“No,” said Majid, “not a thousand.” He sometimes thought Ron thought his father lived in a desert tent with a harem. In fact, his parents lived in a two-bedroom villa on land given to them by the government, a perk of Emirati citizenship, and his mother had gone into the marriage with an understanding with his father that he would never take another wife. (On the other hand, there was his grandfather, who was in his eighties and had three wives and many children, including a three-year-old son, Majid’s youngest uncle. Majid did have a lot of cousins.)

“I saw the paperwork,” said Ron, looking suspiciously at an oncoming bicycle. “His underlying source of funds was ‘various.’ Various?”

“He did list some specifics.”

“‘Insurance proceeds’? ‘Casino winnings’?”

They were approaching the river’s south bank, where tourists with small children, some squalling, were waiting in line for the Ferris wheel in the English Garden. Majid saw Ron wince at the sound. He’d seen his partner walk out of a restaurant if there were children present.

“It saves our asses,” Majid said. “Gives us breathing room.”

Ron sighed, a kind of breathing. “Sure. If you can sell this fellow on the virtues of cash and short-term paper.”

“He said he’ll trust our judgment.”

“God help him.”

“He just had one request,” Majid said. “He wants to short a company called Sahel Hydrocarbon.”

“Never heard of it. Why?”

“He’s worked in Africa. That’s where it’s active. He says he has doubts about its fundamentals.”

“Africa? Me too. What does this company do?”

In the line for the Ferris wheel, a child holding its mother’s hand started to shriek.

“Oil,” said Majid. “One tricky thing. Our client doesn’t want to be identifiable as the short seller.”

“Why not?”

“He says he knows some of the principals in the company. He doesn’t want to offend anyone.”

“Well, that’s very considerate of him.”

“In fact, he doesn’t want the trade traced to any single short seller.”

“Really?” Another bike was coming up fast. Ron stepped aside. “Does he want to disappear in a cloud of mist? Shall we buy him an invisibility cloak?”

“He didn’t say. He just made it clear that he values discretion. I can break the trade into smaller pieces. Use anonymous LLCs, maybe some off the shelf. Borrow the shares from different brokers.”

“Lot of trouble,” said Ron.

The shrieking child was still at it.

“Or,” said Majid, “we can give him his money back and shut down the firm. You can go home to Sussex and work with your family.”

Ron’s siblings were in Sussex. They had packs of brats. Ron’s father would expect him at the weekly Sunday dinners.

“Subterfuge!” Ron said. “What fun!”

Lunch

LUNCH

Just lunch, Rafe had said.

Right. It had been a lunch in Cambridge, too. Catherine remembered. A late lunch, which became a drink. And another and . . .