But the Uber wasn’t going anywhere. And it wasn’t an Uber. And the man in the back was Rafe.

He and Frank were watching the door to the Holborn Bank. It opened, and Stanley Pleski appeared.

“That’s him,” Rafe said.

“Your pal from the stamp auction. You going to get together later and swap stamps? Three of my green ones for two of your red ones?”

“I don’t think that’s how they do it. They usually—” Rafe stopped. In the doorway to the bank, Catherine had appeared beside Pleski.

“They usually what?” said Frank.

Catherine and Pleski exchanged some words.

“What?” said Rafe.

“You were about to enlighten me about stamp collecting. The suspense is killing me.”

“I know her,” said Rafe.

“Who? The blonde?”

Rafe nodded.

“Lucky you,” said Frank.

Catherine turned back into the building, and Pleski came down the sidewalk with a waddling gait. Rafe and Frank looked straight ahead, keeping him in their peripheral vision. Pleski looked at his phone as he came near, his briefcase bumping against his left thigh.

Frank, back on the job, took it in. “Case looks heavy. He carry cash?”

Rafe nodded. “Sometimes.”

“How much?”

“Millions. Sometimes.”

Pleski was even with them now, not twenty feet away, talking into his phone, taking no note of the fake Uber.

“We could just grab him,” Frank said. “Get this over with.”

“No,” said Rafe. “Not yet.”

Texts

TEXTS

Majid gazed at Catherine’s martini like a hungry cowboy looking at a plate of sushi.

Catherine took a sip. Saw him looking. Asked, “Did you ever drink?”

“Not really. I experimented as a teenager back home.”

“Where drinking is illegal.”

“Illegal but legal, one of the charms of Dubai.” He took a sip of iced tea. “Anyway, my stomach objected more than my faith.”

“Well,” said Catherine, “cheers.”

They were on the terrace of the bar of the Fairmont Hotel. Over Majid’s shoulder, Catherine could see sailboats coursing on the lake while mouettes, the bright yellow water taxis, cut between them. The sun was making a rainbow in the spray from the Jet d’Eau. Haze obscured the lower slopes of the mountains in the distance, but the white snowy shoulders of Mont Blanc were visible above it. The beauty of this place still amazed her.

“How was your day?” Majid asked.

“Well,” said Catherine, “there is definitely going to be a second martini.” (This play was your pitch.) “I’m waiting for a deal to close. A ‘sure thing.’ You know how that goes.”

“Yeah,” said Majid, “I’ve heard.” (How . . . much . . . did . . . we . . . bet?)

They’d been sleeping together for three months now, but Catherine could deduce nothing from Majid’s tone. He held himself together as well as she did. That was probably why she liked him. She never had to worry about wallowing in his emotions.

“And your day?” she said.