“Then so is your principal,” Majid said. “Then so are you.”

“But we have not violated Swiss finance regulations. The Swiss may not care about the deaths of a few Africans, but they care about those. Should that be exposed, all this”—he gestured around the office, its art, its furniture—“goes away.”

Who cares? thought Majid. Then thought: I do. Then thought: Do I?

He watched Okoro walk away through the reception area. And saw, sitting on a couch, waiting to see him, Rafe. Now? Majid thought. Again? Who else would be dropping by today? Interpol? The KGB? The Mounties?

His computer was dinging with more messages from Stavro.

“Rafe,” Majid said. But Rafe wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Okoro’s back as Okoro walked out of the office. He stood and picked up a Tumi bag on the floor at his feet. “Here,” Rafe said. “Hold this for me.” He handed the bag to Majid, then followed Okoro out.

Mincha

MINCHA

Okoro walked along the river, passing the doorway of the cosmetics shop where Rafe had sheltered, passing boutiques, passing banks. Rafe maintained a discreet distance behind him. Okoro turned left to cross the Pont de L’Île, stopping to read the marker commemorating Julius Caesar’s destruction of a previous bridge there in 58 B. C. Rafe stopped there, too. Julius Caesar? Who knew? Then he fell in again behind Okoro. Fifty feet apart, they passed the island’s old clock tower, crossed the second bridge and reached the river’s south shore, where, one following the other, they bore right onto the Quai de la Poste.

A block on, Okoro turned left at the post office, and Rafe’s phone rang. Caller ID blocked.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” It was Frank, never one for pleasantries.

“Frank?” Rafe kept his voice low even though, having turned the corner himself now, he could see that Okoro was too far ahead to hear him.

“Yes. Frank. What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m following a guy who was at Sterling Wealth Management,” Rafe said, wondering why Frank would be asking him that question just now, exactly now.

“So are we,” Frank said. “The place is being watched.”

“It is?” Rafe looked around, at business people, tourists, shoppers. “I don’t see anybody.”

“That’s the point,” Frank said.

“Okay,” Rafe granted, “but I was close enough to this guy to hear him talk. He sounds Nigerian.”

“To you? He does? You know what Nigerians sound like?”

“There was someone at business school, a Nigerian prince.”

“Harvard again,” Frank said. “Thank god for Harvard.”

“If he’s from Nigeria,” Rafe said, “he could be involved. He might even be Stavro.”

“Brilliant,” said Frank. “Now will you please back off and get the fuck out of the way?”