"Thank you, Mr. Neumann. Be sure these funds are transferred by the end of your business day. I am not tolerant of errors."

The Pasha rang off.

Nick replaced the receiver in its cradle. He was on his own now, and a stern voice reminded him that was how he liked it. The decision was his. The clock above Sprecher's desk read 15:06. He moved the transfer of funds form closer, noting the time of the order, then began filling out the necessary details. In the upper left-hand corner, he inscribed the six-digit and two-letter account number. Below it, in a rectangular space requesting the client's name, he wrote "N.A.," not available. Under "wire instructions," he penned "matrix six (per client instructions), see screen CC21B." And in the box marked "value," he wrote a forty-seven followed by six zeros. Two boxes remained to be filled in: "validity date"- when the instructions should be executed- and "initials of responsible employee." He wrote his three-letter employee identification in one box. He left the other box empty.

Nick rolled his chair back from his desk, slid open the top drawer, and laid the transfer of funds form at the far back corner. He had settled on a course of action.

For the next two hours, he busied himself checking and double-checking numbered accounts 220.000 AA through 230.999 ZZ for all bonds due to mature in the next thirty days. At 5:30, he refolded the last of the portfolios and stacked them in the cabinet behind him. He collected the remaining papers on his desk and arranged them in some logical order before placing them in the second drawer. All confidential documents were filed away and locked under key for the night. His desk was spotless. Armin Schweitzer rejoiced in patrolling the offices after hours, scouring the deserted building for stray papers carelessly left unfiled or unprotected. Offending parties were sure to catch hell the next morning.

Just prior to leaving the office, Nick opened his top drawer and withdrew the transfer of funds sheet bearing the Pasha's account number and wire instructions. He guided his pen to the single box yet to be filled in, that for validity date, and scribbled the next day's date. His scrawl was unreadable so as to ensure a delay of two to three hours before Pietro in Payments Traffic telephoned for clarification. Given the usual Friday logjam, the transfer would never be made before Monday morning. Satisfied, he walked down the hallway to the department's mail nook and picked up an intrabank envelope. He addressed it to Zahlungs Verkehr Ausland, International Payments Traffic, then slipped the sheet inside and carefully secured the figure-eight clasp. He took a last look at the envelope, then dropped it into the cotton gunnysack that held the bank's internal mail.

It was done.

Having willfully disobeyed the clearest instructions of his superiors and defied the orders of a major Western law-enforcement agency to protect a man he had never met and uphold a policy he did not believe in, Nick extinguished the Hothouse's nagging lights, certain that he had taken his first step toward the dark heart of the bank and the secrets that lay behind his father's death.

Ali Mevlevi never tired of watching the sun set over the Mediterranean Sea. In summer, he would take his place in one of the rattan chairs set upon the veranda and let his thoughts drift out across the shimmering water as he kept careful watch of the fiery orb's descent. In winter, on evenings such as this, he had but a few minutes to enjoy the passing of day through dusk and into night. Looking out over the westernmost edge of the Arab Middle East, he followed the sun as it sank deeper into a nest of billowy clouds huddled close to the horizon. A breeze skittered across the terrace and in its wake spread hints of eucalyptus and cedar.

Through the darkening haze, Mevlevi could make out the slums, the skyscrapers, the factories, and the freeways of a city bordering the sea, five miles to the southwest. Few neighborhoods were without damage, none fully rebuilt- this, years after the real fighting had ended. He smiled while trying to count the trails of smoke drifting into the evening sky. It was his way of measuring the city's slow return to civilization. As long as her residents cooked their suppers over an open fire, squatting in the ruins of bombed-out side streets, he would feel safe and at ease. He stopped counting at fourteen, hampered by the failing light. Yesterday evening, he had spotted twenty-four separate plumes. If ever he were to count fewer than ten, he would have to consider finding a new home.

The Pearl of the Levant was still besieged. Make no mistake. Taking the place of mortars and gunfire were incompetence and lethargy. Water was spotty and power available only six hours a day. Three militias patrolled the streets, and two mayors governed her people. And for this the people crowed like proud parents that their city was reborn. A measure of congratulations he would grant them. Since the billionaire had purchased the reins of power, the country had shifted into first gear. The Hotel St. Georges had reopened her doors. A freeway linking the Christian east and Muslim west sides of the city was practically complete. Flights from major European cities had resumed. And the city's favorite restaurants prospered.

Enterprises of a sufficient scale were not averse to providing the prime minister and his cronies an advisory fee of five percent of their revenues to ensure continued prosperity. When the prime minister briefly resigned, and the currency tumbled, it was rumored that only a mild increase in royalty- to seven percent- had secured his return to office. The P.M. was not a greedy man.

Beirut. She was the world's whore and he loved her.

Mevlevi held his breath and watched as the sun gave a final bow between a parted curtain of orange cloud and disappeared for the night. The sea grew frothy with the heat of the falling star, but he knew this to be an illusion played on his aging eyes by sunlight, water, and distance. The sun, the sea, and the stars: nothing else inspired in him such awe and majesty. Perhaps in a former life, he had been a mariner, a companion to the greatest of Islamic adventurers, Ibn Batutah. In this life, though, another destiny was promised him. As the agent of the Prophet, he would lead the resurgence of his people and give back to them what was rightfully theirs.

This he knew in his heart.

Later, Ali Mevlevi sat behind his wooden desk studying a map of southern Lebanon and Israel. The map was only a month old, yet it was soft with wear, its creases gray from countless foldings. His eyes found Beirut and the hills where his own compound stood northeast of the city, then moved south across the border. He studied a dozen landmarks, cities and towns, before affixing his eyes to a small dot in the occupied territory of the West Bank. Ariel. A settlement of fifteen thousand Orthodox Jews. Squatters on land that did not belong to them. The town had been built out of the desert. Its nearest neighbor was ten miles in any direction. He opened his desk and found a slim compass. He centered the compass on the settlement, then drew a small circle one inch in diameter around it. "Ariel," he pronounced grimly, then shook his head. He had decided.

Mevlevi folded the map carefully and placed it in his desk. He lifted the telephone and dialed a two-digit extension. A moment later, he said softly,"Joseph, come immediately to my study. Bring the traitor and my pistol. And summon Lina. It would be a shame to waste such an instructive event."

The sharp cadence of a military footstep sounded from afar and grew nearer.

Mevlevi rose from his desk and walked to the entrance to his study. "And so, my friend," he announced loudly enough to be heard across the great hall. "Come now. I am anxious for news of the day."