Ronald Haywood Harrison Mayfield, second cousin to the earl of something, about 500th in line to the British throne, was Majid’s partner in Sterling Wealth Management, which had been established eighteen months before in a small but tastefully appointed office on the Quai des Bergues, near where the Rhône flowed into the lake. The two had met on a flight from Heathrow to Dubai, Majid flying there to visit his family, Ron going ostensibly to attend a tennis tournament but actually to take a break from his. Majid felt his career was moving too slowly on the bond desk of a Wall Street firm; Ron was looking for something to do that wasn’t in England. Geneva suited them both, Majid for its abundance of people with money, Ron for its comfortable distance from Sussex.

The office furnishings had been purchased by Ron, who had brought capital into the firm from his relatives in England (who had not been grief-stricken to see him move away). He had a degree in business studies from the University of London but generally deferred to Majid’s financial expertise, which made life easier for both of them. Majid might have brought capital from his relatives in the Emirates but asking them would only have given them another chance to ask why he didn’t return home for good. With his Harvard MBA, he might have worked in the central bank or the sovereign wealth fund, and “work” could have meant actual work or anything he wanted. His brother had a position in the state tourism authority to which he diligently devoted about six hours a week, unless he needed those hours to tend to his stable of racing falcons.

Majid didn’t look up from the screen. He only shook his head.

“You’re not overreacting?” said Ron. He had a round face with puffy cheeks. Sometimes he looked twelve.

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Majid said.

Ron looked hard at the screen. Did it say there somewhere that tomorrow wasn’t Friday? No, it said that the German prime minister had come out in opposition to the Italian bailout, which meant the European Central Bank would follow suit, which meant things looked grim for Italy.

“So?” said Ron.

“MIB options expire at 9:05 a.m.”

“MIB? The Italian index?”

Majid nodded.

Ron’s cheeks deflated. He said, tone flat, “You bought calls?”

Majid nodded. Buying calls was a bet that the index would go up. They would be a total loss if the index went down.

“How much did you bet?”

Majid didn’t answer.

Ron corrected himself. “How much did we bet?” Tone no longer flat.

“The bailout was happening.” Majid said. “It was the only logical move. Our returns are under two percent. People could do as well investing in Beanie Babies. We need to show results. We need to get on the map.”

“On the map,” said Ron. “Bloody marvelous. How . . . much . . . did . . . we . . . bet?”