We ordered and made polite small talk until the waiter ceased hovering. The background noise of the street and the café gave us a small cone of privacy. I took a long drink of water and began. “Some of this I have been told and some of it is surmise and some of it is straight fiction. But the tale is true. You with me?” Guelli gave a very European shrug that could have meant anything. It didn’t matter; he was listening. “Serge Biondi sat right here once a month or so, usually in mid-afternoon when the New York markets had just opened. He had to wait for confirmation that funds had been posted to the appropriate accounts. He met with another man—I have no idea who, or even if it was a man. It could have been a woman. It could have been someone different every time. I don’t know. Sometimes he would have a file with him, which he would leave on the table as he left. Other times he would collect one.” Guelli just nodded.
