“Stanley Pleski,” he began.

On a screen behind him, there appeared a photo. A logo in a corner of the photo read: U.S. Treasury Department—Office of Terrorism and Financial Intelligence. Rafe’s agency.

The photo was of Stanley Pleski exiting the Holborn Bank.

“Born Detroit, nineteen sixty-six,” Rafe said. “Graduated Wayne State University School of Law, nineteen ninety-two. Disbarred, nineteen ninety-nine. When he was practicing law, some of his clients were members of the Chaldean mob—”

“The Chaldean mob?” asked the DS man.

Rafe stopped and explained, “It’s a thing in Detroit.”

“Where is Chaldea?” the DS man asked. The State Department’s Diplomatic Security Service had agents in every American embassy; he’d never heard of anyone assigned to Chaldea.

“Why don’t we do geography lessons later?” said Helen Sykes. She was wearing a maroon blazer and black pants and had her hair in a short ponytail that might have looked girlish but somehow looked fierce.

Rafe resumed. “Pleski got involved in money laundering, setting up shell accounts and running bags of cash through the tunnel to Windsor for the Chaldeans . . . who I believe,” he said, looking at the DS man, “originated in ancient Babylonia.” The DS man nodded his thanks.

“The Chaldeans told their friends, and Pleski acquired new clients— first Mexicans, then Colombians, now Russians.”

“Why does the Russian mob need a two-bit hustler from Detroit?” asked the FBI man.

“Because nobody suspects a two-bit hustler from Detroit?” said Frank.

“Except Treasury,” said Helen Sykes, turning to Rafe. “How did you become aware? Did somebody make a mistake on their tax return?”

Was that grudging admiration or an insult? Everybody knew it was tax returns that brought down Al Capone. Even so, Sykes had made it pretty clear that, as an experienced CIA professional, she had less than total respect for Treasury agents as spies.

“No,” said Rafe. “Financial intelligence.” And then laid it out, clicking through images on the screen as he went. Photos of invoices, letters of credit, bank wire transfers, shipping crates, and a pretty full-color shot of a Belgian fried chicken restaurant.

“Our people in India became aware of a company called Gujarat Gems. It buys diamonds from Zimbabwe and sells them to a dealer in Brussels. Millions of dollars’ worth. The Belgian dealer, who is actually a Russian named Shushkov, pays Gujarat with money allegedly earned from his interest in the Poulet Dansant fast food chain . . .”

Ever helpful, he paused and looked at the DS man. “Dancing Chicken.”

“For God’s sake,” said Helen Sykes.

“Gujarat deposits its profits in an Indian bank. All legal, all kosher— except for one minor detail. There are no diamonds. The purchase invoices are fake. Nothing is sent from Zimbabwe to India. But, for show, packages are sent from India to Brussels.” Rafe clicked to another picture: an open crate filled with broken tea cups.