Pierre nodded, and touched the one on the left. “This one, to be precise.”

“And the other one — not Abraham Danielson?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“How’d you manage to get a tissue sample from him? I thought you’d only seen him from a distance.”

“I had a little device built.” He slowly got up from his stool and, holding on to the rounded lip of the countertop for support, made his way over to a shelf and picked up a small object from it. He returned to where Avi was sitting and extended his shaking hand so that Avi could see what he was holding. It was impossible to get a good look at it the way Pierre’s arm kept moving; Avi reached in and plucked the small device from Pierre’s palm. It looked like a tiny beige thumbtack, with a very short, very narrow spike.

“I call it a joy buzzer,” said Pierre, sitting down again. “It sticks to the palm of your hand with a minuscule drop of cyanoacrylate glue, and when you shake hands with someone, it takes a sample of a few skin cells. The pressure of the handshake is enough to distract from the minute pricking sensation.” He held up a hand. “I can’t take full credit for it — I got the idea from a special pen Condor Health uses; it seemed poetic justice to employ a similar device. A fellow I know, a newspaper reporter — same one who took the photo I originally faxed you of Abraham Danielson — wore it going into a meeting with Danielson, and shook his hand in greeting.”

Avi nodded, impressed. “Can I have copies of these… these — what do you call them?”

“Autorads.”

“These autorads?”

“Sure. Why?”

“When we’re through, I want to send them to Demjanjuk’s lawyer in Cleveland. Maybe they’ll help him get his U.S. citizenship back.” He looked at Pierre, then shrugged a little. “It’s the least I can do.”

Pierre nodded. “So where do we stand?”

“We’ve got two eyewitness identifications, both positive. But, well, the witnesses are old, and one of them is legally blind. I wish we had more.

Still, this half brother stuff to some degree rehabilitates the positive identifications made during Demjanjuk’s denaturalization and his trial in Israel.”

“So have you got enough to move against Marchenko?”

Avi sighed. “I don’t know. Danielson wasn’t even suspected of being a Nazi. He’s done a great job of covering his tracks.”

“He’s doubtless been able to pay off people over the last few years — make any records he wants disappear.”

“More than likely.” Avi shook his head. “The Israelis are going to be very wary about taking him on, especially after what happened last time.”

“So what else would you need to make the case?”

Avi shrugged. “In the best of all possible worlds? A confession.”

Pierre frowned. Of course, Molly could confirm Danielson’s guilt easily enough, but there was no way Pierre wanted her to have to testify in court.

“I could meet with him while wired for sound.”

“What makes you think he’ll agree to see you?” The way Avi said “you” grated a little — it was almost as if Avi were saying, “What makes you think he’ll see someone in your condition?”

Pierre gritted his teeth. “We’ll find a way.”

“Even if he is willing to see you,” said Avi, spreading his arms, “what makes you think he’ll confess to you?”

“He doesn’t have to confess then and there. He just has to say something incriminating enough to justify you arresting him. Then you can interrogate him properly.”

“I suppose. It would take some paperwork.”

“Do it. Set it up.”

“I don’t know, Pierre. You’re a civilian, and—”

“I’m a volunteer. You want to see that bastard go free?”

Avi frowned, considering. “All right,” he said at last. “Let’s give it a try.”

“Abraham Danielson’s office,” said a woman’s voice.

“May I speak to him, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Dr. Pierre Tardivel.”

“One moment.”

Silence.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Tardivel, Mr. Danielson is unable to take your call just now. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Tell him a woman from Poland named Maria Dudek suggested I call him. Give him the message now; I’ll hold on.”

“He’s really quite busy, sir, and—”

“Just give him the message. I’m sure he’ll want to take this call.”

“I really can’t—”

“Do it.”

There was quiet for a moment while the secretary mulled this over.

“Just a sec.”

A click as Pierre was put on hold. Three minutes went by.

Another click.

“Abraham Danielson speaking.”

“Hello, Ivan. Maria Dudek sends her regards.”

“I don’t know what—”

“Meet me in one hour at the Lawrence Berkeley National Laboratory.”

“I’m not going anywhere. You’re a crazy person—”

“You can talk to me, or I’ll start talking to other people. I understand the Department of Justice has a special office devoted to exposing war criminals.”

Silence for almost thirty seconds. Then: “If we’re going to talk,” said Danielson, “it will be here, on my turf.”

“But—”

“Take it or leave it.”

Pierre looked over at Avi Meyer, who was listening on an extension phone. Avi held up three fingers.

“I’ll be there at three o’clock,” said Pierre. “Make sure your gate guard knows to let me in.”

“Pierre Tardivel,” said Pierre. He was standing in front of the secretary’s desk in the founder’s outer office on the thirty-seventh floor of the forty-story Condor Building. “Here to see Abraham Danielson.”

The secretary was two decades older than Rosalee, the knockout who worked elsewhere on this floor for CEO Craig Bullen. She was clearly startled by Pierre’s dancing limbs and facial tics, but she quickly recovered her composure. “Have a seat, please. Mr. Danielson will be with you in a few moments.”

Pierre understood that he was being put in his place, that Abraham wanted the upper hand psychologically — you don’t sleep with a psychologist every night for three years without picking up a thing or two.

Still, his palms were sweaty. With the aid of his cane, Pierre made his way slowly over to the lobby couch. Several current magazines were on the glass-topped coffee table, including Forbes and Business Week; there was also a copy of the yellow-and-black Condor annual report.

Avi Meyer, four other OSI agents, and two officers from the San Francisco Police Department were parked a short distance away, outside the fence around the Condor property. All of them were crowded into a rented van, huddled over the listening equipment.

After a few minutes, the receptionist’s phone rang. She picked up the handset. “Yes, sir? Right away.” She put the phone down, then looked at Pierre. “Mr. Danielson will see you now.”

Pierre struggled to his feet and made his way slowly into the office. It was smaller than Craig Bullen’s — it had no conference table — but the furnishings were equally opulent, although Danielson’s tastes were ironically more modern than those of the much younger Bullen, running to black leather and chrome, with turquoise and pink accents.

“Mr. Tardivel,” said Abraham Danielson, with no warmth in his thin, accented voice. “Now, what’s all this nonsense?”

“I see you recognized the name Maria Dudek,” said Pierre, slowly taking a seat in front of Danielson’s desk.

“That name meant nothing to me.”

“Then why did you agree to see me?”

“You’re a stockholder; I recognize you from that shameful bit of grandstanding you did at our meeting. Still, I always make time for my stockholders.”

“I’ve been here once before,” said Pierre. “Oh, not to this room, but to this floor. I had a meeting a while ago with Craig Bullen. But I had the wrong person then — the puppet instead of the puppeteer.”

“I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“And it’s not just being Ivan Marchenko that I’ve got you on — not that that isn’t bad enough. I know you’re also the leader of the Millennial Reich. You’ve done more than just discriminate against people who have genetic disorders. You’re increasing your bottom line by killing off those who would otherwise represent expensive payouts for you, the single largest stockholder in this company.”