“Of course, that was it.” Behrouz moved toward the door. “All right, I will make the preparations, including your evening out. Oh yes … the president has asked for an advance draft of your presentation to the inspectors.”

Hamedi managed a smile as he said, “Is he worried that I will give away our state secrets?”

Behrouz raised an admonishing finger.

“All right,” Hamedi relented. “I will have it for you tomorrow … since I have nothing better to do.”

“Thank you for understanding.”

Behrouz closed the door, and air seemed to refill the room.

Hamedi turned back to his desk and again reviewed the sequence of events that would lead to the underground test. Only ten days remained. Three for work here, three in Geneva, and then four final days in Qom to complete his preparations. And finally—the culmination of all his work.

There was only one task lagging behind in his demanding schedule, the placement of a seismic array to measure the blast’s yield. Sensors were being sunk into the earth all around the test site, but progress was glacial. Hamedi could not imagine how a country whose life’s blood involved drilling holes in the ground could fail such a challenge. Fortunately, the work was not critical. By his own estimate the yield would be five kilotons—seismic arrays or not, there would be no missing it. The test had been carefully timed so that an Israeli satellite would be overhead. The Americans, of course, were always watching. Soon all the world would see his project succeed in a blaze of glory.

He wondered for a moment what his old professors might think, and his colleagues from graduate school. Most were now making a respectable living in private industry, others doing research at the best universities. Hamedi could not deny that virtually all had found some measure of wealth and prestige. Yet none would make a mark on the world as he soon would. Hamedi had taken the harder path, something he never shied from, and the result of his work would be a blaze to rock the Middle East, indeed a shift of power to last a generation. Hamedi supposed he would get his name in the history books—either honored or reviled, depending on the language.

And is that why I am doing it? he wondered. In all honesty, he had to say yes, that was part of it. His scientist’s ego.

But then there was the other part.

*   *   *

Slaton woke at seven, enjoyed two of Greta Magnussen’s best waffles and a deep pot of coffee, and by eight o’clock he was climbing into the right seat of the Cessna next to her sister.

“Do you have coordinates for our destination?” his pilot asked. “Or are you going to give me progressive vectors?”

“Do you have a map?”

Janna Magnussen toggled up a map display on the central screen of the instrument panel.

“Can you expand it?” he asked.