Rafe sipped his coffee and looked out his living room window, which, in the Swiss custom (or was it a law?), was large and matched by an identical window on the opposite wall, insuring natural flow-through ventilation. In the evenings, on the street below, Rafe could see streetwalkers. He lived in the Paquis, between the train station and the lake, which was considered unsavory (although, in almost any other city in the world, it would be considered upscale, even deluxe). Looking at the street in the bright morning light, he recalled a prostitute with dyed orange hair he had seen last night, and that made him think of sex, and women, and Catherine. And then sex again. And then sex with Catherine. She was so tightly wrapped, and she came undone so completely. The contrast so strong that being with her had been like being with two women. (“But I only had to buy one dinner.” Thank you, Groucho.)

When he’d seen her with Majid just before her purse was snatched, their conversation had seemed intense. He hadn’t seen Catherine smile. (But when had Majid ever been witty?) If their relationship was fraught, there might be reason to hope that Catherine would reconsider her attitude toward him. Although, she had accused him of stalking her. He’d had his story ready, and it was even true—he had come to see Majid. If only he hadn’t been hiding in the doorway of a fucking cosmetics store.

And that led him back to Majid again. Catherine led to Majid. A possible terrorist explosion in Africa led (maybe) to Majid. Rafe finished his coffee and decided he would go see Majid. About Catherine or terrorism? He considered the question, then decided he didn’t need to decide. He would just go and have a conversation. Something might become clear.

Did Majid work Saturday mornings? Well, he’d find out. It was a pleasant walk anyway, along the lake and then the river, at least until he reached the President Wilson Hotel, where he was nearly bowled over by a rampaging group of German high school students on a field trip, their teachers strolling ahead, oblivious. The sun was warm, but wind was up on the lake, blowing frosty from the permanent snow on the mountains it skimmed on its way to Geneva. Rafe walked by the scene of the purse snatching, the bench where Catherine and Majid had been sitting, the cosmetics boutique. He paused to look in the window. What was all that stuff? Did Catherine shop in a place like that? She always smelled like fresh spring flowers. It had to be a scent, but it did not smell like any perfume Rafe had ever encountered. Did that mean it wasn’t perfume, or was it a perfume so expensive that it didn’t smell like perfume?

Let the CIA figure that one out.