Frank picked up his phone and snapped a few pictures as the man took a quick look around, then walked into the center. “He’s from Saudi,” Mohammed said in an unusual (for him) respectful tone.

“What’s his name?”

“Shaykh Mohammed al-Yamani.”

“Doesn’t that mean he’s from Yemen?”

“He’s from Saudi now,” said Mohammed. “Do you want me to go in or not?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “And wear this.”

He handed over a watch. Stainless steel. Nothing fancy.

“Don’t try to adjust it,” Frank said. “It’s voice-activated.”

Mohammed held it in his hand and inspected it, looking dubious.

“What if they look at it?”

“Then they’ll know what time it is. It’s not against your religion to wear a watch, is it?”

Mohammed strapped it on.

“There you go then,” said Frank. “Looking sharp.”

Mohammed didn’t move.

“Right,” said Frank. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a hundred-euro note and handed it to Mohammed, who took it without another word and went.

Help

HELP

There was, as usual, no splash.

“Nine point five,” Rafe said.

Catherine saw him as she climbed out of the pool. It was seven in the morning. He was dressed for work, in suit and tie.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“You’re not returning my calls. You’re not answering my texts.”

“I didn’t like your business proposition.”

“Then it’s withdrawn.”

“Good.” She wrapped a towel around her shoulders and started to walk toward the locker room.

“I just need your help with something.”

She turned back toward him. “My help? Really?”

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Actually, she realized, he hadn’t. His suit was blue, summer weight wool. She was conscious of the contrast between his business attire and her thin covering of spandex. So much on him, so little on her, so much to undo on him, so little would be required to expose her. She was pretty sure some pornographic films started this way.

“What kind of help?” she said.

“If you were shorting a stock, lightly traded, London exchange, where would you go to borrow the shares here in Geneva?”

“Excuse me?”

“If you were shorting a stock—”

“I heard you. Why are you asking me? You know this. It’s your business, right?”

Good point, he thought. He’d half convinced himself that this was why he’d come to see her. Was there any truth to it? Well, some, maybe.

“I’m new here. You know the local firms. Where would I go? Where would you go?”

“Oh, I don’t know. To a bank? A brokerage house? Probably not one of the chocolate shops.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you’re not. Rafe, what we did . . .” She paused. How to finish the sentence? “. . .we did.”

“Yes,” he said. “We did. What we did.”

Jesus, this was turning into a Beckett play. Or was it Ionescu?

“And I’m still open,” he said.