“A third attempt?” he whispered to himself. “Why do they not stop?” The guard had said it was a lone assassin, but this seemed small relief. A shaken Hamedi hoped it was the last.

The boat was moving, and the city seemed to rotate as she slipped further from the dock and began picking up speed. Hamedi closed his eyes tightly. The prayer that came to mind was the first his mother had ever taught him, and he versed the words softly under his breath, mimicking her distinctive musical cadence. Hamedi was not quite finished when he sensed a presence behind him. He abruptly went silent, and turned to see Farzad Behrouz. The look twisted into his pockmarked face was nothing less than exultation.

“Yes,” Behrouz said. “Yes, I knew it all along. Only the proof escaped me—and now I have it.”

Hamedi opened his mouth but no words came. Thoughts he had not harbored in thirty years surged to the forefront. Dangerous, reckless thoughts. It is a curious paradox that those brilliant men and women who design nuclear weapons are not, on balance, inclined to physical violence. Yet as a boy Ibrahim Hamedi had seen more than his share of scraps, and so he knew where his fists were. He had, of course, never killed a man, but there was a first time for everything. A lifelong disciple of physics, Hamedi resisted the urge to work things through mathematically. Mass and momentum and conservation of energy were all good and fine for a classroom, but right now he thought it better to simply lunge for the little cretin’s throat.

Behrouz saw it coming and opened his mouth, presumably to call for help.

Neither man’s intent came to pass because in the next moment, under the vigorous opening notes of Brahms’s String Quartet Number Three, they were both slammed to the deck by a massive explosion.

Chapter 51

FIFTY-ONE

Slaton’s head was just out of the water, having risen from the lake mere seconds before the explosion—the only sure way to protect his ears from the concussive effect of the blast. Even fifty yards away and above the surface, the submarine blast was deafening. A wave of energy struck his wetsuit-clad body as it transferred through the frigid water, but Slaton’s eyes remained locked on the slow-moving ship. Entrepreneur seemed to hesitate for a moment, teetering on a foaming section of lake a hundred yards from the dock, her silhouette framed by the city’s shimmering reflections.