“I said I couldn’t discuss my clients. It seemed like he wanted to meet you.”

“Did you tell him how to find me?”

“How could I? I don’t know how to find you. I thought you were staying in Geneva. Why did you want to meet here?” Majid waved a hand toward Zurich below them—heavy stone buildings punctuated by church spires, trams on the avenues and tourist boats on the Zürichsee.

“Change of scenery,” Stavro said. “Plus Geneva does seem to be getting rather crowded with people interested in my business.”

“As for that . . .” Majid began, but Stavro cut him off. “Yes, as for that, have you liquidated my position in Bouvier Lait?”

Majid nodded. He had. Stavro’s messages had been clear. And Majid had seen it as part of cleaning up, a prelude to being done. And he thought (rationalized?) that closing out the position, buying shares at the new lower price to replace the shares they had borrowed, meant there was no additional profit to be made by any additional drop in the price. So nothing to motivate any more deaths, any more poisoned children. Closing the trade an ass-backward way of saving lives. Probably not worthy of a medal, though. Or even a pardon. The waiter brought Majid’s water.

“Excellent,” said Stavro. “You are holding the profits in cash?”

“I am.”

“I want to withdraw them. Not my initial investment. Just my profits to date.” Stavro reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out a folded paper and handed it to Majid. Majid opened it and saw the names of two banks, two account numbers. “Send ninety-five percent—of the profits—to the bank listed first and five percent to the other.”

“And the share claimed by the Nigerian?”

“I know nothing of any Nigerian,” Stavro snapped. “After you’ve made these transfers, with what remains you should . . .’

This time Majid interrupted. “You should transfer it all. I’ll be closing your account.”

Stavro looked at him as if he had just suggested he withdraw his money in cash and throw it in the lake.

“Why would I do that?”

“Since the death of my partner,” Majid said, “I’m refocusing the business. I’ll be working with a handful of banks, advising their clients exclusively.” Did that make sense? Majid wondered. It sounded plausible.

“No,” said Stavro.

No?

“You may work with those banks if you wish. But you will also retain my account. And I’m ready to make another investment. Another short play.” He was puffing on his cigar again.

“I’m afraid I can’t . . .” Majid began.

“You can. I know it, and you know it. So just do it. I want to short a cruise line. The same procedures as before. The same anonymity. And, this time, no clerical ‘accident’ that unveils your name or mine.”