A security keypad at the door posed the first test, its tiny light shining red—the universal color of denial. Slaton knew what the combination had been a year and a half ago, and he doubted it had changed. Holding his breath, he typed the sequence: 4-7-7-2-3-5. The keypad translation for “Israel.” The red light changed to green, followed by a click, and he was in.

Slaton snapped on the lights and happily they worked, some midlevel cog in Grossman’s machine having kept up with the utility bills. The air inside was stale, and he was greeted by a dead mouse at the dusty reception desk. He bypassed it all quickly to reach the final impediment. The bulk of the building’s square footage was dedicated to storage, this room behind a secondary door that was secured by a simple padlock—a padlock to which he did not have a key. The capable Herr Holmberg would provide one in due course, but the bolt cutters were far more timely. The lock snapped easily, and Slaton pulled the door open with an audible creak. He heaved a sigh of relief.

His luck was holding.

Everything was still here.

*   *   *

On arriving at his hotel room Sanderson settled onto a bed that squeaked. He began sorting through the articles he’d copied, and one in particular drew his interest, a background piece taken from a conservative Berlin monthly. Two of Hamedi’s former colleagues were quoted to express surprise that this rising star in particle physics had turned down a teaching post of considerable prestige at the University of Hamburg. Another close acquaintance swore that at least one private concern, the German conglomerate Siemens AG, had tried to recognize Hamedi’s talents with the more tangible persuasions of a six-digit pay package and a German car that would, if one was in the mood, exceed two hundred miles an hour on the autobahn. Hamedi turned down the Porsche as readily as he had the department chair, and when he announced that he’d shunned it all for a job with the Iranian government, more than a few eyebrows were raised.