Clarisse said, “I wouldn’t discuss the Picasso. You don’t know who you are dealing with.”

A coarse deep voice said, “And who is he dealing with?” The voice belonged to Dominique. He was remarkably large and plum-brown. I could see the Algerian in his cold dark eyes and a vein pulsed in the center of his forehead. He wore a double-breasted, pinstripe suit and a headset around his neck. With him was a handsome young Arab with an intelligent face and rimless glasses. Clarisse rose and said, “A man as stubborn as an ox, that’s who.”