Slaton swept the advertisements into a stack on the nightstand before stretching out on one side of the king-sized bed, the Glock near his right hand, safety off. Tomorrow, Saturday, October 19, would be a busy day. He willed his muscles to relax, ignored the thrum of traffic from the street below, and with the casino’s spotlights carving through silk window shades, Slaton drifted into what he knew would be a fitful night’s sleep.

*   *   *

Sanderson remembered to set the alarm and it went off at seven o’clock sharp. He was happy to wake knowing where he was, but on rising felt dizzy, and the all-too-familiar throb at the base of his skull had returned. Breakfast and a shower did little to help, and he tried to ignore it all as he went to the hotel desk and requested a cab to take him to CERN.

For nearly fifty years the European Organization for Nuclear Research had been centered in Geneva. It was where the most accomplished physicists in the world attempted to deconstruct the universe, an undertaking Sanderson presumed did not recognize weekends or holidays. He directed the cab’s driver to take him to the primary complex, a place called Meyrin, and settled in for a long ride, reasoning that anything called “The Large Hadron Collider” had to be situated well clear of population centers. He was wrong. Two minutes after passing the international airport, the driver was holding out his empty hand.

The outer facade had an industrial appearance, and could easily have been taken for a computer chip or smartphone factory. Sanderson took the direct approach, walking straight to the main entrance through a light drizzle and again portraying himself to be with Interpol. To the guard at the security desk he presented his list of six names, and was informed that yes, one was on site today, a senior researcher by the name of Dr. Ernst Hamel.

Two phone calls and fifteen minutes later, he entered building 40, a structure evidently conceptualized by its architect to represent something in the subatomic regime, although Sanderson could not say what. A large central atrium was ringed by multiple floors of office space, doubtless to suggest a rising column of knowledge. He was guided to a glass-walled conference room where the senior scientist could barely be seen behind a table stacked with lab equipment and books. Hamel strode across to greet Sanderson, clearly having been forewarned, and the two men exchanged pleasantries. He was tall and lean with a well-groomed beard, and there was a directness in his gaze Sanderson instantly liked. His wrinkled lab coat was worn at the sleeves, no doubt from countless hours behind a keyboard, and mounted on the wall behind Hamel was a dry-erase board ten feet long that seemed to be filled with a solitary, never-ending equation, the kind of thing Sanderson would not understand if he spent the balance of his life trying.