Eichmann took a deep, calming breath. No. There would be no reason. The computers inside were all idle now. They had completed the initial analysis of almost a quarter century of data with no surprises. Further parsing of the information would undoubtedly yield unseen and fascinating details, but would in no way change the overarching conclusion. The questions posed so long ago had been completely and finally answered.

The bell rang and he rushed to the door, heart pounding as he reached for the massive metal ring centered in it. How long had it been since they’d been face-to-face? Before the fame. Before the billions. Could it be thirty years?

Eichmann pulled the heavy door open and found Christian Dresner standing on the other side. His smile seemed to carry a deep sadness and his skin was looser and more mottled than the television and Internet suggested. Behind him stood two athletic men with earpieces and dark jackets despite the heat. They gave him a brief, suspicious glance before going back to scanning the rooftops and people passing the quiet spur that his door opened onto.

To his surprise, Dresner took a step forward and embraced him. “Gerd. My good friend,” he said in the language of their lost youth. “My only friend.”

The guards seemed content to stay outside. Eichmann pushed the door closed as Dresner looked around at the carefully preserved architecture. “I remember when you told me you were moving here. I have to admit that I didn’t understand it until now. This is truly magnificent, Gerd.”

Eichmann nodded self-consciously and led Dresner to the poolside chairs. As his guest sat, Eichmann fumbled with the champagne cork, conscious of Dresner watching him with an enigmatic, barely perceptible smile playing at his lips.

“It’s hard to express how good it is to see you, Gerd. I can’t believe it’s been so long. Sometimes I look back on my life and wonder where I lost control of it. How it could have passed so quickly.”

“I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Eichmann said, finally getting the cork out and pouring.

“It’s not your fault. A good scientist can only follow where the facts lead. I take it your analysis is complete?

“The initial pass. But it’s a lifetime’s worth of data. There is so much to learn.”

“Not the things we wanted to learn, though. And not things that can ever be released to the public.”

Eichmann averted his eyes and gave a short, obedient nod. The chiding was gentle but clearly intended. He’d hoped to publish a few properly veiled tidbits in minor psychology journals but, deep down, he’d known it would never be allowed. Anonymity was a small price to pay for the life he’d been allowed to lead. Everything—his quarter-century study, the house he lived in, the food on his table—came from Dresner.