“I said I’ll think about it. I can reach you through her?” He looked at Catherine.

Rafe nodded. Pleski turned and walked away. Catherine waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to Rafe, not kindly. “What the hell?”

“What the hell what?”

“I thought maybe we could do some actual business. Maybe even help you out. But your ‘cutting edge’ hedge fund? You just practically announced that its cutting edge is illegal inside information.”

“Just suiting the product to the client,” Rafe said.

“What are you talking about?”

“That phone call you made when we had lunch? A deal went through because somebody got killed? Was that a deal Pleski was involved in?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you understand who Pleski is?”

“Yes. My client. Who you just sent running into the street.”

“He’s thinking about it.”

She stood up. “I’m going to tell him to forget about it.”

“Catherine . . .”

“This was a mistake. I work for a bank. A bank that has standards, legal and ethical. No more client introductions, Rafe.”

“Catherine . . .”

“No. No more . . . anything.” And she walked. Didn’t look back.

Compliance

COMPLIANCE

Back at her office, Catherine glanced up at the screens. There were screens on every wall. All the world’s markets on display, the current price of everything, updating constantly. Therefore, the results of everyone’s trades, updating constantly, which certainly kept the adrenaline flowing. You were ahead, you were behind, all right there. No need to wait for quarterly performance reviews. There were reviews of your performance every fifteen seconds.

Catherine had something else on the screen at her desk. New York tabloid articles about a hit-and-run in the Meatpacking District. Tragic unsolved death of Kevin Kemper, heir to a declining just-sold media empire. The white van death vehicle stolen in Queens, abandoned in the Bronx. No leads. No mention of Stanley Pleski. What the hell had Rafe been talking about?

“Catherine.” A smiling voice.

She looked up to see Michael Barnstable, her departmental vice president. Which made him, by her estimate, one of about ten thousand vice presidents in the company.

“Working late?”

Barnstable was almost fifty, long past the time when he should have made senior vice president, or executive vice president, or, God help us, senior executive vice president. Like Catherine, he was an American, which he seemed to think should give them a strong personal bond, although Catherine imagined that his wife, who was active in English-language community theater in Geneva, might disagree.

“I want to be ready for when Tokyo opens,” she said. “I’m tracking some options there.”

“Well,” he said, perching on her desk, his expression sympathetic— he was always on her side—“I’m afraid I’m going to lighten your load a little. Those mining company warrants you pitched . . . we can’t get involved.”

“We?”

“Compliance.” He shook his head. “Our official anti-business business department.”

“Why?”