That night, Mevlevi had wandered in around two, ragged from working his phones. He chose his usual table and had only just sat down when a slim Asian girl, lacquered pageboy and bursting lips, sauntered over and suggested she join him. He politely declined. As he declined a full-bottomed redhead from Tbilisi and a platinum man-eater from London whose oversize breasts were on display through a mesh blouse. He required not overwhelming beauty, not refined sexuality, but a carnal revelation: raw and primal. An atavistic reincarnation of primordial desire.

It was a tall order, granted.

But he had not been prepared for Lina.

A thumping beat signaled the commencement of the evening's entertainment. The music was near violent in its attack, and despite his normal distaste for American rock 'n' roll, he found himself energized, anxious as to what the song might bring. When Lina walked onto the stage, muscles sinewy, black hair tumbling about her sculpted shoulders, he felt his heart fall into a chasm. She danced with the fury of a caged panther, and when the music demanded that she "walk this way," her responding strut fired a bolt of hormonal lightning through his loins. Watching her remove the leather brassiere that supported her generous breasts, his mouth turned dry as the Gobi. She walked to the end of the runway and lifted her arms above her head, gathering her hair into her hands while swaying her sensuous hips to the music's savage beat. She stared at him longer than appropriate, for even Max had his rules. Her eyes were black, but an untamed light shone within them. And when her gaze fell upon him, he felt as if she were staring into the core of his being. And that she desired him, as he desired her.

A flurry of horns drew Mevlevi back to the present. He moved his car a few meters forward, then stopped. "Be damned," he cursed at the stationary cluster of automobiles. He honked his horn twice and stepped out of his car. Leaving the motor running, he snaked through the traffic toward the hotel. A liveried attendant spotted him and ran down the easy slope onto the main avenue. Mevlevi shoved a hundred-dollar banknote into his hand and told him to keep the car near the entryway.

Beirut. Improvisation in the face of adversity was one's daily chore.

"Max, I thank you so much for letting me join you. And on such short notice. I should be honored."

A spry gray-haired man rose from his chair. He was extremely thin and extremely tan, and wore a silk shirt unbuttoned halfway to his navel. "You're a charmer, Ali. Now I know I'm in big trouble. We have a saying, 'When the lion smiles, even its cubs flee.' Waiter, check!"

Ali Mevlevi and Max Rothstein broke into a healthy laugh.

"You are looking well, Maxie. It's been a while since I saw you in daylight."

Rothstein dabbed at his eyes with a crisp white napkin. "All right for an old kvetch. You look worried. Do you want to get right into it?"

Mevlevi forced a smile. Silently, he recited a homily from the Koran. "Verily, those who show patience will see the Kingdom of Allah." Easier said than done. "I've come to eat with an old friend. Business can wait."

A captain arrived with menus bound in green leather.

"Glasses," ordered Rothstein, his voice raised. A bulky man at an adjacent table leaned over and handed his patron a pair of bifocals.

"The usual?" asked Mevlevi, casually eyeing the muscle assembled at the next table.

"You know me," said Max, smiling. "I'm a man of habit."

The captain returned and took their orders. Mevlevi selected the Dover sole. Rothstein, a half-pound hamburger patty, well done, with a poached egg on top. He had been eating the same vile concoction for lunch and dinner for as long as Mevlevi had known him.

Maxim Andre Rothstein. German in name, Lebanese by upbringing, the rogue was as slippery as a sturgeon on ice. He had ruled over a major part of the gambling and vice in Beirut for as long as Mevlevi could remember. Certainly since well before his own arrival in 1980. Even at the height of the civil war, Max had kept the doors to his club open. No soldier would risk the reprisal of his chieftains should any harm come to Max or his girls. To ensure that such affectionate feelings were long-lived, Max had sent out teams of croupiers to all factions, determined to bring craps, roulette, and baccarat to soldiers on both sides of the Green Line. And, of course, to extract his cut from every wager.

In a time when nearly everyone in Beirut lost not only members of their family but a large part of their material wealth, Max Rothstein grew enormously wealthy. The presence of his well-attired bodyguards attested to the fact that the bastard had felt safer during the war than since its conclusion. And added to Ali Mevlevi's growing insecurity at being alone and unprotected in the center of a city never more than a car bomb away from anarchy.

The two men chatted amiably about the host of problems that still befell Lebanon. Neither offered firm opinions. Both knew it was best for businessmen to express their allegiance to whichever faction was in power. Yesterday, Gemayel. Today, Hariri. Tomorrow… who knew?

A tray of desserts was brought to the table, and both men made their choices. Mevlevi took a chocolate eclair. Rothstein, the tapioca pudding.

Mevlevi took a bite of his eclair and after confessing his delight, lowered his fork and asked Rothstein a question. "Cars or camels, Maxie?"

"Run that by me one more time."

Mevlevi repeated his question. He thought it wise to refer to his problem in metaphorical terms for the time being. That way should Rothstein grow upset, he could extricate himself diplomatically.

Rothstein looked to his table of bodyguards, then eyed the heavens and gave a whimsical shrug. "Cars," he said. "I've never taken to animals. I don't even have a dog."

Rothstein's retinue laughed dutifully. Mevlevi joined in.

"I have a small problem with my car," he began. "Maybe you can help me."

Again the weary shrug. "I'm no mechanic, but go ahead. What are you driving?"

"A beautiful machine. Dark body, clean, sexy lines, and what an engine. I bought it about nine months ago."

Rothstein spread his hands and smiled sagaciously. "I know what model you're talking about."

"Now let's say, Maxie, that I bought this car new."

"Well, there's new and then, there's new. Sometimes new is new, and sometimes new is almost new, and sometimes new is-" Rothstein chuckled and threw up his hands, "well, sometimes new can be pretty old."

"So what if the car that I thought was new was in fact old? Let's say a trade-in. Maybe something you were selling for a friend?"

Concern blossomed on the wrinkled face. "Would I sell you, one of my oldest customers, a used car?"

"Please, Maxie, it is no matter. That is not the issue today."

"You having troubles with this model? Send it back. If it's the one I'm thinking of, I could find another buyer in an instant."

"I never send back what belongs to me. You know this, Maxie. My purchases are always final. What I no longer need, I discard."

Rothstein ladled a spoonful of tapioca pudding into his mouth. Half dribbled onto his bib, half from his chin. He paid the mishap little mind. "Then what is the problem? Is she losing a little horsepower?" He laughed for the benefit of his coterie, and his four thugs joined in.

Mevlevi felt his patience slipping away. He tightened his grip on the hidden corner of tablecloth. "That is of no concern to you. Where did you find this car? The answer is worth more even than the car itself."

A thick envelope was passed across the table. In it was a stack of one hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. Rothstein inserted a thumb and eyed the bills.