“That’s really not your business, is it, Mister Stavro?” This came not from Majid but from Ron. Stavro turned his head to look at him.

“I suspect I am your major client, Mister . . .” A brief pause, eyes boring in on Ron. “What was your name again?”

Ron announced it proudly. “Mayfield.”

“May Field.” Stavro made it two words, neither of them his favorite. “It seems to me, Mister May Field, that there is an excellent chance that a trail that leads to you leads to me.”

“Well,” said Ron cheerfully. “That’s another reason for us all to call it a day, don’t you think?”

Stavro glared at Ron, then turned back to Majid. “How did this trail come to exist?”

“Our name,” Majid said, “our firm’s name, was accidentally listed on a trading record where it should not have appeared.”

“Accidentally?”

Majid held firm. “Accidentally,” he said again. Not for the first time, Ron admired his partner’s determination and tact. He’d made a good choice going into business with Majid. If only the world hadn’t gone insane.

“It may all be for the best.” This was Ron again. Stavro and Majid turned back to him, Majid thinking, “Stop! Stop!” He couldn’t see a way to grab Ron and drag him out of the office.

“For the best?” said Stavro. “Why would it be for the best?”

“Well, as my partner said, the Bouvier share price shows no sign of dropping. And there’s no reason to think it will. So it looks like this isn’t a winning bet, and . . . oh . . .” As if a thought just struck Ron, a random thought, out of the blue, not unlike an unexpected meteorite. “Did you happen to see, by the way, the news this morning from a town outside Lille?”

“No,” said Stavro. “What news was that?”

Majid had no idea where Ron was going with this, but he knew it couldn’t be anywhere good. “Ron,” he said, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

Ron acted like he didn’t hear the question. He was on script now.

“Three men,” he said, “with terrorist connections were picked up by police there. They’re being held.”

“Such news happens every day,” Stavro said. “We live in an unsettled time.”

“The weird thing,” Ron said, “is there was no obvious reason for them to be in that town. It’s a small place. No military bases, no nightclubs or concert halls or newspapers or tourist sites, you know, the kind of places terrorists usually go after. The only thing that town has, really, is a single industrial installation.”

Please don’t be, Majid thought. Not that.

“A milk processing plant,” Ron said.

Oh no, thought Majid. Oh no oh no oh no . . .

“A big one,” said Ron, and he smiled. “It belongs to Bouvier Lait.”

Why did he have to smile?