“Your agency has approached me before. I told your Mr. Spadafore-”

“I’m aware of that,” Grafton said. He removed a sheet of paper from a desk drawer and passed it to the professor, who put on his glasses and scrutinized it.

“You recognize those numbers, of course,” Jake said.

Azari said nothing, merely sat holding the paper in his hands.

“Those are the prime numbers that you and your Iranian contact use for your encryption code,” Jake said. “We have been reading every message your contact sends you about the Iranian nuclear program for years. All of them. As you know, they are encrypted and buried in large photo files.”

“We?”

“The National Security Agency. NSA.” Jake took a sip of wine. “If we can read them, one wonders if the Iranians can.”

“They can’t,” Azari said and placed the paper on Jake’s desk. Grafton reached for it, put it back in the drawer and closed the drawer.

“They don’t have the sophisticated computer programs that your NSA apparently has,” Azari added.

“One hopes,” said the admiral.

“One does,” Azari admitted.

“We are running out of time,” Grafton said. “Your articles on Iran’s nuclear program have stirred up the people who run the U.S. government. Indeed, I hear tomorrow the Post is running another of your op-ed pieces.”

Azari acknowledged that was the case. “Obviously you have friends in the newspaper business.”

“My friend tells me the article claims that Iran will have three operational nuclear warheads within a year.”

The professor nodded.

“Is that true?” Grafton asked.

“My contact has been truthful,” Azari said stoutly. “I took raw facts and made a prediction, and I stand behind it. Ahmadinejad is enriching uranium to make nuclear weapons. That is the bald truth.”

“When Ahmadinejad has the weapons, what is he going to do with them?”

Azari scrutinized Grafton’s face.

He was still framing his answer when Grafton said, “The American government is requesting your help, and the help of your friends, in answering that question. We will need concrete assistance in Iran, and your friends are in a position to give it.”

“They do not want to help the CIA. I have told your agency that before. Your Mr. Spadafore-”

Jake silenced him with a gesture. “We have reached a crossroads. You and your friends have successfully convinced the decision-makers in the United States government that the Iranian government is up to something. Now you must take the next step. You must help us prove that the Ahmadinejad administration is indeed manufacturing weapons, and if it is, what it intends to do with them.”

Azari was in no hurry to answer. Apparently Grafton had not impressed him. Writing op-ed pieces that ratted on the Iranian government was one thing, but helping the Great Satan screw Ahmadinejad and the jihadists was something else.

Finally he said, “Do you know what they would do to me if they thought I was actively helping their enemies?”

“Aren’t you doing that now?” Grafton shot back. “Revealing state secrets is not exactly a misdemeanor.”

Azari took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He was perspiring slightly despite the cool temperature of the room. He looked around. “Is it safe to talk here?”

Grafton smiled wryly. He thought it a tad late for that question, but he said, “I swept the place for bugs when I came home from work this afternoon. We will need the names and addresses of your agents so that we can contact them directly.”

“I-I must think about this,” Azari said. He placed the half-full wineglass on the desk.

Jake Grafton eyed the professor without warmth. “You have risked a great deal to alert the West to the danger of the Islamic government of Iran arming itself with nuclear weapons. If your friends have been telling you the truth, the danger grows with each passing day. The time has come to cross the river and help those most threatened by the mullahs’ ambitions.”

“Your logic is impeccable,” the professor acknowledged, “but still… I have made promises to my friends in Iran, and I must weigh those promises against the danger.”

“One suspects there is insufficient time to consult with them,” Jake said.

“I don’t see how I could.”

“We will talk again tomorrow,” Jake Grafton said and rose from his chair.

“Tomorrow I have a morning television talk show, two radio interviews and an interview with a newsmagazine reporter.”

“Then the day after,” Grafton said, leaving no room for argument. “Time is slipping through our fingers, Professor. The truth is, we are flat running out of it.”

The next morning Sal Molina found Jake Grafton in his office at Langley reading a newspaper. Grafton’s assistant, Robin, admitted the president’s aide and closed the door behind him. The admiral had a television in his office, and it was tuned to a network morning show.

“Read Azari’s article yet?” Molina asked as he dropped into a chair.

“Several times,” Jake Grafton said and nodded at the coffeepot in the corner. Molina shook his head.

Just then Professor Azari appeared on the television screen with the male and female hosts of the show. They gave him puff questions, and he repeated the gist of his article that had appeared in the morning Post. The interview lasted about seven minutes.

When it was over, Grafton turned off the television.

“So how was the Middle East?” Molina asked.

“Warming up.”

“So’s Washington. Professor Azari’s certainly doing all he can to help raise the temperature.” Molina waved his own copy of the Post. “Where is he getting all this information?”

“Professor Azari’s Iranian contact sends him encrypted e-mail.”

“We read his mail?”

“Of course. The NSA looks at everything he sends and receives. He and his correspondents use a fairly sophisticated encryption system that apparently they designed themselves. The messages are buried in the pixels of a photograph or work of art that they e-mail each other. We can crack it, but it’s doubtful if the Iranian security people can. I suspect they haven’t even tried.”

Molina was intrigued. “How long has the NSA been reading his stuff?”

“For years. We have everything his Iranian network has sent him.”

“Then you know all about Iran’s nuclear program,” Molina said, slightly stunned.

“No. The agency knows what Azari’s contact has been sending him. Where all this stuff that the contact sends comes from, whether it’s truth or fiction, we don’t know. We have a staff comparing Azari’s facility info with satellite photography. Some of it matches up perfectly, some of it roughly matches, and some of it doesn’t match at all.”

“So he has another source. Or sources.”

“Apparently.”

“But-”

“Sal, Azari has been writing articles and op-ed pieces for years. He’s even written a book. He writes about tunnels in mountains, technical data, the location of missile factories, the names of the men in charge, the quantities and storage locations of low-enriched uranium and highly enriched uranium… We can verify some of it. The rest of it-we don’t know if it’s truth or lies. Today he made a prediction, three warheads within twelve months. How he arrived at those numbers I have no idea.”

“I’m in over my head,” Sal Molina said. “Gimme some light.”

Jake Grafton shifted his weight in his chair while he arranged his thoughts.

“As I said, he’s been revealing Iranian state secrets for years.” Jake picked up a copy of Azari’s book from his credenza and tossed it on the edge of the desk within reach of Molina. “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that he’s still alive? Ahmadinejad used to help track down and assassinate enemies of the regime. The people in Tehran haven’t forgotten how to do it.”