“The thing is,” she said calmly, “is you were there to see your friend because we’re investigating your friend’s possible connection to a terrorist organization.”

“Which if they knew, or suspected”—this was Frank again—“might lead them to look at us.”

“For what?” said Rafe. “Investigating terrorism?”

“Investigating terrorism by breaking into the office of someone we suspected of helping to finance it,” Sykes said.

“And killing Mayfield when we got there?” This was veering into very strange territory.

“Cops can get crazy ideas,” said Frank.

“I didn’t tell them anything to make them suspect me, or us,” Rafe said. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Good to know,” said Sykes. “New topic: did your friend Majid ever mention the name Stavro to you?”

Rafe paused. That name . . . Stavro . . . “No. I don’t think so. No.”

“You don’t think so, or he didn’t?”

“He didn’t. Why? Who’s Stavro?”

“A client. A client that Mister Mayfield was interested in when he died.”

That’s right, Rafe thought. He knew that. When he had averted his eyes from Mayfield’s body to the papers on the desk . . .

“The papers on Mayfield’s desk,” he said, “they were about someone named Stavro.”

“Were they?” said Sykes.

“You knew that. You just said.”

Sykes shrugged. “We only know that someone named Stavro was a person of interest to Mister Mayfield and therefore to us.”

“Possible Homeboy,” said Frank, cheerfully.

What the fuck was he so happy about? Rafe thought. The cartoonish image of homicidal Homeboy was melting away. He asked Sykes, “How do you know what was on his desk?”

“The Swiss police. We have relationships.”

“It just happened,” Rafe said. “I just came from there. The Swiss police are still arriving.”

Sykes and Frank exchanged a look. Unprofessional, Rafe thought, his new intelligence officer skills suddenly on full alert. He didn’t know why. He only knew that he caught that look and saw something in it that he wished he hadn’t. If only he were back in Connecticut tearing apart companies and destroying employees’ lives.

But not literally.

“You said we had ways,” he said.

“What?” said Sykes.

“When we talked about Sterling Wealth Management the other day. You said we had ways to see its books.”

Sykes looked at him, expressionless, saying nothing. The fucking red balloons in the picture on the wall behind her.

Rafe said, “I assumed that meant spy cameras, tapping lines, electronic intelligence.”

“Correct,” Sykes said.

“But you know what was on his desk when he was killed.”

Rafe stopped. He could have gotten up and walked out right then. Out of the embassy. Out of this job.

He didn’t.

“Was it us?” he said. “Was it a break-in gone bad? Our break-in?”

Sykes said nothing.

Frank spoke from his chair against the wall. “Nobody would have expected him to be in the office late on a weekend night.”