“Are you aware of her father’s background?” asked Sykes.

Was she? They did work fast around here.

“Yes.”

“His criminal background?”

“Miss Cole had nothing to do with that. She didn’t work where he worked. She was in grade school when he started there.”

“So she had no idea her father was helping to swindle investors?”

“He was a minor player, a functionary, it was the guy he worked for . . .”

“And now she has no idea she’s handling dirty money? Is anyone else beginning to see a pattern there? Is willful blindness genetic?”

“There’s no reason to think she’s aware. Or that anyone at the bank is. Pleski’s money is layered before it gets there. He can show papers of origin.”

“Including for the money in the duffel bag?”

“That money will make multiple stops before it gets there, as I’m pretty sure I just said. A casino, real estate, an art auction followed by an insurance loss or a loan default . . .”

“Uh-huh,” said Helen Sykes. “And while it’s touring Switzerland, what are you planning to do next?”

“Bring the mountain to Mohammed,” Rafe said. “And my acquaintance with Miss Cole can help. I’m opening a hedge fund that might appeal to someone like Pleski. Long-short, low beta. A real quant shop.” The DS man looked at him, questioning—quant shop?—but Rafe let it slide.

Fuck

FUCK

“Fuck,” she said, and she pulled the sheet up over her head.

Catherine was naked. “Fuck,” she said again.

“Yes,” said Rafe, “that’s what we did.”

He said it in the least sarcastic way possible. He was smiling and content, albeit still breathing heavily. It had been very, very good. Like back in Cambridge. Catherine had given every sign of enjoying it, too. It was hard to believe she could actually be upset. This had to be some kind of automatic reaction, a meaningless programmed response from ancient Puritan genes. She had always seemed to fight the pleasure. Which always seemed to make it more pleasurable.

She got out of the bed and pulled on her panties and stood facing him. She wasn’t shy about her breasts.

“We can’t start this again,” she said.

“Why not?” He reached toward her. “And, by the way, I believe we already did.” She took a step back.

“You’re not even engaged this time,” he said.

“It’s too much,” she said. “I need to focus on my work, on my career.”

“So I, what, distract you? I’m all for work. I’m trying to do some myself. But not twenty-four hours a day.”

“I don’t want to talk about this now. I have to go.” She was looking for the rest of her clothes.

“This thing with Majid . . . he doesn’t distract you?”

“He doesn’t cross-examine me when I make a simple statement.” Her bra was in the sheets somewhere.

“No,” said Rafe. “He doesn’t. Distract you.”