Efteh WHoom reclined in the back of the stretch limo, gazing sullenly through coal-black eyes that some said held the fires of Satan. He was content -- it was going, going, just as he had foreseen. He stroked his small but perfect goatee, and took another small sip of the Chivas on ice as he watched the buxom barmaid of the Keg 'n' Cork escort some patron to the door. She had her arm over the stranger's shoulder and her head held down to hear what he was saying; Whoom could not make out the stranger's face in the shadowed doorway, but something about the Cincinatti Reds baseball cap seemed vaguely familiar. Suddenly, the stranger reached into a back pocket and took out a small envelope and gently slipped it down the front of Lucky's shirt, with a little effort.

As the stranger turned away and stepped into the sunlight, WHoom suddenly sat up, spilling world-class whisky on his hand-painted silk tie, and pulled the wraparound shades from his face, staring. That beard! Those steely eyes! That portly waistline --- he knew this man!! Flashes of images rose unsummoned from his distant past --- the American gunboat looming out of the night, blinding him with its spotlights, the terror of losing his first really big deal as the sailors ransacked his little caique and threw all his carefully wrapped bundles into the sea... and the steely eyes of the deck officer watching from the gunboat rail...the cold wind of the night and the brutal beating that followed when he returned to Tehran empty handed with his story... this was a face Whoom would never forget...

A guttural whisper escaped through Efteh's clenched teeth, as he raised a vow to Allah, swearing revenge.