Aziz looked over to where she was under siege and smiled faintly. 'No, I think she seems busy enough. And – as yet – this does not concern the Met.'

He led the way back through the arch.

The husk of the house may have looked sharp and modern, but inside it had the thick cool walls, the stone floors and heavy doors of the traditional Middle East. We turned left at the end of the corridor and almost immediately through another arched doorway into a smaller, lower-ceilinged room.

If you wanted to pick it apart, it was an odd mixture of east and west: pottery jars turned into shaded lamps, embroidered leather cushions scattered over solid, square-cut Scandinavian furniture, Afghan rugs on the floor, a leather-topped antique French desk in a corner. But there was nothing self-conscious about it; the man himself was this mixture. So is Beirut, but not usually in such good taste.

He waved us to sit down, and I parked my glass on a hammered brass table top. Mitzi sat upright on the edge of her chair and said: 'He won't give me the sword.'

Aziz sighed gently and perched his wide backside on the corner of his desk. 'I have been trying to explain to Ma'mzelle Braunhof -Spohr that, until this evening, I had not heard of this sword. I did not know it existed until I saw this.'

'This' was a small sheet of paper covered in handwriting. Ken got up, took it, read aloud:'Das Schwert das wir in der Gruft…' I looked over his shoulder and saw it was a piece of St George's Hotel paper.

So our Mitzi hadn't taken any chances. She'd copied it out and put the original…? Without the Prof's signature the paper was worthless, but Aziz would recognise the description as real.

Ken handed it back, his face quite calm. 'So?'

Aziz said: 'You were a friend of Professor Spohr?'

'We shared a cell in Beit Oren.'

Aziz smiled. 'Some of the best friendships of this century are formed in prison. However… did he talk to you of this sword?'

Ken shook his head. 'You don't talk about things like that in jail.'

'I understand. So now you are helping Ma'mzelle to track down… her inheritance, one might say.'

Mitzi burst out: 'My father found that sword! It is his… memorial! '

'Unhappily,' Aziz said gently, 'he found it with my money.'

Ken had his head cocked on one side, as if he was trying to identify a distant sound. Or idea, maybe. 'Say again, please. I didn't quite follow.'

Aziz opened a cedarwood box on the desk and took out a long thin cigar, then remembered his manners and gestured the box to us. I shook my head, but dug out a pipe and started filling it. He struck a match, then looked at Mitzi. 'If Ma'mzelle does not mind…?' He lit the cigar.

'An archaeological dig is, you must understand, a slow affair and therefore expensive. At times, one digs with a spoon, not a spade. And all the time, one must live, one must have assistance – these things cost money.'

'My father was not poor! ' Mitzi snapped.

'You must know best, Ma'mzelle, but… he lived well., And a dig is also a speculation. Naturally no man wishes to sink all his capital into an affair that may have no return at all. So he treats it as a business matter and – one might say – issues shares.'

'You mean,' I said, 'the Israeli government let him dig there on money coming from the Lebanon?'

'Oh no.' He smiled. 'No, it was from a foundation in America. I have quite forgotten what name I invented… Birch… Birch-wood… Birchbark… it does not matter. Most digs are backed by foundations, universities, museums, even governments.'

Ken said: 'And they all want a return on their money, too?'

'Not so much in the same way – but Professor Spohr was finding it a little difficult to get governments and museums to back him, by then.'

I glanced at Mitzi but she didn't seem insulted. Not happy, just not insulted.

There was a time of silence while everybody else thought and I lit my pipe. The smoke drifted away on a gentle current of air from a hidden air-conditioner. The only windows in the room seemed to be just above head level on the wall behind the desk, behind a length of heavy curtain.

Then Aziz got off the desk and waddled over and opened a wall cupboard full of bottles. 'Please help yourself, messieurs. Ma'mzelle?' And Mitzi held out her glass to be refilled.

Ken said thoughtfully: 'Bruno didn't contact you after he got out of Beit Oren?'

'No. I was a little sad, but I thought I would give him time.'

I'd expected Ken to follow that up, but he just said: 'Well, that seems to be that. You don't have the sword – that's it.'

Aziz said quickly but quietly: 'But no, not quite. You will understand – as a return on my investment, I want the original of the document.' And he held up the piece of St George's paper.

'You see?' Mitzi said bitterly. 'He must have the sword already.'

'No, no, no. That document itself is worthless until you have found the sword. Butthen – it ensures that I share in the profit. That must be fair, no?'

It sounded like it – assuming you believed the man, of course. I looked at Ken to see how he was taking it, and he was frowning uncertainly. – Then he said: 'But that cuts out Mitzi completely if you find the sword yourself.'

'I am hardly likely to, am I?' Aziz spread his neat pudgy hands. 'But I will also promise that she shares in the profit in any case. Half and half.'

We all looked at Mitzi, still sitting rigidly upright. She said:'Scheisse.'

Azizstiffened where it hit him, then sighed and picked up the desk phone and said a few words.

Ken looked at me and I stayed slumped in the low chair. I had a good idea of what was coming and no idea at all of what to do about it.

It came in about twenty seconds. The heavy door jerked open and a man the shape and size of a concrete gatepost walked slowly in. He had dark emotionless eyes in a square jowly face, sleeked-back dark hair and a greasy grey suit that bulged where it touched him, which was most places.

'This is Pietro,' Aziz said, almost apologetically. Then he told Pietro something in Arabic and Pietro took out a fat stubby revolver and just held it, not pointing anywhere special.

Still with a hint of apology, Aziz said:'Pietro is going to search you.'

Pietrodid. First Ken, then I stood up for it. He did it efficiently, knowing what he was looking for. He passed all my papers to Aziz, now behind his desk, who just glanced through the documents about the Queen Air and its cargo and then stacked them neatly.

Our shoes, too. I was careful not to catch Ken's eye, partly because I didn't want to see what he was feeling, but mostly because I hadn't any bright ideas to pass on and I didn't want him to think I had.

Then Pietro turned to Mitzi.

She stood up with the slow, quivering stiffness of any angry kitten. 'If you make that… that creature touch me, I will scream until-'

I said: 'Look, love, women have screamed before in this house and it hasn't done any good. Just relax;'

'Please, Mr… er, Case,' this time Aziz looked really hurt. 'This is just a matter of business.'

So Pietro searched her, just as efficiently, running his fingers down here, squeezing there, feeling for the crackle of paper. It was about as sexless as being kissed by an alligator, but I don't suppose she enjoyed it any more.

When Pietro stood back, Aziz – who'd been searching her handbag – sighed again and said: 'I expected nothing, but… one has to be sure. Now please, everybody sit down.'

So we sat while he dialled an outside number on the phone, then started giving what sounded like orders. I thought I heard the name 'St. George'.