Nearing the jetty he popped his head up once to confirm his bearings. Slaton didn’t allow Hamedi to surface, knowing a taste of fresh air would only incite further panic when he was pulled down again. With legs that felt like rubber and straining lungs, his pace declined markedly over the last twenty yards. When he broke the surface the second time they were on the calm backside of the jetty.

The sky overhead was clear, populated with stars and planets that were every bit as tranquil as the scene behind him was chaotic. Hamedi sputtered and coughed, and spit the regulator from his mouth. He began gulping air like a just-landed fish on the deck of a boat.

The jet ski was right where Slaton had left it, and he ditched the scuba gear before muscling Hamedi over the slick rocks. The tiny cove created by the breakwater was out of sight from the quai. In the distance he saw what was left of Entrepreneur, her white steel stern rising, air venting from portholes and blown-out windows. There were a half dozen smaller boats circling, shining spotlights and plucking survivors from the water, and at the nearby dock a shore-side contingent of police and Iranian security men scoured the water for their lost scientist.

Hamedi tried to say something, but it came out as no more than a croak. Slaton hauled him the last few yards to the waiting watercraft. He had purchased the fastest model he could find this morning, twelve thousand cash for a two-seater that would reach seventy miles an hour on their run across the lake to the quiet overlook where the Rover was waiting. From there, Slaton would call Director Nurin and make his bargain.

He tried to wrestle Hamedi onto the watercraft, but the Iranian began struggling again.

“Get on!” Slaton ordered.

Hamedi said something else unintelligible, still coughing uncontrollably from his underwater ordeal.

Then another voice rang in from behind. “Stop! Don’t move!”

Slaton froze. It was a voice he recognized.

He turned his head and saw Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson. One hand held a gun unsteadily while the other gripped the iron railing that encircled the lighthouse. He was in a wide-set stance, but swaying like a sapling in the wind. If Slaton were to guess, he’d say the man had been shot—he looked like he might pitch over at any moment. Slaton checked behind Sanderson, and as far as he could see up and down the jetty there was no one else. Neither did he see a radio bud in the detective’s ear, nor a microphone on his lapel. Slaton remembered the news article—Sanderson had been taken off the chase for unspecified medical reasons. The detective is here alone, he thought.

“I’m not as good a shot as you,” Sanderson said, seeming to read Slaton’s thoughts, “but from ten meters I won’t miss.”