“How about the emotion of joy?” said Pleski. “All they have to do is say yes to Plenum’s offer and that entire family walks away rich.”

Dealing with a client like Pleski in a situation like this was part of Catherine’s job, at which she wanted to do well. When the skies were blue, and markets were moving in the right direction, it was easy. But sometimes prices moved the wrong way. Sometimes predictions were wrong. Sometimes there were wars, crop failures, pandemics, or outbreaks of spectacular human stupidity. That was reality, but clients didn’t expect reality. They expected wizardry. But Catherine had to stay nonconfrontational no matter what. She had to be soothing and persuasive. She could even try honesty.

“The family knows that,” Catherine said. “They want to get rich. They’re tired of the struggle to keep their grandfather’s newspapers alive. They’d rather be floating on yachts sipping Mai Tais. There’s only one member who’s holding things up.”

Pleski waited.

“One of the grandsons, Kevin,” Catherine said. “He wants to keep the company and run it himself. He thinks he can turn it around.”

Pleski leaned forward in his chair and scoffed. “Turn around newspapers?”

Good point. Catherine had considered calling the kid herself and telling him he was delusional. But she hadn’t thought that would be productive.

“Whatever his plan is,” she said, “he’s going to pitch it to the rest of the family at the next board meeting.”

“Which is when?”

“A week from today.”

“And how’s it looking? Are mom and dad going to give little Kevin the company to play with?”

“I don’t believe so. That wouldn’t be the smart decision.”

“No shit,” said Pleski. “Next week? You hear anything, any time, you let me know.” He checked his watch, picked up his briefcase.

“I think we’re going to be all right,” Catherine said.

“Damn better be. This play was your pitch.” He stood up, turned, and headed for the glass door in the glass wall.

Rue de Hesse

RUE DE HESSE

The Holborn Bank’s Geneva office is on the Rue de Hesse, just west of the steep cobblestone streets of the old city, in a neighborhood where row after row of stolid granite buildings bear discreet brass nameplates: ROTHSCHILD BANK, ASSET ADVISORS, INVESTMENT CONSULTANTS, PRIVATE BANKING. Parked down the block from the entrance to the Holborn Bank was a black BMW with an Uber placard in its window. The driver was a thirty-eight-year-old man in jeans and a polo shirt. He was not large but he was a lot stronger than he looked. His name was Frank. The man in the back seat was dressed in a dark suit and a colorful (but not too colorful) tie, like a thousand other men in the neighborhood. He looked like a banker who had just gotten into his Uber.