“I would not presume to tell you, as it is your business, that there are ways an investor can make money if a company has trouble. If its share price goes down.” The accent strong but the language clear, concise, elegant. The Queen’s English that was no longer spoken in England. Majid had heard it before. There had been a Nigerian student at Harvard who’d said he was a tribal prince.

“Of course. One sells short or buys a put option. You think someone made such an investment that profited from this criminal act?”

“I do. And not just I.”

Not just he? Who else? Who else?

“And why have you come to see me about this?” Majid said. The obvious question. Was it too obvious to ask? No, it would be suspicious not to.

“I cannot divulge the sources of our intelligence, of course. But we have sound reason to believe this investment was made in Geneva.”

Majid made a gesture with his hands, opening his palms and pulling them apart. A gesture of volume, the wide, wide world. “There are six hundred and eighteen investment firms in Switzerland.” (Where had he said that before?)

“Geneva,” said the Nigerian. “Not Switzerland. Certainly there are fewer here. Are you aware of anyone who made such an investment in Sahel Hydrocarbon?”

“No,” said Majid. “No, I’m not.”

Okoro’s gaze again, laser point on Majid. But Arabs know how to gaze, too, Majid thought. And how to resist gazes. He looked blandly back at Okoro. “I don’t see how I can help you.”

“Very well,” Okoro said, still staring. “If you hear of anything, if you remember anything, let me know, please. You can reach me at this number.” He handed Majid a business card printed boldly in black and green and red:

EMMANUEL OKORO

DETECTIVE/PEACE AMBASSADOR

THE NIGERIA POLICE

FORCE CRIMINAL INTELLIGENCE & INVESTIGATION DEPT (FCIID)

Three Million Naira

THREE MILLION NAIRA