The crowd went wild. Showers of bank notes were tossed onto the dance floor. The woman jumped up and began scrambling after the money. Then she went up to each table to allow the men to stuff more money down the front of her skirt and bodice.

In all the commotion, no one paid attention to the slim, elegantly dressed westerner in a blue Cardin suit who made his way to a dark corner table. Macready stopped sipping his kakmar-eldin long enough to push a plate towards his guest.

“Try the mezza. It’s not bad,” he offered.

“I see Fatima’s in rare form tonight,” the Scorpion said, sitting down. He selected a piece of sogo and popped it into his mouth.

Macready looked carefully around the restaurant, then leaned forward to light a cigarette from the candle on the table.

“I have four men outside, just in case,” he said out of the corner of his mouth. The Scorpion thought he had seen one trench-coated B movie too many.

“I saw them. So would anyone,” the Scorpion shrugged. Macready might well have used skyrockets to announce the rendezvous, he thought irritably.

“We don’t want another Doha. You made a lot of noise. It wasn’t easy hushing it up,” Macready said, scooping up a mound of techina with a piece of pita bread. A drop of techina landed on his jacket lapel. For a moment he stared at it as if a visitor’s dog had just left an unwelcome offering on his best rug.

“Well, at least they didn’t use embassy cars this time,” the Scorpion said, hoping Macready would stop pushing it. When this was over, he swore never to work with the bastard again.

“Why here? I don’t like it. Too public,” Macready said, looking uneasily around the restaurant.

The crowd was exclusively male. Although most wore western clothes they sat on cushions at tables that were giant brass trays set low under the arched ceiling. Goat-skin hangings along the walls gave a tent-like intimacy to the dark room, lit by electric candles which added to the atmosphere of a Beduin encampment. Ceiling fans churned slowly through clouds of expensive cigar and cigarette smoke. A small Egyptian orchestra sawed monotonously away at an endless ballad which somehow managed to combine Arabic quarter tones with an occasional melodic foray into Be-bop-a-lula-she’s-my-baby. All around them, whispered conversations at darkened tables underscored the music.