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around the room at the security guards. “We must have complete privacy.” He shifted his eyes toward the door.
    The three other leaders reluctantly waved and nodded for their men to step outside. When the room held only the four leaders, Carzani pulled a map from inside his jacket and spread it out on the table.
    â€œRemember Halabja,” Carzani muttered solemnly.

    MOSSAD HEADQUARTERS, TEL AVIV
    The director of Israeli Intelligence, Mikhael Chagall, entered the secure room in a hardened shelter below ground, and shuffled immediately to his assistant who was standing next to an analyst at a console.
    Chagall was a slight man, barely five feet, who had ascended to the top of Mossad by intellectual superiority, without leaving many enemies in his wake. As was tradition in Israel, no one knew the name of the current director, except for high ranking government and military officials. And Chagall preferred it that way. It allowed him to do his job more completely, without the fear of retribution from a brutal media.
    â€œWhat do you have, Yosef?” the Mossad director asked.
    The assistant handed the director a message that had just been deciphered, and the two of them went into an isolated, soundproof room. The message sender was identified by a code, and only the director and his assistant knew the identity. When the director was finished with the message, he immediately shredded it.
    â€œSo they are finally meeting,” Chagall said. “It means nothing.”
    His assistant lowered his brows. “They are twenty million strong, Mikhael.”
    Chagall approached his old friend and placed a tiny wrinkled hand on his shoulder. “We are allies traditionally, Yosef,” he muttered. “We will do them no harm. They are not Arabs or even Persians. They are merely lost sheep looking for home.”

    MI-6, LONDON
    â€œTvchenko is dead,” the chairman of Britain’s foreign service said. “That’s why we called you in off your holiday.”
    The chairman, Sir Geoffrey Baines, knew he didn’t need to explain himself to his field officers under any circumstances, but it made difficult assignments much more palatable. He sat back in his leather chair, which squeaked with each movement from the robust man, and he studied his officer carefully. He prided himself on being able to read people simply by observing their face. He was rarely wrong.
    Baines was a consensus builder. Some, his critics mostly, considered him far too accommodating. Yet, for the past four years he had gotten results. The foreign service was in higher favor with parliament and the public than at any other time since World War II.
    Sinclair Tucker had never had a private meeting with the chairman before. At thirty-eight, he was a field officer who had seen action first in Eastern Europe during the waning days of the Cold War, and more recently in the Balkans, where he had just arrived from two days previously for a short Easter vacation, after working six months in Odessa, undercover, as a British businessman. He had been part of a four-man advance team seeking markets for telephone communications equipment. Actually, he had been keeping an eye on Yuri Tvchenko. Tucker knew that the scientist had been seen with foreigners on numerous occasions, and was closing in on what he was currently working on.
    â€œHow?” Tucker asked.
    â€œIt appears he was poisoned in some way at the conference,” the chairman said.
    Tucker shook his head. He had wanted to stick around Odessa during the conference, but had been ordered to take leave. His boss thought he had been working too hard. Needed a break. Besides, Tucker was supposed to be working for a communications firm, which had nothing to do with agriculture. He could not simply show up. But Tucker had realized that it would have been a perfect opportunity to make contacts, with all those representatives from various countries together.
    â€œMurdered in front