Up ahead, Okoro turned again. Rafe reached the corner where Okoro had turned and looked around it and saw a building unlike any other he had seen in Geneva. It was a large Moorish edifice topped by a dome, with walls striped pink and gray. He saw Okoro walking directly to it. Then he saw the six-pointed stars on its iron gates.

“Shit!” he said.

“What?” Frank said. “Shit what? Have you stopped? Have you backed off?”

“He’s heading for a synagogue.”

Frank’s tone changed instantly. His anger gone, now a finder of facts, but one in a hurry.

“Is he wearing a backpack?”

“No.”

“Carrying anything? A suitcase?”

“No.”

“Bulky jacket?”

“No. He’s going inside.”

“Stay back. People are coming.”

Frank clicked off. Rafe put his phone in his pocket and followed the Nigerian into the synagogue. It was cool and dimly lit, a large sanctuary with balconies above, on the left and on the right. There were arches everywhere painted with the same pink and gray stripes as the exterior. Rafe hadn’t been in a synagogue since his friend Richie Nodel’s bar mitzvah in Larchmont. This one was much nicer.

A few men wearing prayer shawls and yarmulkes were gathered up front by a raised platform, chanting and bowing. No one was looking back toward the entrance, where Rafe had stopped inside the door. A dozen feet away, the Nigerian reached into a wicker basket, picked up a yarmulke, and put it on his head. As he did, he turned and saw Rafe. He nodded. Rafe nodded back. This didn’t seem like correct spy-tailing protocol, but it would have felt weird not to.

Then two men Rafe had never seen before walked quickly into the sanctuary. One was dressed as a banker (conservative suit, powder-blue tie), the other as a tourist (dad jeans, passport pouch hanging on a cord around his neck).

People are coming.

Frank’s people.

Rafe wondered if it was one of them who had accidentally killed Ron Mayfield.

They walked toward Okoro, spreading out as they did, so that when they reached him one was on his right and one on his left. A tactical formation.

Rafe was close enough to hear what they said.

“Synagogue security,” said the banker. “Do you mind telling us what you’re doing here?”

“And keep your hands where we can see them,” the tourist said. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes,” said Okoro. “It’s terrible what’s been happening at synagogues.”

“So,” said the banker, “what are you doing here?”

“I’ve come for the mincha,” Okoro said, pronouncing the last syllable like he was clearing his throat.

“The mincha?” said the banker.

He doesn’t know what that is, Rafe thought, and “mincha” sounded like something that synagogue security should know about.

“The afternoon prayers,” said Okoro.

“Why is that?” asked the tourist.

“Why are there afternoon prayers?”

“Why are you here?” said the banker, more aggressive now.