soothing the nerves during a total economic collapse."
Wei gave Tariq one final, disarming smile, gave a crisp nod to the hotel manager, and walked out the door.
Tariq was left standing alone in the quiet room. Outside the window, the sirens of the Islamabad riot police began to wail again. His left pocket was still buzzing violently. He looked down at the four-thousand-dollar tin of tea, then over at the cold, rejected parathas.
He let out a long, heavy sigh, picked up the hotel bill, and slowly reached for the complimentary mango.