Clara clicked on a folder labeled with a long string of numbers.

Lines of green text poured down the screen.

It was raw programming language, dense and impossible for me to read on my own.

“We need to compare this to the patent filings,” I said.

I opened my bag and pulled out the thirteen faded blue folders Marcus had retrieved from the Zurich vault.

I carried them over to Clara’s wooden dining table and laid them out in a neat grid.

Clara brought her laptop over and sat down beside me.