The flight was a chartered affair, the crew and aircraft having been rented from an Emirates-based leasing company. As such, the six flight attendants were all attractive young females who scurried about the cabin and did their best to make everyone comfortable, serving meals and drinks, fluffing pillows and tucking blankets, their boundless smiles never wavering. It was the sort of pampering that would not exist on an Iranian state-owned aircraft. Hamedi was seated in the first-class section, and behind him in coach was a security detail and support delegation of nearly sixty. He closed the window shade and forced himself back to the cheerless reality of the figures in front of him, an inventory of critical machine tool parts. His index finger was halfway down the page when the only other person authorized the comforts of the first eight rows came up the aisle and took a seat across from him. Behrouz had earlier looked tired and drawn, but he now seemed revitalized as he pecked on a laptop computer.

“This Wi-Fi device is impressive, is it not?” Behrouz said. “I have just received a message from our advance team. The preparations are running on schedule, both at the hotel and the United Nations building. I even have a picture of your cruise ship.” Behrouz turned the computer around and Hamedi saw a gleaming white yacht.

“I’m glad you are satisfied,” he replied dryly.

“Aren’t you looking forward to it?”

“What I am looking forward to is confirmation that the last tranche of fissile material has arrived at Qom from the Natanz complex. These final two shipments have taken weeks.”

“Such logistics are not always easy. Much of the delay was due to your own restrictions, Doctor—you insisted on multiple deliveries.”

“Highly enriched uranium is our most valuable commodity—and you know how rabid the Israelis are about this. If we coordinated a single transfer and their spies caught wind of it? Can you imagine? They would commit every agent on their books to attacking or even stealing our hard-won prize.”

“Now there is a terrible thought,” Behrouz lamented. “But I will let you in on a little secret to put you at ease. By the time we land in Geneva, the last shipment will be in place.”

Hamedi looked at Behrouz and saw he was serious. In what would have been a first, he nearly smiled at the little cretin. “It’s about time.”

Behrouz went back to his laptop. He seemed enthralled, and Hamedi supposed he should not be surprised. The security man had climbed through the ranks before the age of technology had arrived in Iran. Behrouz had risen on broken legs and execution killings, the kinds of things that were not furthered by an understanding of bytes or pixels. He considered briefing the man on the vulnerabilities of unsecure signal networks, but decided not to waste his breath.