Sanderson had seen such recalls before, governments calling in financial support and reclaiming doctoral candidates to dark corners of the world. Established scientists like Hamedi were often brought back by way of intimidation, this typically involving threats to family members left behind. Yet according to his peers, Hamedi had seemed willing, even enthusiastic about the position, and as far as anyone knew he had no family in Iran other than his mother, a simple woman in her seventies of whom Hamedi spoke warmly, but rarely saw, and who lived in the same Tehran house where he’d grown up. Sanderson’s overriding conclusion: Hamedi was either opaquely patriotic, or more likely stoking his professional ego by assuming control of a vital government project. Either way, his motivation had little apparent bearing on how he would be hunted by Deadmarsh.

Sanderson needed what the assassin needed—information regarding the logistics of Hamedi’s upcoming visit. When would he arrive? Where would he stay? Where were the vulnerabilities? The only thing remotely helpful was a much-recycled press release announcing that Hamedi would speak Sunday to a U.N. audience of arms inspectors, government ministers, concerned scientists, and of course, representatives of the media. This pushed Sanderson to his last avenue of inquiry, a cross-check of Hamedi’s old colleagues from Hamburg. At least three now worked at CERN, or more formally, the European Organization for Nuclear Research, the mecca of theoretical physics. Sanderson then undertook an inverse search of CERN scientists who’d either taught or performed research at universities where Hamedi had studied and taught. Here he unearthed three more possibilities. Altogether, four men and two women, names he recorded for further pursuit in the morning.

He settled into bed, which did nothing to ease the ache in his neck, and checked his phone one last time. A message from Sjoberg he deleted without a thought. The only other thing was a text message from Ingrid: PACKAGE SENT. WILL ARRIVE TOMORROW. PLEASE BE CAREFUL.

Sanderson briefly considered a reply, but in the end he thought better of it. He turned his phone off and closed his eyes, hoping for a decent night’s rest before the trying day ahead.

*   *   *

Slaton was staring at an arsenal. One side of the room was stocked to the ceiling with guns, ammunition, and rocket-propelled grenades. The other was piled high with less spectacular, but equally vital, support gear. Water purifiers, boots, uniforms. An inflatable boat caught his eye, but only for a moment. He saw camouflage fatigues, both the classic green and black jungle design, and a pixelated tan desert motif. He saw the dull gray of projectile casings, the reflective green of optic sensors, and the cold black of weapon stocks. Altogether, the color palette of state-sponsored violence.