“If it’s not Vox,” I said, “then we’re looking at someone who has as big a bank account.”

“Would you like me to recite a list of nations who would love to see Iran reduced to scorched earth?”

“Not really, because you’d start your list with the U.S., Israel, and Great Britain, and they don’t need to buy black-market bombs.”

He shrugged. “That is not entirely true. A case can be made for why such countries would want to have bombs that could in no way be traced back to them. Bombs from former Soviet countries, perhaps.”

“Fair enough. But is that your pitch? Are you saying that it’s America or one of its allies?”

“No,” he said tiredly. “If I thought that, then this discussion would be held in the world press, backed by all of the considerable outrage which it is possible for our propaganda department to muster. The Ayatollahs would probably enjoy that.”

“Bottom line,” I said, “can you tell me where this thing can be found?”

“Much worse,” he said. “I know where four of these things can be found.”

The whole world froze around me.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“Worse still,” Rasouli said in a voice that sucked the last shreds of peace from the morning, “there are at least three more that we have not been able to locate. And one of the others might even be on U.S. soil.”

Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

The Kingdom of Shadows

One Year Ago

He was the King of Thorns.

The King of Blood and Shadows.

He lived in a world of darkness, and that darkness was so beautiful. So subtle. It hid so many things from those who lacked the power to see. It was his mother, his ally, his weapon. It was the ocean in which he swam, the sky through which he flew, the dream in which he walked.

Darkness did not blind him. Even down here in the endless shadows. Buried beneath a billion tons of rock and sand.

Darkness held no surprises for him; he knew its secrets. They had been handed down to him, generation upon generation, and he had shared those secrets with the other pale bodies that moved and writhed and burrowed beneath the earth.

A single candle burned, its flame hidden behind a pillar of rock so that only the faintest of yellow light painted the edges of walls and glimmered on the golden thread of ancient tapestries. A single candle was all the light he needed. More than he needed.