"Precisely."

A problem. Cash deposits to foreign institutions are not permitted in Lebanon. "To our office in Switzerland, perhaps?"

"To your office at 17 Al Muteeba Street, Beirut."

"I see." The branch manager informs his fastidiously groomed client that he cannot accept a cash deposit. Such an act would put his company's banking license in jeopardy.

"I will be depositing a trifle over twenty million dollars."

"Well, that is a large sum." Kaiser smiles. He clears his throat but stands firm. "Alas, my hands are tied."

The client continues as if he hasn't heard. "The entire amount is in American banknotes. Primarily hundred-dollar bills. I am sorry but you will find some fifties and some twenties. Nothing smaller. I promise."

What a reasonable man, this client, this Mr… Kaiser consults the silver tray that bears the prospective client's carte de visite, this Mr. Ali Mevlevi. No tens. No fives. He is a saint."Should you wish to deposit this amount in Switzerland, I'm sure arrangements could be made. Unfortunately…" The manager motions with his good arm that he appreciates the opportunity but in this instance must let it fly away.

Mr. Mevlevi is undaunted. "Did I mention the fee I am willing to pay for you to accept this deposit? Is four percent adequate?"

Kaiser cannot hide his astonishment. Four percent? Eight hundred thousand dollars. Double his projected profit for the entire operating year! What is he to do? Pack it in his suitcase and transport it to Switzerland himself. The thought crosses his mind, lingering a moment longer than wise. His throat has dried and he requires some water. He forgets to offer a glass to his fabulously wealthy client.

Mevlevi pays the faux pas no heed. "Perhaps you should discuss how you wish to treat the deposit with your superiors. Will you join me this evening for a late supper? Mr. Rothstein, a close friend, manages a charming establishment. Little Maxim's. Do you know it?"

Kaiser smiles graciously. Does he know it? Every man in Beirut short of the hundred-dollar entry fee and the clout to gain admittance knows Little Maxim's. An invitation? The branch manager does not hesitate. The bank would insist he accept. "It would be a pleasure."

"I hope to have a favorable response by then." Mevlevi offers a soft handshake and departs.

Little Maxim's at the height of the Lebanese civil war. A sultry Friday evening. Wolfgang Kaiser is wearing his favorite garment, a tailored silk dinner jacket, its ivory color chosen to offset his burnished skin, suitably darkened by the Levantine sun. A burgundy kerchief flares from his breast pocket. His hair is rich with brilliantine, his mustache impeccably groomed. He waits at the side entrance. His appointment is for ten P.M. He is twelve minutes early. Timeliness outranks godliness on the banker's list of virtues.

At the appointed hour he mounts the stairs. The club is dimly lit, some corners nearly obscure. His eyes swallow a dozen objects at once. The voluptuous blonde on stage twirling quite naked around a ceiling-high silver pole. The hostess walking to greet him whose scant silver tunic covers only one breast. The tuxedoed gentleman drawing deeply from a hookah of gigantic proportions. He stares until a rough hand lands on his shoulder and guides him to a smoky corner of the club. Ali Mevlevi remains seated, gesturing to an unoccupied chair across the table.

"Have you spoken to your colleagues in Zurich? Mr. Gautschi, I believe."

The young branch manager smiles nervously and unbuttons his jacket. Mevlevi is well informed. "Yes, I reached them late this afternoon. I am sorry to say that we cannot help you in this instance. The risk of losing our banking license is simply too great. Believe me, it is painful for us to pass up the opportunity to initiate a business relationship with an eminent businessman such as yourself. Should you, however, wish to deposit your funds in Switzerland, we would be more than happy to assist your banking needs."

Kaiser fears his host's response. He has asked around about Mevlevi. It seems he is involved in all manner of activities, some of them even legitimate: money brokering, real estate, textiles. But rumor suggests his primary means of income derives from the international transport of heroin. In no uncertain terms, he is a dangerous man.

"The money is here!" Mevlevi brings a hand down on the table, upsetting a glass of Scotch. "Not in Switzerland. How am I to take my money to your bank? Do you think your customs officials welcome a Turk from Lebanon with open arms?" He scoffs. "You think we are all members of the Black September. I am an honest businessman. Why do you not wish to help us?"

Kaiser has delivered his canned response. He is at a loss for words. Mevlevi's unflinching gaze tears into him. He fumbles for something to say, and when he speaks his tongue has reacquired the clumsy accent of his country. "We must follow regulations. There are so few alternatives."

"You mean no alternatives. Do you expect me to leave my money with this bunch of thieves?"

Kaiser shakes his head no, confused. It is his first lesson in the topsy-turvy calculus of Middle Eastern business practice.

Mevlevi leans across the table and grabs Kaiser's withered arm. "I can see that you wish to help me."

Kaiser is shocked at the affront to his deformity. But it is his eyes, not his arm, that feel Mevlevi's grasp, and as if hypnotized, he nods yes.

Mevlevi calls for a waiter and orders a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label. The Scotch arrives. He proposes a toast. "To the spirit of enterprise. The world belongs to those who fashion it in their image!"

An hour or two or three later, Kaiser enjoys the attentions of a slim young woman. A waif, he would call her. Long black hair frames a sensuous face. Frail dark eyes flash from under thick lashes. Another drink and the strap of a sequined cocktail dress dangles off a soft but well-muscled shoulder. Her English is impeccable. She asks in a throaty voice for him to move closer. He cannot draw himself away from her probing fingers and her sweet breath. She insists on saying the nastiest things.

Mevlevi is smoking another of his filthy Turkish cigarettes. Black tobacco bombs expelling rivers of blue smoke. His glass is full. Isn't it always?

The raven-haired waif has insisted that Kaiser accompany her to her apartment. Who is he to deny? After all, it is only three blocks from the club, and the grand Mevlevi has given his benediction, a fraternal pat on the back and a sly wink that all would be taken care of at Little Maxim's. The girl asks for a drink and points to the bar. Kaiser splashes liberal helpings of Scotch into two glasses. He knows he has drunk too much but is not sure if he cares. Perhaps recklessness becomes him. She puts the glass to his lips and he takes a sip. She swallows the rest in one fearsome gulp. She staggers and searches the folds of her handbag. Something is awry. An unpleasant cast crosses her features. Suddenly, she is smiling. The problem is resolved. An immaculate pile of white powder sits on the underside of a perfectly manicured fingernail. She sniffs and then offers the like to her evening's companion. He shakes his head, but she insists. He bends forward and sniffs. "The white pony," she giggles and offers him another pile.

The banker from Zurich is growing disoriented. He has never felt such a roar of blood through his veins. The pressure builds in his head, only to be replaced a moment later by relief. His chest tingles. Warmth suffuses his entire body. He wants only to sleep, but a greedy hand rouses him, its kneading grip drawing the heat from his chest to his loins. Through glazed eyes, he sees the lovely woman from Little Maxim's undoing his pants and taking him into her mouth. He has never been harder. His vision blurs and he realizes he has forgotten her name. He opens his eyes to ask. She is before him, her dress peeled down to her waist. Her chest is flat, her nipples too small and pale and surrounded by tufts of black hair. Kaiser sits up, yells for this woman… for this man to stop, but another pair of hands holds him back. He struggles drunkenly, vainly. He neither sees nor feels the needle that enters the prominent blue vein running across the top of his shrunken left hand.