Henri Foche frowned, a facial expression that came more naturally to him than smiling. It replaced his regular countenance of dark, brooding menace with one of ill-expressed anguish.

“Merde!” muttered Foche, but he shook his head and attempted to lighten both the mood and his facial expression with a thin smile, which succeeded only in casting a pale poisonous light on the assembled chiefs of Montpellier Munitions.

No one spoke. No one usually does after a bombshell of the magnitude just unleashed by the CII newscaster. Here, in the heart of the forest, these four executives, sitting on a potential fortune as grandiose as a Loire chateau, were obliged to accept that all was now in ruins.

The Diamondhead missile, with its years of costly research and development, its packed order books and clamorous lines of potential clients, was, apparently, history. The missile, which could rip through the heavily armored hulls of the finest battlefield tanks in the world, must be confined to the garbage bin of military history, destroyed by those who feared it most.

The Americans had already felt its searing sting on the hot, dusty highways around Baghdad and Kabul. And in the UN Security Council they found almost unanimous support for the Diamondhead ban.

The Russians feared the Chechens would lay hands on it, the Chinese were unnerved that Taiwan might order it, and the Europeans, who lived in fear of the next terror attack on their streets, could only imagine the horror of a handheld tank-busting missile in the hands of Islamic extremists. The prospect of the Islamic Republic of Iran distributing the damn thing to every wired-up al-Qaeda cell in the Middle East was too much for every significant UN delegate to contemplate.

Henri Foche’s mind raced. He had not the slightest intention of scrapping the Diamondhead. He might have it moderated, he might change its name, or he might rework the explosive content in its warhead. But scrap it? Never. He’d come too far, worked too hard, risked too much. All he wanted now was unity: unity in this concrete-clad room; unity among his closest and most trusted colleagues.

“Gentlemen,” he said evenly, “we are currently awaiting an order for the Diamondhead from Iran which will represent the most important income from a missile this factory has ever had. And that’s only the beginning. Because the weapon works. We know that in Baghdad it has slashed through the reinforced fuselage of the biggest American tank as if it was made of plywood.

“We also know that if we do not manufacture it, and reap the rewards, someone else will copy it, rename it, and make a fortune from our research. There’s no way we will abandon it, whatever rules those damn lightweights concoct in the UN.”

Olivier Marchant, an older man, midfifties with an enviable background as a sales chief for the French aerospace giant Aerospatiale, looked uneasy. “Making money is one thing, Henri,” he murmured. “Twenty years in a civilian jail is something else.”

“Olivier, my old friend,” replied the chairman, “two months from now, no one will dare to investigate Montpellier Munitions.”

“That may be so, Henri,” he replied. “But the Americans would be absolutely furious if the ban was defied. After all, it’s their troops who end up getting burned alive. And that would reflect very badly on France. No one would care who made the missile, only that it was French, and the wrath of the world would be turned against our own country.”

Foche’s expression changed into one of callow arrogance. “Then it’s time the U.S. military started vacating their bases in the Middle East and stopped pissing everyone off,” he snapped. “It’s taken us three years to perfect the compressed-carbon missile head into a substance which is effectively a black diamond. We’re not giving it up.”

“I understand, of course,” replied Olivier Marchant. “But I cannot condone a flagrant breach of this UN resolution. It’s too dangerous for me . . . and, in the end, it will prove lethal for you . . . as president, I mean.”

Foche flashed a look at his longtime colleague that suggested he was dealing with a small-time Judas. “Then you may, Olivier, find yourself with no alternative but to resign from my board of directors, which would be a pity."