“Nothing serious,” Randi said, continuing to stand next to the door with her gun drawn while Eichmann sat frozen in a chair. Most of his right pant leg was cut off and a makeshift bandage was wound around his thigh.

“Were you followed?” she asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to milk the illusion of imminent danger.

He shook his head. “I don’t think so. But we probably shouldn’t stay long.”

“I don’t understand,” Eichmann said, exhaustion and fear clear in his voice. “Who are you?”

“We’re the people keeping you alive,” Randi said.

“You’re American. Do you work for the government?”

Smith took a seat across the small dining table from the scientist. “I’m Dr. Jon Smith.”

The immediate recognition wasn’t surprising. Eichmann would know the name of the man in charge of the U.S. military’s Merge program.

“Why are you here? What do you want from me?”

“We’re here because the Merge was used in Afghanistan before its official release.”

Eichmann was an academic, not a spy—something that was obvious in the way his every thought played out across his face. He knew about Afghanistan and was terrified that Smith did too.

“Yesterday, someone leaked that I’m looking into what happened there,” Smith lied. “And that I knew about you. We were concerned for your safety and came as fast as we could. Good thing we did.”

“Leaked?” Eichmann said. “Leaked to whom?”

Smith leaned back in his chair. “Christian Dresner.”

“I…I don’t understand,” he said, but again his face gave him away. He understood perfectly.

“There’s a lot of money on the table, Doctor. Not to mention Dresner’s entire legacy. If it were to become public that he was involved in these kinds of experiments…”

“But we’re…We’ve been…” the aging scientist stammered, suddenly incapable of getting a sentence out. His hesitation suggested that Smith had guessed right. Dresner was involved.

“What happened in Sarabat?” Randi said, getting impatient.

When Eichmann didn’t answer, she reached for the knob of the door and opened it. “I don’t have time for this. If you don’t want to talk, get out.”

“What?” the German said. “But—”

“But your old friend will have you killed?” she said. “That’s right, Gerd. He will. In fact, I doubt you’ll last two hours without our protection.”

When he didn’t move, she closed the door again. “I believe we were talking about Afghanistan?”

Again, Eichmann didn’t respond. He was clearly having a hard time processing the seismic shift in his universe—that his benefactor and oldest friend was now a mortal enemy.

“He’s a different man than he was when you escaped the Soviets,” Smith prompted. “Wealth, power, fame. Those things can change you.”

The German nodded numbly. “I’m nothing. Nothing compared with him.”