“It does,” he said, keeping his voice calm, no big deal here. Then added, dutifully, “But I am required to ask about the source of funds.”

“These are American rules?” Stavro’s brows raised. “Since when do the borders of the United States extend to the Alps?”

Majid shrugged sympathetically. “The pressure they exerted on Switzerland was intense.”

“Not that it’s a problem,” Stavro said, although his expression showed otherwise. “These are proceeds from the sale of a partnership share. My family made a successful investment in a company providing computer services in the developing world. Our partners bought us out. We grew tired of worrying if Ugandan cement manufacturers could pay their bills.”

“I see,” said Majid. He gently laid the check down on his desk. “And your partners, the ones who bought you out, can you identify them and the name of their bank?” He gestured toward the form in front of his visitor, where all this was supposed to be inscribed.

“Actually, I’d rather not. They are private people. And they may have issues with the tax authorities in their country.”

Majid nodded, understanding. “Of course,” he said. “And the source of the funds you originally invested in the computer services company?”

“Many and various,” Stavro said. “It would be burdensome to gather documentation.”

He leaned over and lifted the check off Majid’s desk.

“I’m not asking to see your bona fides,” he said. “You come recommended, but there are other wealth management firms in Switzerland.”

Six hundred eighteen, Majid thought. Or nineteen, if Rafe is up and running.

He nodded again, understanding again, understanding so much he felt he must be verging on omniscience. “‘Many and various,’” he repeated. As if that answered every question.

He gestured again to the form on the desk. “Just fill it in as best you can. And welcome to Sterling.”

Kevin

KEVIN

The Meatpacking District was definitely getting old, but it was still better than hauling over to Brooklyn to drink bitter-tasting craft beer with a bunch of overpaid coders pretending to be poets. Anyway, Dawn probably thought Crown Heights was next to Portugal, too far to go.

But she was easy to be with and had a hot body, and Kevin liked her.

They walked out of the club on Little West Twelfth Street, Dawn trailing and consulting a text. “Cherie and Derek are at Cielo,” she said. The street smelled of car exhaust and garbage.

He didn’t want to stay out late. He had a 9 a.m. phone date with a friend from Princeton who was a numbers whiz at Goldman and was going to go over his figures.

“I said we’d meet them,” Dawn said.

The meeting with his family was coming up soon. Kevin thought his Aunt Charlotte, at least, would side with him. She’d always been more sentimental than mercenary; she’d cried when they’d shut the paper in Toledo.