The Scorpion wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve. Even with good luck, it was going to be close.
He made one last check. The traffic on the Corniche was stop and go. Dodging pedestrians played chicken with honking cars at intersections. The street cafés were beginning to fill and the pavement swarmed with the flotsam of a dozen nations, drawn by the smell of money to Qatar like flies to a corpse. The Scorpion hoped they would all add to the confusion at the right moment.
“Suppose you’re wrong. Suppose it’s me they’re really after?” Macready demanded petulantly.
“Then I’ll apologize—afterwards.”
“By then I’ll be dead. It’ll be too late,” Macready pouted. He really was a little prick, the Scorpion thought.
“Apologies always are,” the Scorpion replied.
Come on, come on, he thought, the wheel slippery in his hands from sweat. Just then the candy-striped van’s brake lights went off. As the van lurched forward with a jerk, the Scorpion made his move.
The Chevy leaped forward in a sideways curve as he slued the wheel to the left while stepping on the accelerator as though he wanted to put it through the floorboard. He sandwiched into a gap in the oncoming lane, then swerved back into line ahead of the Citroen, smashing its wing as he angled across its front. As he had anticipated, the panicked old Qatari driver jammed on the brake and froze, giving him the precious inches he needed to cross the lane. Horn blaring, tires screaming, he swerved broadside to the one-way side street feeding cars into the Corniche traffic. Bracing hard, he deliberately allowed the Chevy to smash sideways into the front of a truck filled with frizzy-haired Baluchi laborers. Metal grating and ripping, the Scorpion then rammed almost head-on into a pink Cadillac filled with Qatari women, their eyes bulging wide behind their veils.
“Go!” the Scorpion shouted as he pulled the key out of the ignition and flung himself out of the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Macready jump out of the other side and run with a fat man’s bouncing gait up the one-way street, now jammed with traffic completely corked by the accident. He looked back for the BMW as he watched Macready turn the corner and disappear. The Arabs had abandoned the BMW. He felt a sense of grim satisfaction that he had been right, they were coming after him, not Macready.
A symphony of noise exploded as angry Arabs pounded on their horns, cursing and calling upon Allah. The Scorpion headed up the one-way street, his spine tensed for the bullet that might come any second. He started towards the pavement, then hesitated for an instant. The narrow walks were jammed with bystanders swarming towards the accident. Instead, he began to weave in and out of the blocked cars, jumping over wings and locked bumpers. He risked a backward glance over his shoulder. They were still coming. He had to get off the street. Then he spotted the entrance to a small department store.
Just before he dodged through the crowd into the store, the Scorpion spotted the Arabs from the BMW shouldering their way through the crowd in a serious way. They were good, making way without raising too many eyebrows, he thought. They would try to bracket him. Get him to an isolated killing-ground, where hunter and prey would play the oldest game on earth.
At least they hadn’t brought the AK-47 because it was too conspicuous, he thought, waiting until he was sure they spotted him before he entered the store.
After the street the store was an oasis of quiet. The coolness of the air conditioning was like a caress. The store had just reopened after the midday siesta and there were only a few customers, mostly women veiled in black from head to toe, flitting among the racks like dark ghosts. Except for the signs in Arabic and that indelible scent of the Gulf made of mud and decay, he might have been in a suburban shopping mall anywhere.
It was difficult to force himself to walk not run as he made his way through the men’s clothing area. Time was short. The Arabs from the BMW would be in the store any second. He had to change the image, he thought, his eyes running urgently along the endless racks of overpriced suits.
Seeing a black-veiled woman chatting with a salesgirl near the opening of the partitioned women’s clothing area gave him an idea. It was the element of surprise he needed, because it was the one thing no Arab would ever think of. He was debating whether to try it when he saw the outside door begin to open, and before the two Arabs came in he was on his hands and toes, crawling crab-like between the racks of clothes towards the women’s partition.
If only they didn’t come this way first, the Scorpion thought, sweat streaming down his face. He crouched by the partition, hesitating. Now luck was everything, because if anyone spotted him on the women’s side, they would raise an outcry that would wake the dead.
