Meanwhile, by doing nothing, Majid maintained Stavro’s short position in Bouvier Lait. The stock didn’t dip, but it had stopped climbing. He had no further instructions, and no news was good news. Feeling better, he finally invited Catherine to dinner, and Catherine, feeling better, accepted. Autumn was full upon Geneva, the days crisp and blindingly bright, the mountains hanging awesome above the shimmering lake. Restaurants displayed notices that “La chasse est arrivée.” Majid didn’t especially like venison, but he gladly went with the local culture, one in which terrorism and murder felt remote. The meat was beautifully served, of course, and tough and tasteless, of course, despite the valiant effort of a heavy sauce to compensate. Catherine wisely went with the trout. She seemed more relaxed than he had seen her recently, in fact more relaxed than he had ever seen her. After dinner, they went back to her apartment, and the sex was enthusiastic. His feelings for her came back whole, and her kisses and embraces after sex gave him encouragement that she had never given him before. Arriving at work the next morning, Majid walked by the door to Ron’s empty office with only a small shudder. And this too shall pass, right, right? Majid was looking out his window at the sunshine on the lake when a visitor arrived. He was a tall man with dark skin, a shaved head, narrow nose, and a penetrating gaze. His khaki sport jacket was clearly off the rack, but that didn’t rule him out as a potential client. Some Africans, even wealthy ones, had their own standards of dress. Majid introduced himself and shook the man’s hand and asked what he could do for him. His visitor took an appraising look around the room, then returned his gaze to Majid. “I am Emmanuel Okoro with the Nigeria Police Force, here to investigate some investments made in an oil company operating in my country. I was hoping you and I could have a chat.”

Ice Cream

ICE CREAM

As usual, Mohammed wanted to meet Frank at an ice cream place. Frank supposed he hadn’t had access to a lot of hot fudge sundaes growing up in Yemen. And France, which had taken him in as a refugee, gave him a food allowance but not enough for treats. His favorite was the one on the Place du Molard but that was crowded (and expensive), so Frank tried to steer him to a smaller shop behind the gare routière. Where Mohammed was now enjoying butter pecan ice cream with caramel sauce, paid for by the United States government, while Frank was saying, “You were supposed to be recording the meeting. Why didn’t you record?”

“The watch broke,” Mohammed said. “It’s not my fault.”

“So we’ll give you another one.”