“The only thing that is real is the money from Brussels, which is proceeds from heroin sales and human trafficking. It gets wired from the account in the Indian bank, these alleged profits from nonexistent diamonds, to the Holborn Bank here in Geneva, where Pleski directs the account.”

“So you know everything,” said Helen Sykes. “Shut him down.”

“Too soon,” said Rafe. “This got us to Pleski, but Pleski handles money from other sources, and we don’t know who they are and we want to find out, so we can wrap him up and everybody he works for. One delivery came in yesterday, by courier.”

He clicked and surveillance video played on the screen—Pleski entering the airport, Pleski sitting on the bench by the watch kiosk, the man with the duffel bag sitting down next to him, the man leaving the duffel bag, Pleski picking up the duffel bag.

“Who was the courier?” asked the DS man.

“His ticket said Leo Perelli,” said Frank, who was a man of few words but was good at finding things out. “After he dropped the bag, he had four drinks at the airport bar, then got back on a flight to JFK.”

“How much was in that bag?” asked the FBI legat.

“A million?” Frank shrugged. “Two million? More? The courier flew first class.”

“And it went to the Holborn Bank?” asked Helen Sykes.

“Not yet,” said Rafe. “It will be washed first. Pleski goes to stamp auctions, art auctions, buys things, gets loans with the things as collateral, defaults on the loans, lets the lenders keep the things and he keeps the cash, now certified as coming from a legit financial institution. Or he goes to casinos, buys chips, bets nothing, cashes the chips and, presto—he has gambling winnings, or that’s what they are if anybody asks.”

“And then,” said Helen Sykes, “it goes to the Holborn Bank.”

“Yes.”

“Where, I believe, Mister Pleski’s account is handled by a friend of yours.”

Now she clicked a button to take control of the screen. (At which point Rafe’s clicker stopped working. How did she do that?) On the screen, in response to Sykes’s click, a photo of a woman appeared. Catherine. Her passport photo but attractive nonetheless.

Rafe shot a look at Frank, who looked back at him blankly, acknowledging nothing.

“Well,” said Rafe. “I’m glad to see the CIA is on top of things.”

“We try,” said Sykes.

“Impressive. Can you tell me what card I’m thinking of? How many fingers I’m holding up behind my back?”

“Can you tell me why you saw fit not to mention your friend’s involvement?”

“Yes,” said Rafe. “I can.”

The DS man, even the FBI man, perked up, the briefing getting interesting at last.

“She’s a trader who handles a few clients,” said Rafe. “She doesn’t open accounts. It was never her job to check Pleski’s bona fides.”