The sound of a carpeted footstep on the other side of the rack he was crouching behind froze his blood. Without thinking, he slipped silently behind the women’s partition. The footsteps had stopped and he could visualize the Arab standing there, listening.
He cautiously peered over the top of a rack of women’s black full-length veils. A fat woman shopper in western dress was heading right towards him. Fortunately she hadn’t seen him yet. In desperation the Scorpion grabbed one of the veils marked Extra Large and threw it over his head. He cautiously straightened up. The veil covered him from head to the bottom of his trousers. Because of his height he would have to walk with his knees bent, but only his man’s sandals might give him away.
He began to walk openly down the aisle, counting on the notion of a man in a woman’s veil being too outlandish for Arabs to even consider. But his security was as flimsy as the veil itself, he knew. He had to get something to cut down the odds, something quieter than a Walther automatic. What made it harder wasn’t just that there were two of them, but that he needed to get one of them alive. They only had to kill him.
He headed for the kitchenware section and began to examine the kitchen knives. A salesgirl started to come over. The Scorpion turned away, his heart pounding. He faced a display of plates with a French country pattern, no doubt mass-produced in Korean sweatshops. The salesgirl was still heading towards him. She looked at him oddly, as if trying to make up her mind about something. He was sure she had spotted something wrong. He had to do something.
“What is that on your face? Is it lipstick or blood?” the Scorpion said in a falsetto voice.
The salesgirl looked at him wide-eyed, as if he was from Mars.
“What’s the matter with your face? Quick, go find a mirror,” the Scorpion whispered intently, pointing at her face.
A look of horror came over the girl’s face. She scuttled away to find a mirror. No one could have resisted a ploy like that, the Scorpion thought, going back to the kitchen knives. It took only a second to slip a heavy-bladed butcher knife under his veil. Now the prey becomes the hunter, he thought, heading towards the appliances section.
One of the Arabs from the BMW was standing next to a refrigerator in the home appliances section, his hand around a bulge in his jacket pocket. He began to walk towards the Scorpion, who backed modestly out of his way, as a well-bred Arab woman should. The Scorpion stared blankly at a microwave oven with enough dials to fly a space shuttle, his back prickling with sweat. The Arab walked right by him as if he wasn’t there. Fortunately for him, women were truly invisible in Arabia, the Scorpion thought, hesitating as he tried to decide whether to take the Arab out or save him for information.
In theory, as Harold Gallagher used to say in Nam, when you have two subjects to question, you intimidate the weaker by making an example of the stronger. Harold invented the technique which became the most widely used by the Special Forces. They would take VC suspects up in a chopper. When they reached an altitude of about 8000 feet, they would question the toughest suspect at gunpoint. If he didn’t talk, they’d throw him out without a parachute. It was important to wait till he had fallen all the way, so that the full impact would register before you questioned the next one, Gallagher told him.
Except that the other Arab wasn’t in sight and the Scorpion
had no idea which of them was tougher. But this one’s back was towards the Scorpion and he had to cut down the odds. Before the Arab took another step, the Scorpion struck.
He grabbed the Arab’s mouth with his left hand to prevent a cry as he thrust through his veil with his right. The knife slid into the man’s back with only a fraction of resistance as the knife glanced off a rib. He felt the Arab’s body stiffen and shudder. Although he thought he had pierced the heart, to be sure he sawed with a savage wrench between the sixth and seventh thoracic vertebrae, cutting the spinal cord, as the body slid silently to the floor. The Scorpion wiped the blood off the knife onto the Arab’s trousers and hid it back under the veil. He left the body in the aisle. If it caused a commotion, so much the better, so long as he found the second Arab before the police arrived.
The second Arab was a tall thin man with hollow sunken cheeks and a Hitler moustache. He looked like a Hteymi tribesman to the Scorpion. The Arab stalked the aisles of the television section, a Magnum .385 in his hand.
Behind the Arab a bank of television screens all showed the same image, like a pop-art painting. It was an ancient rerun of an American western about a rancher and his sons. It was still popular with the Arabs who liked the close-knit family feeling and the fact that the cowboys lived in a womanless world. The Scorpion had an odd surreal vision as he watched a hundred images of a tiny cowboy stalk someone on a dusty western street while the Hteymi stalked him in an almost identical pose.
