“What’s that?”

“Data from the particle accelerator at CERN. They took snapshots of a carbon atom once a nanosecond for a full second. It’s accurate enough to test my equation—we plug in the state of all the particles at time x and see if my equation can predict what they’ll do from there. But best of all…” she could barely restrain herself, “…the carbon atom was in a vacuum.”

Nate had a half-pleased smile on his face, but he didn’t quite get it.

“So, we only have to calculate the interference that would occur between the particles of the carbon atom itself. In other words, we have a pond with a limited number of pebbles in it. Quey ought to be able to calculate that.”

Nate’s face grew serious. He looked at the data, looked back up at her. “Shit, Jill… I mean… dang, Dr. Talcott, we can really test your equation. Really test it.”

Jill the Chill permitted herself a moment of unrestrained triumph. Insoluble equations were about to be solved, and she was going to be the one to do it. She had been very quietly setting up this hand for years. Ace #1, her elegant equation based on Ansel’s theory and a lot of her own damned hard work. Ace #2, her access to a quantum computer. Ace #3, the carbon atom data, attained using technology so cutting-edge it drew blood.

Genius was all well and good, but timing, luck, and access to the newest toys played a role in scientific discovery, too. She was pretty sure there wasn’t another scientist in the world who could match the cards she held at this moment.

Jill Talcott, Tennessee long shot, was about to move into the lead.

2

2.1. Denton Wyle

Denton pulled the rental car into the gravel parking lot and peered at the white stone edifice. HEBREW ACADEMY OF SYRACUSE, the sign said. It wasn’t particularly exotic-looking, just a turn-of-the-century Greek revival surrounded by woods, but the granite played nicely against the maples and aspens. He got out of the car and took a couple of pictures.

A fifteen-year-old boy with a yarmulke and black pants made a dash up the drive and pulled open the heavy wooden door. Not exactly the cloistered, monklike atmosphere Denton had expected—modified with side-locks and Torah scrolls, of course—but that was all right. A little poetic license was always a possibility.

Inside, there was no receptionist. A man walking through the foyer took notice of Denton. The man had a beard growing untrimmed and white fringes showing under his black vest. Better.

“Can I help you?”

Denton smiled. “That’d be great. I have an appointment with Rabbi Schwartz.”

He was led down a broad corridor. He paused to take in a library, visible through an impressive arch. A few young students sat reading at a long table. Beyond them, in a smaller niche, were two older men, middle-aged and bearded like his guide. They were poring over fragments of paper laid flat on the table, shifting a scrap delicately with tweezers. There was an air of intense focus about them, of Serious Work. Denton couldn’t resist popping off a few shots with his digital camera.

“This way, please,” his guide prompted, coming back for him with a disapproving air.

“Sure thing.”

Rabbi Schwartz was a plump man who gave off waves of authority. He looked to be around fifty, with shimmering strands of silver in a black, curly beard. He was pale and carried at least thirty unnecessary pounds, giving the impression of a man who seldom rose from his desk.

“Come in, Mr. Wyle. You phoned with a recommendation from Roger Steiner in New York?”

“That’s me.” Denton gave his best smile and smoothed the lapels of his sports coat. He knew he made a good impression. His blond hair was fashionably trimmed, his nails manicured, his clothes expensive yet casual. He looked Ivy League. Slap a tennis sweater on him and he’d be ready for a casting call for a National Lampoon movie. He worked hard to dispel that image in his personal life, but he used it when he thought it would buy him something. He extended his hand and the rabbi pressed it.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” Denton said. “Everyone says you’re one of the few experts left in the field of kabbalah.”

Schwartz motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, Mr. Wyle. As I understand it you wanted to interview me? And this is, I presume, about kabbalah?”

The way he said it, kabbalah, in a rich, smooth rush, with a curious tweak of the syllables, brought goose bumps up on Denton’s arm. “That’s right. And I really appreciate your taking the time.”

He put his brown leather backpack on his lap and opened it to dig out Tales from the Holocaust and his mini tape recorder.

“Can I ask what publication you’re with? My secretary didn’t get that on the phone.”

“Um…” Damn. He should have had something prepared. He didn’t think Rabbi Schwartz would approve of Mysterious World. Sometimes Denton told people he worked for a history magazine, but only when he was sure they wouldn’t check him out. Schwartz looked like the sort who might.

“Mr. Wyle?”

“Sorry. I was trying to remember if I’d put new batteries in this thing.” He held up the mini tape recorder. “I work for a magazine called Mysterious World. We cover religious mysteries, miracles, things like that.” It was remotely true, if you considered things like Atlantis and tarot to be religious.

“Are you associated with any particular denomination? Roman Catholic?”

“No. Not really.” Denton held up the book Tales of the Holocaust. “Have you ever read this?”

It could have been his imagination, but he swore Schwartz looked at the book too briefly before answering. “No.”

“It’s, um, true stories from Holocaust survivors. I’m interested in one of the stories in particular, about a man named Rabbi Yosef Kobinski. Ever heard of him?”

Schwartz wiped his long beard with his hand thoughtfully. “Could be.”

Denton was not getting the best vibes in this room. Schwartz was stiffening up, his face thickening like a time-lapse film of growing mold. Denton turned the charm up a notch, fixing a smile to his face. His muscles, used to smiling, held it effortlessly, like an Olympic gymnast standing on one leg.

“According to a supposedly true account by an eyewitness, Yosef Kobinski disappeared from Auschwitz in 1943.”

Schwartz’s lip curled. “Mr. Wyle, over six million were lost during the Holocaust.”

“No. He disappeared. From Auschwitz.”

Schwartz didn’t ask him what he meant, which Denton found odd. He just looked extremely disinterested.

“So I talked to the editor of Tales. He said the old man who told this story was very reliable and not senile at all. Unfortunately, he’s passed on since the book was written, so I couldn’t interview him directly. But the editor did recall something he’d left out of the book because he thought it would make the story less credible.”