EighteenEarly Saturday morning, as they left Cadarache Castle, Slava had found a message waiting in the foyer. He opened the envelope and handed its contents to T. J., who read, “Your presence in Cadarache is not required.” Lost in thought, Archangelsky lagged behind while she walked in the brisk air down the steps through the garden and toward the parking area. Suddenly, she froze, and in that instant the two were buffeted by a deafening roar as their car went up in flames. Even now her instincts told her to take cover; she pulled the physicist after her three steps and together they dove behind a five-hundred-year-old stone wall. When their ears had stopped ringing, the two got to their feet, dusted themselves off. T. J. pulled a leaf from Archangelsky’s beard but did not pause to ask fo
