The ground wave was next to arrive, the earth rattling under Hamedi’s feet in a seismic event that would travel across continents in the next minutes. The audible blast was nearly simultaneous, a low-frequency, muffled thump that echoed off the rock outcroppings. The vibrations dissipated quickly, and in the ensuing calm Hamedi imagined what was happening underground. After extensive calculations, he had positioned the weapon at the principal point of vulnerability in the underground support structure. Thousands of tons of dirt and concrete, originally intended to protect the facility, would now entomb it. Ceilings would collapse, voids would fill, and when the dust cleared—something that would take hours—the world would find a crater half a mile wide and nearly forty yards deep.

This was Hamedi’s moment of truth, and his well-considered plan had worked flawlessly. Yet there was one thing that surprised him. Something that had not been in his calculations. Hamedi did not feel the predicted elation.

“Get in!” the kidon barked, snapping Hamedi out of his trance. The Toyota’s engine rumbled to life.

“Yes,” Hamedi said, dropping into the passenger seat. “Yes … it is time.”

Moments later gravel was rattling in the wheel wells as the truck sped northward. Hamedi took an embrace from his mother, and was then introduced to the soldier, a man named Stein. After the greetings ran their course, he found himself again staring over his shoulder, mesmerized by the rising cloud of dust. When he turned away, Hamedi felt strangely nauseous. Were he not a physicist, he might have wondered if it was the radiation whirling in his stomach. After a thoughtful silence he looked directly at the kidon.

The blond man seemed to read his thoughts, and asked, “How many?”

“Ninety,” Hamedi answered, knowing exactly what he meant. “Possibly a hundred.”

The blond man nodded noncommittally.

“Does it…” Hamedi searched for the words, “does it ever get better? Any easier to accept?”

This time the kidon seemed to think about it. “No, not really. But always remember one thing—you did what had to be done.”

Chapter 58

FIFTY-EIGHT

Arne Sanderson sat in the passenger seat of his ex-wife’s new Volvo, tinkering with the seat controls to find a more comfortable position.

“Can I help?” Ingrid asked from the driver’s seat.

“No, I’m fine. Just a bit of soreness from the surgery.”

“It’s only been two days. Have you taken your pain pills?”

He gave her a severe look. “I won’t let you be my nursemaid as well. By the way, I haven’t asked lately—how is Alfred?”

“The same,” she said.

Sanderson stared out at Stockholm in the late-morning gloom, a steady rain peppering the windshield. “Sjoberg came to see me yesterday.”

“Did he?”