Aziz lived not quite at the top of the hill and not quite where the driver first thought he did, either. But we found it; a rambling modern split-level affair dug back into the raw rock hillside, and a drive-way jammed with big cars glistening in the warm orange light flooding from a dozen thinly-curtained big windows. But outside, there was a sudden sharp chill to the air. We'd climbed less than 2,000 feet, but that included the difference between the hot, cramped streets and an open hillside facing the sea. You should be here in summer to get the real contrast.

Eleanor and Mitzi were shivering slightly, but still looking out over the spread-out lights of Beirut below. It's funny how, down there, you never seem overlooked by the hills, but up here you seem to be staring straight down the city's cleavage.

Ken came back from bargaining with the driver and said briskly: 'Any city looks beautiful from up high at night. Let's get in where the booze is free.'

Eleanor murmured: 'I bet he writes fairy stories in his spare time, too,' but she followed.

It was a big room, with a higher ceiling than you'd expect in that shape of house, bright and white-walled and not looking full with over thirty people standing around sipping and chattering. As we came in at the top of a small flight of steps, most turned to look at us.

I'd known Ken and I wouldn't be contending for the best-dressed award, but I'd put off thinking about it. Now we stood out like two witches at the Princess's christening. Almost everybody else – they were mostly men anyway – was in a neat city suit and crisp white shirt. The exceptions were a character in the gold-embroidered white robes of the Yemen and a cove who'd had his length of blue pinstripe cut into a normal jacket and a calf-length skirt; arab head-dress and sandals, of course. I'd seen the mixture before but it still gets me.

The door-opener in the white jacket was still wondering if we'd come to collect the garbage when our host bustled through the crowd with hand outstretched.

'You must be Mademoiselle Braunhof- Spohr, of course. And Mademoiselle Travis. Eleanor Travis of the Met? You don't know me but I've heard of you. And also…? ' He looked at Ken and me and held the smile with an effort.

He was shortish, with a comfortable round body in a dark blue-green silk suit and a surprisingly bony square face. It was as if forty-five years – I guessed – of good living had all sunk into his belly and left his chin and cheeks untouched. His hair was thin and dark, shading to pure white over his ears.

Ken said: 'Case and Cavitt. We fly aeroplanes. We brought the ladies to Beirut and they brought us up here. I hope we're not intruding.'

'Of course not, messieurs, naturally not. All friends of Ma'm-zelle Spohr… You must have a drink…' Another white jacket materialised at his elbow with a tray. 'Champagne or gin and tonic for the ladies. And for the gentlemen…?'

'Scotch,' Ken said. 'I never know where I am with champagne.'

Aziz didn't get it, thank God, but smiled briefly and turned to Mitzi. 'And how is your dear father? Did he send you to see me?'

It wasn't long and it wasn't quiet, but it felt like a long silence to me. Eleanor stiffened, Ken froze, Mitzi's eyes sparkled darkly. She said calmly: 'My father died last night.'

It took a moment to sink into Aziz, and then, oddly, his first reaction was anger. He snapped his head from side to side. 'Why was I not told this? It must have been reported?' Then he recovered and turned back to Mitzi, taking her elbow protectively. 'But my dear, this is most terrible. You must sit down, tell me what happened…' And he led her out through an arched doorway filled with a bead curtain.

Ken sipped and frowned. 'That boy's got class. Of a sort.' He grinned at Eleanor. 'And Miss Travis of the Met, I presume?'

She smiled automatically and rather artificially. 'Yes. If he knows the Met's staff that well… he's no little grave-robber. You can see that anyway.' She nodded at the wall beside us.

It was long and plain white – most Beirut houses go in for more decor – and packed with alcoves, each holding some antiquity: a Greek vase, a curved sword, an amphora on a metalt stand, a green-crusted bronze helmet.

'They mostly aren't mediaeval so I can't tell, but they look pretty valuable pieces. I don't know…' she frowned and her voice trailed off.

The conversation around us had got buzzing again, together with some appraising glances at Eleanor. She might not know it, but her blonde Nordic good looks put her up with the Swissfranc as hard currency in Beirut. I planned on sticking by her; alone, I'd be ignored. Ken seemed to have the same idea.

A couple of minutes later we had a discussion group of a man from a pipeline company, a manager of an Italian bank branch, somebody to do with hotel management and a vulture in blue spectacles who said he was the Minister of this or that.

'I'm afraid I didn't quite gather what our host does,' I said to the hotel management, who was staring past me at Eleanor's chest.

'Some of everything,' he said without shifting his eyes. 'But the main family business is arranging and leasing concessions, you understand?"

'No.'

He glanced at me, a little impatiently since he'd rather be talking to Eleanor's cleavage. 'If you want to make Coca-Cola in the Yemen or build a Hilton in Aden, he will do the arrangements. Hilton know he will pick only good men to finance it, and the financiers know he will get good terms from Hilton. Then he puts in a little Aziz money for good faith and takes out a lot as his fee. Very simple.'

I nodded. 'All you need is to be a big man in a big family with a reputation going back five generations.'

He smiled briefly and maybe sourly. "That is all.'

'I heard they were opening a Castle hotel out here…'

This time his grin was quite genuine and satisfied. 'That is gone; busted. Pierre was not involved in that; he is not a fool. The English end let them down, and my poor friends who put money in do not know what to do. They were buying the name Castle and now it means failure.'

If his poor friends had fallen into the pool of the sacred crocodile he might have been happier, but only might.

I tried to make the next question sound vague and disinterested. 'Was a man called Uthman Jehangir involved in that?'

He looked at me sharply. 'Jehangir? Do you know him?'

'Met him in Cyprus once. He mentioned the Castle.'

He shook his head. 'He is not big enough. He is a sportsman – no, you would say playboy. A gambler. Perhaps they asked him to run the opening night party, to bring a film star. He knows such people. But he would not put money in a long-term affair, even if they let him.'

I nodded and said: 'Uh-huh,' as if that finished Jehangir for me, too. And, nice man that I am, I gave my friend his reward: 'Eleanor, have you met Mr umm errr from the hotel business?'

On the edge of the crowd I found a waiter with a tray and prised another Scotch out of him and then stood there admiring the vast antique chandelier that didn't really fit with the modern teak or white furniture. But in Beirut you have to have one; it's as much a status symbol as a Rolls-Royce is to a pop singer. It was nice to know that even after five generations of success you don't get immune to it.

Ken drifted up beside me…'Met anybody who knows God personally?'

'Not unless He's in the hotel business.'

He jerked his head at the archway. They're taking their time in-' But just then Mitzi and Aziz appeared. She looked pale, big-eyed and serious; Aziz just serious. He saw us, came over, and said in a low voice: 'Messieurs – if you could kindly help us…'

'Eleanor too?' Ken asked.