Janson’s eyes swept over the beautifully appointed antechamber. Paintings from the Dutch renaissance were positioned in the center of squares formed by gilt moldings, with obsessive concern for symmetry. The fireplace mantel was of intricately carved marble, veined with blue. It all seemed perfectly in character for a Dutch mansion: far from the public’s prying eyes, the vaunted ideal of Nordic moderation was banished.

So far, so good, he thought to himself. Cooper had cleaned up remarkably well, and once attired in that silly uniform, he conducted himself in a manner that did not quite slide into parody. His movements were stiff and official; his expressions imbued with a servile pomposity, every inch the dedicated assistant of a very important official. Janson himself was relying upon the assumption that nobody would have any idea what the Czech foreign minister looked like. The man had been in the job for a mere two weeks, after all. And the country was not high on the Foundation’s list of trouble spots.

No disguise was the best disguise: A bit of grease in his hair, a pair of spectacles in a style fashionable in Eastern Europe, the sort of suiting common to diplomats all over the Continent … and a manner that was by turns amiable and imperious. The fact that Janson’s mother was Czech was helpful, of course, though chiefly in imbuing his English with a persuasive Czech accent. A Czech diplomat would be expected to speak English in a country like Holland.

Janson peered at the red-haired receptionist over his round horn-rimmed glasses. “And Peter Novak? He is here as well?”

The petite woman smiled dreamily. “Oh no, sir. He spends most of his time on the road, flying from place to place. Sometimes we don’t see him for many weeks at a time.”

When Janson had arrived, he did not know whether a pall of grief would be hanging over the Foundation. But what Agger had told him remained true: they clearly had no idea that anything had befallen their revered founder. “Well!” said Janson. “He’s got the whole world in his hands, yes?”

“You could say that, sir. But his wife is in today. Susanna Novak. She helps run the NGO development program.”

Janson nodded. Novak was insistent about keeping his family from the public gaze, evidently afraid of kidnapping. His own public stature was necessary for the success of his work; he reluctantly acceded to media coverage for that purpose. But he was not a Hollywood star, and his family was not fair game: that had been the message for years, and by and large the press agreed to abide by those rules. The fact that his primary residence was in Amsterdam made it easier: the burgerlich sensibilities of that city served to shield the great man’s privacy.

Hidden in plain view.

“And what’s over here?” He pointed toward another room, to the left of the main hallways.