“A cruise line?” That wasn’t just ominous, it was also dumb, which almost cheered Majid up. “Cruise line shares are bottomed out. It doesn’t make sense to bet on their dropping further.”

“Most of them have bottomed out,” Stavro agreed. “But one has recovered. Medallion Cruises. Small ships. Safe countries. Rigorous health measures. There’s pent-up demand for cruises, and Medallion is getting the business. Its stock is up, but I think too high.” He puffed on his cigar and smiled. “I mean, ships are prone to mishaps.”

The smile was terrible.

Stavro gestured to the Zürichsee below them, and Majid looked down there again. The boats he could see all looked pretty stable. Nothing was foundering or blowing up or getting poisoned. A car ferry was chugging to Horgen. The waiter came and laid down a bowl of mixed nuts and wondered if Majid would like to see a menu.

“No,” said Majid. The waiter thought he was talking to him and backed away. But Majid was talking to Stavro. “There are plenty of firms that can handle your business. Dozens right here in Zurich.”

“No doubt,” said Stavro. “But how many are run by a Muslim?”

Majid took a breath. Then asked, softly, “What does that matter?” Already fearing that he knew the answer.

Stavro took his time replying. He summoned the waiter back and ordered a cognac and then took more time before he leaned forward toward Majid.

“You have no way of knowing this, of course,” he said, “but I’m working with people who are Middle Eastern. Like yourself . . .”

“I don’t see how that matters.” Majid tried to sound as if he actually didn’t.

Stavro continued as if Majid had not spoken at all. “Like your mother in Dubai. Like your sister at university in Beirut. I’m told Amina is a very intelligent young woman. Studying civil engineering. Unusual field for a girl.”

Stavro reached into his jacket again and pulled out a photograph of a young woman standing in front of a yellow brick building on the campus of the American University of Beirut. She had flowing black hair and was wearing a white blouse and tight jeans and talking to a young man carrying a book bag. They were both smiling. Majid stared at the photo as the waiter brought Stavro’s cognac. “She looks lovely,” Stavro said. “But her clothes . . .” He shook his head. “Not very modest.”

Majid looked up from the photo. “Why do you have this?”

“My associates like to know who they’re working with, and they’re comfortable with people they can relate to—fellow Arabs, fellow Muslims. There was no other reason to pick your firm to be our partner. It’s not very successful.”

“I’m not your partner.”