“Unless you’d prefer,” Rafe said, “although I don’t think Geneva has back alleys.” And added: “There is one thing, though.”

Armstrong waited. Rafe leaned over and pointed to a name on the list. “We would like you to close that account. In the most emphatic way.”

Jardin des Alpes

JARDIN DES ALPES

Okoro walked down the Quai des Bergues with two other Nigerians—a husky Yoruba man who worked security at the mission in Geneva and another, thinner but taller, down from the embassy in Bern. They were both wearing suits. The taller man had a yellow tie with a matching pocket square.

“So who we go be?” asked the huskier man as they passed the Franck Namani boutique on the corner by the bridge over the Rhône. It had a fifteen-thousand-euro cashmere and mink sweater in the window. “Your bodyguards?”

“Business associates,” Okoro said.

“You supposed to be police,” said the taller man. “Police have business associates?”

The other two looked at him. “Look at you, you done become foreigner,” the husky man said. “You forget that police is business?”

“This Switzerland,” the tall man said, offended. “These people, do they know that?”

“I’ll explain it to the man if I have to,” Okoro said. “Nah me go do the talking, make I see if he wan help us.” He was talking to fellow Nigerians now, mixing English with pidgin. Just like home.

He pointed across the street to Majid’s building. “Over there. His office.” A point brought home by Majid himself just then walking out the door. Okoro quickly turned around to face the river. “Nah him be dat.”

The husky man looked at him, then looked at his watch. “Ten o’clock. Business hours. Where he dey go?”

They all watched as Majid walked east, in the direction of the Franck Namani boutique.

Stavro had called an hour before. He wanted to meet.

“I can catch the noon train to Zurich,” Majid said.

“No,” Stavro said. “Now. I’m in Geneva.”

“Then come by. I’m in the office.”

“Not your office. The Jardin des Alpes. By the café.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Now! It’s a five-minute walk. Don’t fuck with me.”

Majid held for a moment, trying to hit the right note. Not cocky. A touch of the respect that comes from fear. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said.

Which had the advantage of being true.

It was warm for the season. The Bise had not returned, and the sun was bright. Tourists were taking photos of the monument at the entrance to the park. With multiple spires, it looked like the top ornament of a wedding cake, except where the plastic bride and groom should have been there was the tomb of an otherwise forgotten duke.