Sanderson’s gun was at his side as Hamedi told his story.

“I was born in a small village outside Isfahan. My parents brought me up in the faith, but by the time I was three it became apparent that I had certain academic gifts. My mother was disconsolate that my talents would be wasted. Jews in Iran, you see, have little hope of a proper education. So my father moved us to the anonymity of Tehran, and we took a Persian name. My mother kept with my religious education but always behind closed doors. Able to attend good schools, I advanced more quickly than anyone imagined. As you know, I studied in Europe at the best universities. Yet I never forgot my upbringing, my ancestry.”

“Did Israel ask for your help?” Sanderson asked.

“No. Israel knew nothing of my background. It was only something in my head, a desire to work for the homeland, perhaps retribution for all those Jewish boys I knew long ago who were beaten and bullied, the ones who never had a chance to succeed. I was given wonderful opportunities in Europe, but one day a woman from the Iranian embassy came to see me in Germany. She was very up front, telling me that Iran needed help with certain aspects of the nuclear program. She didn’t come right out and talk about missile advancements and warhead design, but we both knew what was at stake. I spent many sleepless nights afterward, thinking about what she’d said, what they wanted from me.”

The siren of a police boat suddenly blared behind the breakwater, and Hamedi went silent. The siren and churning diesel altered pitch as the craft passed, and soon the sounds mixed into the disharmony of the nearby rescue. The white octagon of the tiny lighthouse was bathed in a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and stray search beams.

“I don’t understand,” said Slaton. “You claim sympathies to Israel. So why go back and help Iran with the program that is her greatest nightmare?”

Sanderson answered that question, his detective’s brain less handicapped than his body. “Because you didn’t go to help.”

Hamedi didn’t comment on that, but asked Sanderson, “You are a policeman?”

“Yes,” said Sanderson, “at least in Sweden I am.”

“And a good one, I think.”

Slaton said to Sanderson, “I thought you were taken off the case.”

“Officially I was,” Sanderson said. “But I don’t like unfinished business.”

Hamedi then addressed Slaton. “And you? You are Mossad? A kidon?”

Slaton nodded.