Behrouz tapped his screen, “I have taken to tracing my ancestry. It’s fascinating what one can learn these days. Have you ever tried?”

Hamedi flipped distractedly through his papers. “My family has been in Persia for a thousand years, or so my mother tells me. As a busy man, that is all the genealogy I need.”

“How is she, by the way? I understand you visited her recently.”

With that, any truce that had developed between them dissipated. “Must you track everything I do?” Hamedi snapped.

“Yes. That is my job.”

“And it is my job to engineer the ultimate weapon for our nation. My mother is the same as ever. A sharp tongue and no love for her failed son—but then, I’m sure my escorts gave you a full report. Now be quiet and let me work in peace.”

Behrouz stared, waiting until Hamedi met his gaze. “Use caution, Doctor. Someday you may need a man in my position.”

“No,” Hamedi countered, “you use caution, or I will see to it that someone more to my liking is put in your position.”

The two locked a hard gaze, until Behrouz rose from his chair and disappeared down the aisle. Hamedi tried to refocus on his work, but it was hopeless. He opened the combination locks on his secure portfolio and stuffed the papers inside. He slid the window cover back up, hoping to find a prominent feature below. He saw nothing but thick gray clouds and a frost of ice on the window.

Without warning, the troubled, intricate world beneath him had disappeared.

*   *   *

From the United Nations complex, Slaton walked the projected motorcade route—projected because a thing like that was always subject to change, at least if the police knew what they were doing. Arriving at the docks he got his first look at the target area. He bought a sausage and a strong cup of tea from a street vendor, and took a seat on one of the countless benches along the waterfront.

Situated behind him was a modest peninsula that jutted into the lake like a distended belly, and there kiosk owners were raising their covers for the day, balloons and T-shirts going up for sale. Farther on he saw an old-fashioned carousel spinning its first turn of the day, a handful of mothers and children rising and falling on roundabout animals. The lake hummed with activity, dozens of watercraft running in different directions, each at their own speed, and on the far side of the lake was Geneva’s signature landmark—the world’s largest fountain, the Jet d’eau, spewed a frothing stream of white four hundred feet into the sky.