The Hteymi came closer. The Scorpion could smell the sweat and fear, although he wasn’t sure whether it was coming from the Arab or himself. The Hteymi stared dangerously at him. He had spotted something! Maybe the Scorpion’s feet. Or blood. Something. The Scorpion had to distract him for an instant.
“Ihtaris! Your friend—over there!” the Scorpion cried out in a falsetto screech which might have come from one of the hags in Macbeth. He pointed towards the refrigerators. But it wasn’t going to work. The Hteymi just grinned evilly and aimed the gun at the Scorpion’s head. The gaps between the Hteymi’s teeth made him look demented. That ugly face would be the last thing he would ever see, the Scorpion thought despairingly.
Just then a cry came from the refrigerator section.
“Alnagda! Otlob al Police!”
Someone must have discovered the body, the Scorpion thought. The gun in the Hteymi’s hand wavered for an instant as he glanced in the direction of the cry. It was all the Scorpion needed.
He slashed with the knife in a wide sweeping curve from under the veil. The blade hit the Arab’s wrist, slicing through the veins and tendons to the bone. The Hteymi screamed as the Scorpion grabbed the man’s now useless gun hand. The Hteymi’s wrist was gushing blood like a faucet. His other hand was around the Scorpion’s throat, his fingers digging deep into the Scorpion’s neck.
The Scorpion kicked at the inside of the Hteymi’s knee, taking them both down. He continued to saw viciously at the Hteymi’s hand as they struggled. The Hteymi hung on like a wild animal. The Scorpion was almost out of air. He began to see spots and lights before his eyes. Losing it, he thought desperately.
Suddenly, everything came loose. A hard elbow to the Hteymi’s solar plexus slackened the grip on his throat and he was able to put the knife to the Hteymi’s throat. He didn’t have to worry about the gun. The Hteymi’s hand had been completely severed. It lay on the floor like a dead crab, the fingers frozen around the gun.
The Scorpion pried the gun from the still-warm fingers and pointed it at the Hteymi, who stood up slowly, cradling his severed wrist in his good hand. The wrist rhythmically spurted blood like an uncapped oil pump. The Hteymi’s eyes were insane.
The Scorpion ripped off his bloodied veil and prodded the Hteymi with the knife in his other hand.
“Quickly. The men’s toilet!” he said, motioning with the gun.
“My hand, my hand …” the Hteymi began to blubber.
“Hurry! You still have lots of parts I can cut off,” the Scorpion snapped harshly, gesturing at the Hteymi’s privates with the bloody knife. The Hteymi glanced around desperately.
“There’s no help. Your friend is dead. Move!” the Scorpion snarled, jabbing lightly below the belt with the knife. The Hteymi stumbled down the aisle, the Scorpion’s arm around him, knife at his throat.
They pushed their way into the men’s toilet. It stank of urine and cheap tobacco and musk cologne. The only light came from a small open window near the ceiling. A Baluchi janitor was at the mirror, poking at his bushy hair with a comb. When he saw the two men covered with blood he called upon Allah. When he saw the gun, his jaw dropped open and he scuttled out of the door. The Scorpion locked the door and savagely shoved the Hteymi into a stall. The Baluchi was probably too frightened to tell the police, but time was running out, the Scorpion knew. He had to move fast. And he hadn’t forgotten all the innocent people killed by the Hteymi back at the Juice Bar.
The Scorpion’s icy gray eyes stared at the trembling Hteymi. With an almost casual backhand, he pistol-whipped the Hteymi across the face, smashing the Hteymi’s nose and knocking him back against the wall. Before the stunned Hteymi could recover his balance, the Scorpion cut open the man’s belt and trousers. The Hteymi stood there in his underwear, his trousers around his ankles, his wrist spraying blood over them both. His eyes were utterly terrified.
