Slaton was about to reply when Hamedi, finding strength from some reserve, stood straight. He pushed Slaton away with a stiff arm, and shouted, “Do you not realize what you’ve done? You have ruined everything!”

Slaton stood absolutely still. Absolutely stunned. The words themselves were not a revelation. The shove was weak and meaningless. What shocked him to the core was that Hamedi had spoken in perfectly succinct and fluent Hebrew.

Chapter 53

FIFTY-THREE

“I am a Jew, you fool!”

Hamedi said it a second time in English, and the words themselves sank.

Slaton’s tactical mind-set aborted, tripped by the one thing he could never have imagined. Every problem he’d solved, every motive and strategy was suddenly put in a mirror, refracted by four simple words.

I am a Jew.

Hamedi’s hair was matted to his forehead and he was shivering uncontrollably. But there was unshakable conviction in his voice. “I was born in central Iran,” he said. “But I was born a Jew. There are over twenty thousand of us across Persia, and we have been there for three thousand years. My parents—”

“Enough!” Sanderson shouted. “Whatever your story is you can tell it to the proper authorities. Keep your hands where I can see them, both of you!”

In dense silence the three men stood still, each wrestling a distinct set of problems. It was Sanderson who made the next move. He said nothing, but lifted his gun toward the sky with an unsteady hand.

Slaton knew immediately what he was going to do. The detective was clearly ill, certainly incapable of an arrest. So Sanderson was going to fire a shot into the air that would bring the police swarming.

“Wait!” Slaton said. He pointed to Hamedi and addressed Sanderson, “You know who this is, don’t you?”

Sanderson nodded tentatively. “I’ll assume it’s Dr. Hamedi, the man you came here to kill.”

“Really? Think about that. I sank a ship and shot a half dozen men to get this far. Dr. Hamedi is still standing.”

Sanderson’s eyes narrowed. “So what the hell is going on then?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Slaton seconded.

They both stared at Hamedi.

*   *   *

Sirens blared in the distance as the three men stood in the lee of the breakwater.

They were less than a mile from the ruin on the lake. Entrepreneur had disappeared, her only remnants a field of charred flotsam drifting amid the sheen of unspent fuel oil. Nearby docks and bridges were overrun with first responders, and the traffic on Quai du Mont Blanc had come to a standstill. The jetty had so far been ignored, the distance enough of a buffer. But for how long? Slaton wondered. Soon the search for survivors would spread to their position. Did he have ten minutes? Fifteen? Whatever the interval, he had that long in which to salvage his life. Yet Slaton knew he was helpless until he understood.