Sanderson rose and went to the bathroom, and for the first time in weeks his head didn’t hurt. He did, however, have an unusually stiff neck, likely from having slept in an awkward position. He was happy to find a clean towel and a bar of soap. The room had been reasonably priced by Geneva’s standards, which was to say a rate that stretched his policeman’s salary to the breaking point. Or was it his policeman’s pension? He showered and dressed before checking his phone for messages. There was nothing from either Almgren or Blix, and this struck him as a disappointment. Sanderson was a patently methodical man, but one could not be methodical without facts to sift through. At the moment he had no more to work with than a single far-fetched idea—that the American he was chasing had come here to gun down a visiting Iranian scientist.

Where to start? he wondered.

He racked his brain, and the only thread of hope that came to mind was a tenuous one. His research had told him that Dr. Hamedi would present Iran’s case in a speech at the United Nations Office at Geneva. It seemed as good a place as any to start. Sanderson went to the front desk.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asked in English.

“Yes, the United Nations Office. Is it far from here?”

“Not at all, monsieur. Only ten minutes on the number six bus—you can catch it right outside.”

Sanderson thanked the man, pulled up his collar, and went outside to wait on the curb.

*   *   *

Slaton decided he should not be surprised that the Iranians were here. In truth, he should have anticipated it. He entered the lobby and saw them at the front desk: four dark-skinned men, one with gold-rimmed glasses doing the talking, and the other three studying the room with sharp eyes. Soon they were all walking toward the elevator, escorted by a tight-lipped man in a fine suit and a uniformed security guard. Presumably the hotel manager, who gestured airily to emphasize the property’s finer points, flanked by his head of security.

Slaton made a quick study of the lobby. A central fountain was surrounded by tall columns and a polished marble floor, and rising from this were five floors of gilt railing, interleaved with hand-carved angels and cherubs that made certain heavenly promises about what lay above. It was a resolutely stylish place, the sort of hotel that would advertise Old World charm or savior vivre. The kind of place where each guest room would hold unique furnishings, and where the more exclusive suites kept names in lieu of numbers.