“And in conclusion, let us remember this. In the Middle East today only one nation has a nuclear arsenal poised for delivery. Though it has never been admitted, the state of Israel is alone in this destabilizing course. Such recklessness casts a shadow across the region that cannot be ignored. Were it not for this, her peace-loving Arab neighbors would have no need to even consider such a capability.

“I tell you today that the intent of Iran’s nuclear ambition is honorable. Yet the same cannot be said of the Zionist state and her Western supporters, all of whom keep massive nuclear stockpiles as they complain that others should never be allowed to follow in their steps. This is the path of folly. As a scientist, I can say with authority that technology knows no geographic or political boundaries, and it moves in only one direction—forward. Knowledge is the great equalizer, and it cannot be governed by political cabals any more than the rising of the sun or the movement of the stars. As I speak to you today, Iran does not possess the capability to undertake a long-range nuclear strike. But should she ever choose to do so, it is a matter that will be determined by science and effort, not the self-serving crusades of others.”

Hamedi backed away from the podium and struck a defiant pose that was instantly caught in the flash of expectant strobes. His facial expression, soon to be echoed in all the world’s media, was something close to a scowl. The subsequent applause was mixed at best, the Iranian delegation clapping fervently against what otherwise might be characterized as crickets.

Hamedi descended to the floor of the assembly hall, and was immediately flanked by his security detail. He began shaking hands along a somber receiving line of men in well-fit suits and women in sedate over-the-knee dresses. Names were mechanically pitched and caught, and then forgotten with equal ease. His friends from academia lingered near the end, a group who clearly employed a different couturier, and here Hamedi found his warmest greeting—the simple enthusiasm of old friends. Nevertheless, he was not allowed to linger.

Reporters spouted a few questions, as was expected of reporters, and Hamedi summarily ignored them, as was expected of dignitaries. For twenty-three minutes Iran’s chief designer made the rounds before ducking his head into the second of four sturdy cars at the side entrance. With two motorcycle policemen blocking traffic, and a helicopter overhead, the motorcade shot onto Avenue de France, turned right, and accelerated south.

*   *   *