Meiko was silent. Then she said, "I remember why I drew it."
Evelyn described the paper at the restaurant and the version that called the product approved. Meiko asked her to repeat the revision number, slowly, digit by digit. A train announcement sounded in the background as she wrote it down.
"That number belongs to a restricted trial," Meiko said. "It cannot be the final certificate. The final certificate was never issued."
"Can you prove that?"
"I kept my lab notebook. The scans are not enough by themselves. I know that." Meiko lowered her voice. "There is a paper register in Kobe with three signatures required for commercial release. At least one of those people refused to sign."
Evelyn felt the old dread rise. "Who?"
"My supervisor. Kameda. He was dismissed afterward."
The name struck her like a bell. She had heard it earlier that evening from Jun Sakamoto, spoken as if it belonged to a bureaucratic footnote. Evelyn asked Meiko whether she would give her name to an independent lawyer. Meiko hesitated long enough to make Evelyn understand what the answer might cost.
"Find the paper record first," Meiko said. "Then I'll tell them what I saw. I won't let them say an engineer approved something she only tested."
At the table, Voss's technical director had not yet arrived. Kuroda was reading two copies of a contract on separate tablets. Emi had established a document hold; Jun had asked the service staff not to clear any paper, glasses, or placemats from the table. It looked less like a business dinner than a crime scene designed by people who still intended to eat dessert.
"I spoke with a former colleague," Evelyn said. "Dr. Masaru Endo. He says the independent copy of the validation archive is held by the Japanese standards committee. If you request it directly, you can verify the language without my notes."
Kuroda's response was immediate. "Emi, do it."
"Already drafting the request," Emi said.
Voss stared at Evelyn. "You made a foreign call from my dinner?"
"From a balcony. And it wasn't your dinner. The restaurant prepared it."
Takeshi Mori coughed, almost successfully suppressing a laugh. Voss's jaw flexed.
"You misunderstand who has authority here," he said.
"We are establishing whose documents can be trusted," Kuroda replied. "That is a different question."
The private dining door opened. A stocky man in a pale suit strode through, his hair damp from rain, a laptop tucked under one arm. Evelyn knew the face before he spoke. Miles Orton had been her supervisor in Kobe, the man who told her to turn a warning into a suggestion.
He stopped when he saw her.
"Evelyn," he said, with the strained pleasure of someone finding an old debt at a surprise reunion. "Well. This is unexpected."
"It is," she agreed.
Voss gestured for him to sit. "Miles, this is the server who's making everyone nervous. She claims the Japanese contract says something different from the English one."
Orton studied the documents. He avoided Evelyn's eyes. "Technical localization creates minor inconsistencies."
"This one changes approval to suspension," Jun said. "Is that minor?"
"Without the surrounding text it's impossible to say."
"Then give us the surrounding text," Emi said.
Orton opened his laptop, tapped for a moment, and turned the screen. "Here is the final English appendix."
Jun read it. He traced three lines with a finger. "Where are the exception thresholds?"
"They were superseded," Orton said.
"By whom?" Kuroda asked.
"Joint technical review."
"Date?"
"I don't have it memorized."
"People who sign off safety validation generally remember," Evelyn said.
Orton finally looked at her. "You've always believed everyone is lying if they use a different word than you prefer."
She felt the old argument rise between them. In Kobe, she had been young, insecure, eager to be liked by people who could renew her fellowship. Tonight she had nothing he could withdraw without the world watching.
"I don't care which words you prefer," she said. "I care whether an operator is told to stop a machine when it is unsafe."
Kuroda requested the metadata for Orton's appendix. He hesitated. His fingers moved too quickly. A notification crossed his laptop screen and vanished.
"We'll need access through the corporate portal," Orton said. "The file isn't local."
"Then why does its cover show a local revision date of this afternoon?" Jun asked.
Silence filled the table. Orton closed the laptop an inch.
"That's routine migration," he said.
"Don't close it," Emi said.
Orton smiled weakly. "Ms. Fujimoto, this is proprietary information."
"I am counsel for the purchaser whose signatures you seek tomorrow. I can read the file."
Voss rose. "This has gone far enough. The dinner is over. The transaction remains on schedule."
Kuroda stood as well. Not quickly; not angrily. She looked at Voss with genuine sadness.
"Mr. Voss, an agreement cannot remain on schedule when its meaning has not been agreed upon."
Then Jun received an email from Japan. He opened it, read the subject, and looked directly at Evelyn.
"The committee answered," he said. "They have the archive. But there is something else."
"What?" she asked.