But that was before he had heard Allah’s call and knew that he was the Chosen One. Although, even as the Prophet, he still enjoyed the delights of women, he no longer defiled himself by entering them. Now he preferred to enjoy his garden in solitude.
That was something those Russian kulaks would never understand. They thought to use him, to make him their puppet. But they understood nothing of kismet, of the wave of destiny sweeping across the world under the flowing green banner of Islam. The Arab world was awakening after a sleep of centuries to a new dream.
To be king was nothing. He would be caliph, even sultan! Except for the weapons the West was so good at making, the House of Islam would be purified. Then nothing would resist their armies. What had happened in Iran was nothing. Merely the puff of hot wind which presages the sandstorm yet to come.
As for the Russians, they could be bought with rubles as easily as the West had been corrupted by petrodollars.
He knew it was inevitable that his brother Salim would catch wind of a plot, so he had sent a Palestinian fanatic to assassinate him at a public majlis and then made sure that the Palestinian was caught and killed by his own zealous Royal Army guards. Salim now trusted him more than ever. The king had been reassured enough to indicate that the ceremony would go forward as scheduled.
Only the Scorpion remained as a problem, he mused, stroking his beard. If you want to destroy a scorpion, you don’t chase after him and stick your finger down into his sand burrow. Instead, you lure him to you.
He doubted that the Scorpion would try to attack him here at al Aramah. It would take an army to penetrate the electronic defenses, minefields and guards surrounding what appeared to be a simple desert estate.
No—the Scorpion would undoubtedly try to learn when and where the assassination would really take place and then try to intercept. That was how to bring the Scorpion to him, Abdul Sa’ad decided. And just to make sure of the Scorpion’s appearance, he would set a lure the Scorpion couldn’t resist.
Adbul Sa’ad clapped his hands twice sharply. In response, Nasir the eunuch suddenly materialized beneath the arching cypresses at the gateway to the garden.
“Summon Commander Bandar. Then bring Saria,” Abdul Sa’ad ordered.
The eunuch bowed and waddled hurriedly away. Abdul Sa’ad drew a frosted silver goblet from a cooler and sipped iced Sehha water. He had not forgotten Bandar’s gasp when the Scorpion’s name was first mentioned, or the fact that both Bandar and the Scorpion were of the Mutayr tribe.
According to the report from Moscow, the Scorpion had suddenly left Arabia in 1962. That was the same year that Bandar had joined the Royal Army. Something had clearly happened, but whatever it was had gone unnoticed in the general turbulence within Arabia that year.
The only hint of what had happened came from a curious remark in the CIA files dating from the Scorpion’s initiation into that organization. In response to a question as to why he left Arabia, the Scorpion had replied, “Because of a woman whom neither I nor my opponent really wanted.”
The statement had the ironic ring of truth about it. Abdul Sa’ad sensed a blood feud. His excitement grew. What made it even more delicious was that in addition to years of western military training, Bandar had been secretly trained by the KGB to a level of near perfection in the arts of killing. He had been chosen to represent Arabia in the shooting competition at the Moscow Olympics before the Arab League boycott over Afghanistan.
Abdul Sa’ad felt a sudden prickling at the back of his neck and looked up to see Bandar standing right next to him. By Allah, the man was quick, Abdul Sa’ad thought. He hadn’t seen or heard a thing and the man was suddenly there.
Abdul Sa’ad motioned Bandar down to talk. Bandar squatted Bedu-style in a single fluid motion. His body was leathery and spare, yet capable of enormous strength. Abdul Sa’ad studied his face. Bandar had a milk-white cataract in one eye. There were those who said he had the “evil eye.” He had a scar on his cheek. Not for the first time, Abdul Sa’ad wondered how he came by it.
Bandar stared back insolently with his good eye. With his curved fleshless beak of a nose and fierce look, Bandar reminded Abdul Sa’ad of a hunting falcon. But he is my falcon, Abdul Sa’ad told himself.
Unlike the rigidity of western tactics conditioned by such games as chess, Abdul Sa’ad preferred backgammon. His plans were fluid to accommodate an unexpected element like the Scorpion. In a way, it might even improve his plan, he mused.
“I have a new assignment for you on ‘the Day,’” Abdul Sa’ad said.
