Okoro looked around the garden. At the elderly couple at the café table. The veiled Muslim woman with her daughter. The tourists still taking photos of the dead duke’s mausoleum (was it really that photogenic?). By a parked tour bus on the Rue Adhémar-Fabri, he saw one of the “security guards” from the synagogue. Sitting in a taxi across the park, on the Rue des Alpes, his colleague. Behind Okoro on the quay, distant from everyone else, just looking on, he saw the incompetent American spy who had followed him to the synagogue.

Okoro smiled back at Frank. “In that case,” he said. “We will just stand here and enjoy the sunshine.”

It was beginning to dawn on Stavro that Majid’s behavior was more than simple stupidity or stubborn resistance. He sat up in his chair, and he looked around.

“I told you to do that?” he said. “When did I tell you?”

“The last time we met. Don’t you remember? That’s what I told the bank in Khartoum when they called to inquire on behalf of their client.”

Stavro took that in. A few tables away, the elderly woman in the broad-brimmed hat got up and started to walk toward the toilette publique.

“You told the bank in Khartoum?” Stavro said. “That I told you to send most of the money to me?” Processing now . . .

“I told them you’d been very specific. Five percent to them, ninety-five to you. They sounded surprised.”

Stavro leaned forward. “You are making a big mistake.” Majid said nothing. “I will talk to them and explain things. And then, I promise, you will be dealt with.” He kept his voice low. The old woman was approaching, unsteady on her feet.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to talk to them,” Majid said.

“I won’t?”

“And they won’t be able to talk to you.”

Stavro stared. Majid was beginning to enjoy this. “Because you’ve disappeared,” Majid said. “Presumably with your associates’ money. It doesn’t look good. I think they’ll be upset.”

“I’ve disappeared?” said Stavro. “You’re dead.” He stood up abruptly and reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Just then the woman in the broad-brimmed hat, passing their table, stumbled on an uneven paving stone. She reached out to steady herself and touched the back of Stavro’s neck.

Two seconds later he was unconscious.

“Oh my,” said Okoro. “It looks like Mister Hassan’s friend is not well.”

“Pity,” said Frank. “Maybe it’s something he ate.”

The waitress saw Stavro fall back into his chair. Before she could do anything about it, Majid spoke up. “Mon ami est malade. J’appellerai une ambulance.” He pulled out his phone and dialed.