The Scorpion stuck the gun into his pocket and with two quick knife strokes sliced off the Hteymi’s briefs and wadded them into the Hteymi’s mouth. The Hteymi tried to grab the Scorpion’s knife with his good hand. The Scorpion reacted instantly, grabbing the Hteymi’s privates and squeezing with all his strength. The Hteymi’s eyes bulged out as a muffled scream echoed in the stall. The Scorpion placed the edge of the blade against the base of the Hteymi’s scrotum.
“Tell me the truth or they’re gone. Understand?” the Scorpion demanded, hoping it would work. The police would be barging in any second.
The Hteymi nodded fearfully, whimpering like a child. The Scorpion removed the gag. Sweat poured off the Hteymi as if he were standing in a shower.
“The king is the target, isn’t he?” the Scorpion began.
“How did …” the Hteymi began, then forced himself to stop.
The Scorpion smiled. He had the confirmation for Macready.
“Does Prince Abdul Sa’ad have the Yankee woman?” he asked.
“Please … my hand,” the man blubbered. The whimper changed to a scream as the Scorpion squeezed again.
“Yes, yes …” the Hteymi cried.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. No, really,” he screamed again, in a panicky voice. “But it is whispered that the Prince has her in his country house in the desert,” the Hteymi babbled. His eyes began to roll as the shock and loss of blood began to hit him. The Scorpion shook him like a terrier with a mouse.
“How is the king to be killed?”
“I don’t know. I swear to Allah,” the Hteymi said. He cried out again as he felt the edge of the blade against his scrotum. “Please, they don’t tell me such things. They say only that it must be public—a demonstration!”
“Of course. For all the Shiites and Hteymis and all the downtrodden to see,” the Scorpion smiled.
“Yes and soon, very soon, Master,” the Hteymi blubbered, his eyes dog-like and eager to please.
“Where and when is this great liberation supposed to take place?” the Scorpion demanded.
He saw fear and a fleeting cunning come into the Hteymi’s eyes. Incredible as it was to believe, the man was even more afraid of Abdul Sa’ad than of him. The Scorpion began to get a very bad feeling about Prince Abdul Sa’ad.
“Where?” the Scorpion snarled, putting the bloody knife to the Hteymi’s throat.
That was a mistake. The Hteymi suddenly arched his head back and then thrust himself forward, impaling himself on the blade. He sank down on the toilet, blood gurgling out of his torn throat.
Outside, the Scorpion could hear voice
s. Someone cried “Police!” and the sounds came closer. The only way out was through that small window, he thought. He seemed to remember that it was open when he came in. There was no time left for anything else. They were at the door.
The Scorpion leaped up, grabbing at the top of the partition. He pulled himself up and balanced for a second on top like a tightrope walker. The window was near the ceiling and about five feet away. It was going to be a very tight fit. Just then, the door burst open.
The Scorpion leaped headlong at the opening. A shot spattered the plaster just below him as he grabbed hold of the sill and squirmed through the window, propelling himself forward with the thrust of the jump. He looked down at a garbage-strewn alley about ten feet below. He felt something catch his trouser leg. A splinter or a bullet, he thought, jerking his leg away as if stung and diving headlong into the alleyway. As he fell, he went into a tuck position. He landed with an incredible jar at the base of his spine, rolling head over heels in the dirty trash.
He didn’t know whether he was hurt or not. All he knew was that he had to get the data to Washington. He had caught a glimpse of the enemy.
Prince Abdul Sa’ad was so dangerous, men would rather kill themselves than betray him. And he had the girl.
Somehow he got to his feet and began to run.
Washington
THE CRITIC FROM MACREADY arrived in the Situation Room in the basement of the East-Wing of the White House at two in the morning. The message was handed to William Page, the Director of Central Intelligence, by Linda Hunnicut, a spectacular redhead whose most prominent assets, Vice-President Larkin once declared, “jutted out like the front of a ’59 Pontiac.” She was the object of a universal lust and normally one of the men seated around the table, cluttered with coffee cups and a box of doughnuts, would have bantered with her. But this night, the five men sat silently until she closed the door behind her. The tension in the room was so palpable it could have been packaged and sold in drug stores as a diet pill.
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