“You must brim with confidence to be so close to the action,” Hamedi said. A brief silence ran and he sensed a mistake, that these words might imply a degree of cowardice. “Your intelligence source has again proved reliable,” he added quickly.

“Mossad is not what it once was,” Behrouz replied.

“No, certainly not. But they have never been what the world believes. If you ask me, Mossad is more legend than reality. The Jews, for all their faults, are wondrous storytellers.”

Hamedi sensed Behrouz fall still behind him, just out of sight, a geometry that served them both. Again ice tinkled in a glass.

“Our guests from Tehran are asking where you’ve gone. After your enlightening speech they have many questions about the project.”

“They always do,” Hamedi said derisively.

“Yes, yes. I too find them insufferable. Still, they have their place. Neither of us can do our work without funding.”

Hamedi said nothing.

“We are not so different, Professor. We have both risen to great achievements, the pinnacle of our respective disciplines.”

Hamedi could in no way equate his work to that of the thug standing behind him. Behrouz had risen through the military, climbing ranks with an appetite for brutality and sadism, qualities that translated well to a battlefield. After twenty years of thuggery, and with any remnants of civility certainly ruined, he had joined the secret police. Hamedi, on the other hand, had excelled academically, in particular math and science. He had attended universities and performed research, both at home and abroad. My intellect is respected while your fist is feared, he thought. Otherwise, we could not be more alike. What he said was, “This is the second attempt on my life this year.”

“And the second failure.”

“Do you think they will give up?”

Behrouz sighed. “That is the trouble with Jews. They never give up.”

“Quite so,” Hamedi agreed. “Which is why we must fight them on level ground.”

“Precisely. I’ve been told that your work is reaching fruition. This is fortunate for you. Once you’ve given us the ultimate weapon, I can’t imagine you will be at risk any longer. A year, Dr. Hamedi, perhaps two, and you will no longer require such heavy security. Who knows—you may never see me again.”

Finally, Hamedi turned to face the ugly little man. He smiled thinly.

Behrouz’s phone trilled a happy little ringtone, and Hamedi watched him pick up the call. After stating his name, the security chief only listened, his impervious, sunken expression giving nothing away.

Behrouz ended the connection, and said, “It is done. There were four commandos. All are dead.”

“Four,” Hamedi remarked.

“You expected more? A regiment, perhaps?”

“I am Israel’s greatest nightmare. I think I might warrant it. Did we suffer casualties?”

“Yes.” For the first time Behrouz seemed tentative. “Twenty-four dead, eighteen wounded.”