The president put down his spoon and stared at Wilkins. “I know they are gearing up to make bombs. I accept that as proved. I want the CIA to answer two questions: When will the Iranians get operational warheads for their missiles, and, once they have them, what do they intend to do with them?”

Wilkins nodded.

“I don’t want reports quoting some unhappy Iranian scientist or guesses from the analysts. I want absolute, incontrovertible proof. In writing, signed by Ahmadinejad, with his and Khamenei’s fingerprints all over the paper.”

Wilkins looked from face to face, then returned his gaze to the president. “You are asking the impossible.”

“Absolute proof,” Schulz said.

Wilkins took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “We’ll do our best.”

“Keep Sal advised,” the president said. “He can brief me and Jurgen.”

“Yes, sir.”

Wilkins glanced morosely at his cereal, then reached for his coffee cup, which was empty. Sal Molina snagged the insulated decanter and poured him another cup.

Two days after the attack, in downtown Jakarta, Indonesia, a limo with dark windows drifted to a stop by a sidewalk café. A man sitting in one of the chairs near the street rose carefully to his feet and motioned to the waiter. He tossed several bills on the table, then hoisted two attaché cases from the chair beside him as the driver held open the rear passenger door. The man seated himself, the driver closed the door and resumed his seat, and the car pulled away into traffic.

Inside the car the man with the cases sat looking at the backseat passenger, a middle-aged man in an army uniform, one with short sleeves. He had stars on the flaps of the shirt and an impressive array of ribbons on his left breast.

“General Darma. Good to see you again,” the man said.

The general nodded. He knew the man as Hyman Fineberg, but knew that was not his real name. He took his time examining Fineberg’s face. The left side was heavily scarred and didn’t match the right, and his left eye didn’t track. It was artificial, of course, inserted into the socket merely to fill it. Fineberg also had an artificial left foot and ankle, but he walked so well that his gait was normal to a casual observer.