A few days after that had happened, when he had seen her in the old town with the piggish man holding a heavy bag, he had spotted her again through the window of a restaurant on the Rue des Savoises. She was eating lunch with another man in a suit. He decided that all these men must have something to do with her business, nothing more. She was too good for it be something more. After her meal, he had followed her back to this street, where there were many attractive women dressed in fine clothes and many prosperous-looking men, piggish and otherwise. She walked into a bank building and did not come out. Her place of employment. Thereafter, when he was in the city, he would walk by the building, staying on the opposite sidewalk, and he saw her sometimes, generally around lunchtime, coming or going. He always took care to keep out of her sight. Even though, deep in his heart, he hoped that she would see him and, inshallah, even smile at him again.

Then, now, he saw the piggish man walk into her building.

Catherine was at her desk staring at a screen of LIBOR interest rate swaps. This was an area that had not interested her much in the past. But she had a client who had a large fixed-rate loan and was convinced that the LIBOR would be trending down. Holborn Bank’s analysts felt otherwise, but the client had assured Catherine that he felt the downward movement in his gut. Most likely indigestion, she thought. But it was something for her to do, and the contents of the screen were something for her to know, as opposed to her business with Majid and Rafe, which they had made very clear required her to do nothing and to know nothing.

She noticed Armstrong leave his office and head to the elevator. Ever since she had counseled his daughter, he usually smiled or nodded to her as he passed, but today he did not. He took the elevator down.

Two minutes later her phone rang. It was Stanley Pleski. He was shouting. “I’m downstairs with your boss.” She turned her headset volume down. “Where are you? I’m getting screwed down here! What the fuck is going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

And thought: Ah, thank you, guys.

The message had come from the bank, and Pleski thought he was there to meet Catherine. He assumed she was ready to talk about their new relationship. He was looking forward to working more closely with her. But when he gave his name to the receptionist, Catherine did not appear. Instead it was this geek Armstrong and two heavies in dark suits. Bank security. They ushered him into the fishbowl, where there were two suitcases sitting on the floor.

“Mister Pleski,” Armstrong said, “I’ll get right to it. We are closing your account.”