“The new facility was built deep beneath the ground and disguised as an underground reservoir.”

“If it’s so well disguised, how did we find it?”

Pekkonen leaned forward, his blond forelock contrasting with his florid complexion. “A rumor about its location was passed to us by a member of the American delegation to the United Nations. It came from a source high in the Iranian government. The Americans thought we might be able to confirm or disprove it. We had an inspection team in a country a hundred miles to the south. We were able to launch and monitor the butterfly from that site without attracting attention.”

“And you did this without my approval and in complete violation of our mandate to inspect facilities with the permission and cooperation of our hosts?”

Pekkonen nodded.

“Well done,” said ElBaradei. “Do the Americans know about our findings yet?”

“No, sir.”

“Keep it that way.” ElBaradei looked at the faces around the table. “A year ago, we came to the consensus that Iran possessed five hundred centrifuges and had been successful in enriching no more than a half kilo of uranium to sixty percent. Nowhere near weapons grade. Now this! Just how many centrifuges are necessary to generate these kinds of readings?”

“Over fifty thousand,” said Oniguchi from Nuclear Science.

“And just where are we to assume they obtained these centrifuges? This isn’t a crate of counterfeit iPods we’re talking about. It’s a planeload full of the most highly monitored, closely regulated machinery in the world.”

“Clearly, they were smuggled in,” said Pekkonen.

“Clearly,” ElBaradei repeated. “But by whom? From where? I have four hundred inspectors whose job it is to keep an eye out for this kind of thing. It was my opinion until five minutes ago that they were competent in the extreme.” He removed his eyeglasses and set them on the table. “And so? How much weapons-grade uranium are we to assume they now possess?”

Pekkonen looked nervously at his superior. “Sir, it’s our conclusion that the Republic of Iran currently possesses no less than one hundred kilograms of enriched uranium-235.”

“One hundred? And how many bombs can they make out of that?”

The Finn swallowed. “Four. Maybe five.”

Mohamed ElBaradei replaced his glasses. Four. Maybe five. He might as well have said a thousand. “Until we receive an independent evaluation of this data, no one in this room is to repeat a word of these findings.”

“But mustn’t we share-” began Milli Brandt, the Austrian woman.

“Not a word,” hammered ElBaradei. “Not to the Americans. Not to our colleagues in Vienna. I want absolute silence. The last thing we need is an incident before we can confirm these findings.”

“But sir, we have a responsibility,” she went on.

“I’m fully aware of our responsibility. Do I make myself understood?”

Milli Brandt nodded her head, but her eyes betrayed a different decision.

“The meeting is adjourned.”

As ElBaradei waited for the others to leave, he sat listening to the wind rattle the windows, tormented by his thoughts. Finally, the door slammed. The voices died. He was alone.

Cupping his hands, he stared out into the night sky. He was not a religious man, but he found himself lacing his fingers in prayer. If news of the report were to leave this room, the consequences would be immediate and devastating.

“God help us, every man,” he whispered. “It will be war.”

The Pilot ran his hand over the aircraft’s wings as he completed his preflight check. The gas tanks were full. The antifreeze topped off. The bird was good to go. He walked down the runway, kicking away loose rocks.

Tonight was the final test flight. It was imperative that everything be rehearsed exactly as the day itself. Repetition brought precision, and precision, success. He had learned these rules the hard way. His body bore the scars of his ignorance. Retracing his steps to the plane, he rapped the wing twice for good luck, then headed indoors.

Many years had passed since he’d last flown a combat mission. Then, he’d been young, reckless, and handsome. A drinker. A womanizer. A man who shunned the Righteous Path. He glimpsed his reflection in the mirror. He was no longer young, no longer reckless. God knew, he was no longer handsome.

He couldn’t look at himself without remembering. The memories of that forsaken spot were never far from the surface, an ever-lurking phantasm cloaked in fear, guilt, and fire. He recalled the night in the desert. The high spirits, the promise of triumph, the certainty that God was fighting on their side. The side of the faithful. He could hear their voices in his ears. Friends. Comrades. Brothers.

And then, suddenly, there was the haboob, a vast cloud of violently swirling sand that rose from the desert floor a mile into the sky, enveloping them all, wreaking chaos and havoc, and worse.

The mission ended in flames. Eight men burned to death. Five more critically injured. He was among them, with third-degree burns covering seventy percent of his body.

In the days that followed-long days etched in pain and doubt-it came to him that he had been spared for a purpose. He had been given a second chance. The scars he carried were to remind him of that chance, to forswear his obedience unto Him. If the Almighty had robbed him of his physical endowments, He had gifted him with a spiritual awakening. He had drawn him close and spoken unto him. To make him one of His Personal Servants. An anointed one. All was for a purpose and that purpose was nigh.

The Pilot burned for the Righteous One. He lived only for His return.

Inside the ready room, he gathered the members of the crew. All linked hands.

“O mighty Lord, I pray to you to hasten the emergence of your last repository, the Promised One, that perfect and pure human being, the One that will fill this world with justice and peace.”

The circle broke up. Each man went to his post.

The Pilot approached the aircraft’s controls with trepidation. Much had changed since he’d last flown a combat mission. Instead of an array of dials and instruments, he faced a wall of six flat-screen monitors broadcasting the aircraft’s crucial functions. He slid into his seat and oriented himself. His hand took hold of the joystick, and he spent a moment getting a feel for it.

“Systems check complete,” said one of the technicians. “Ground link established. Satellite connection established. Video functional.”

“Affirmative.” The Pilot fired the engine. The lights on the control panel burned green. The single Williams turbofan engine turned over, revving smoothly as he pushed it through its preflight run-up.

The time was two a.m. Outside the cockpit, the night was pitch-black. Not a single light burned in the high Alpine valley where the test was to take place. He kept his eyes focused on the screen positioned in the center of the control panel, where an infrared camera mounted in the plane’s nose offered a grainy green-glow picture of the runway. It was like looking at the world through a soda straw.

“Requesting permission to take off.”

“Permission granted. Have a safe flight. Allahu akbar. God is great.”

The Pilot eased the throttle forward. He released the brake and the aircraft began to roll down the tarmac. At one hundred knots, he rotated the front wheel up and the plane rose into the air.

The Pilot studied the ground terrain radar. The valley was ringed by mountains, some as high as four thousand meters. The location was not ideal, but it provided the one essential element: privacy. He increased his speed to two hundred fifty knots and trimmed the ailerons. The aircraft handled deftly, with only a short delay in executing his commands. He banked to the right and found himself leaning with the aircraft.