He swung onto Airport Road with scarcely a glance, ignoring the blaring horn of a truck that swerved past the Buick with inches to spare. “Your flight was good?” he asked Malik. “These jets are very safe, I hear.”

The flight had been very good, Malik allowed, and, by all accounts, the new aircrafts were very reliable.

“Tell me about France,” said Farid.

Malik settled back in his seat. This was not Europe, he reminded himself. It would be unthinkably ill-mannered to broach directly the topic that was on both their minds.

He patiently answered Farid’s questions about French weather, French food, and especially French women. The first two subjects were easy enough to discuss.

The third was more personal; Malik made vague remarks that his cousin could interpret to his satisfaction, then changed the subject. “What is all this traffic, Farid? It looks like the Champs Elysees.”

Airport Road did seem busy, at least a dozen vehicles in view at any given moment; not long ago, to meet three in a mile would have been an event.

“It’s the oil, Cousin. The thing just keeps getting bigger, as you well know, pouring money like the fountain in the royal palace spills water. We’re all going to be rich, God willing.”

“God willing. And may a little of it splash my way in France.”

“And how is your business there, Cousin?” asked Farid, edging closer to the important matter. “Do you do well working for the old Greek pirate?” “Well enough.” Malik laughed; it was not the first time he had heard his employer described in those words. “Well enough, and, God willing, even better some- day—but perhaps not working for Onassis.”

Farid raised an eyebrow. “Better than Onassis, Cousin?”

“That’s not exactly what I said.” Without going into detail, Malik explained that, working in shipping in a place like Marseilles, he sometimes met prospective clients who had special needs. “Sensitive cargoes—you understand, Cousin?— that Onassis would never handle because it would be politically dangerous for him if the cargoes were … intercepted. When you’re as big as he is, you depend not only on your customers but on the goodwill of governments all around the world. That goodwill is worth many millions.”

Farid turned his hands on the wheel to indicate that this was all so obvious that any child would grasp it.

Malik smiled inwardly. “As you will understand, Cousin, what such a client needs is not an Onassis tanker. What he needs is a tramp steamer, a nondescript old workhorse registered in, say, Panama—”

“Onassis allows this?” Farid asked.

It was a good question, reminding Malik of the intelligence his cousin often masked with good-natured clowning.