Bandar’s good eye began to glitter dangerously.
When you have a pure-bred hunting falcon, you must never allow him to think he is untethered, even for an instant, Abdul Sa’ad reminded himself.
“Am I a Hteymi that you dare look at me that way?” Abdul Sa’ad snapped. He stared Bandar down, allowing a moment for Bandar to remember who he truly was.
Bandar’s eye blinked. He looked away.
“You are the Mahdi, the Chosen of Allah,” Bandar mumbled hoarsely.
First the rod, then the reward, Abdul Sa’ad thought. He petted Bandar’s head as he would a faithful dog and smiled.
“Ya habibi, I think you’ll like this,” Abdul Sa’ad began. Just then the eunuch came waddling in, his chest puffed out with self-importance. Four paces behind him came a demurely veiled Kelly. Not even the heavy veil and robe could disguise the lithe grace of her movements. She stood before them, her head bowed as modesty required.
“It seems an American agent with the colorful name of ‘the Scorpion’ has been sent to rescue you,” Abdul Sa’ad said in English and was rewarded by seeing a spark of hope flare in her eyes, only to be immediately extinguished as she realized that if Abdul Sa’ad already knew about it, any rescue was doomed to fail.
“I believe you may know this Scorpion,” Abdul Sa’ad said to Bandar.
Bandar’s good eye narrowed slightly as if over a gun sight. He nodded.
“Behold the lure for my Scorpion-trap,” Abdul Sa’ad said, gesturing languidly at the woman. Even behind the veil and robe he could sense her stiffening.
“If I kill him, sire, what is my reward?” Bandar uttered coarsely, never taking his good eye from the woman.
“Name it,” Abdul Sa’ad said, smiling as he plucked a handful of almonds and dates from a silver bowl.
Bandar’s good eye wandered over the veiled outline of Kelly’s breasts and hips. A shiver rippled through her shrouded body.
“Give me the woman,” Bandar muttered, his voice dry and cracked.
Abdul Sa’ad’s eyes flashed angrily. Were there no bounds to the man’s insolence? Still, what price a kingdom? he thought. By the time he gave Bandar his toy, the one-eyed snake would be expendable. Besides, a brief spell as Bandar’s slave would no doubt make the Americani woman more appreciative of him when he reclaimed her. Then too, she needed a lesson. With her pathetic female cunning, she thought to lull him; but he knew her spirit remained rebellious.
“She’s yours—after the Scorpion is dead,” Abdul Sa’ad said.
Bandar bowed and touched the tip of Abdul Sa’ad’s nose with his lips. He had chosen well, Abdul Sa’ad thought. Yes, Bandar would kill the Scorpion. And he would smile as he did it.
But Abdul Sa’ad had to be sure there really was a blood feud between them.
“Now, tell me what happened in 1962,” Abdul Sa’ad said, leaning back on a silk cushion to listen.
Arabia, 1962
YOUSSEF WAS HEARTBROKEN. He had fallen deeply in love with Aisha, the daughter of Safooq. A bright happy twig of a child, who used to run and play as ably as any boy, she had become the prettiest girl in the tribe. Nicknamed “the Swallow” for her spritely grace and her sparkling dark eyes, at fourteen she was a beautiful woman ready to marry. Safooq was besieged by offers for her, but Youssef and Aisha had eyes only for each other. Both Sheikh Zaid and Safooq favored the match and a bride price was agreed upon, but the marriage could not take place be
cause Bandar refused his consent.
Aisha was Bandar’s bint ’amm, his father’s brother’s daughter. According to the ’urf law of the desert, as Aisha’s first cousin, Bandar had the exclusive right of preference to her hand. This tradition is so strong, that the very term “bint ’ammi” means “my wife” in Arabia. Bandar wanted Aisha for himself, but she despised him and according to the Moslem sharia law, she could not be forced into marriage. Things were at an impasse and the entire tribe was in an uproar over the affair. Everyone took sides. But despite all the efforts and entreaties of Sheikh Zaid, Safooq and even his own father, Faraj, Bandar remained unmoved. If he could not have Aisha, then no one could.
Night after night, Youssef and Aisha would secretly meet to dream and plan, but it was hopeless. Although many in the tribe despised him, Bandar’s hatred seemed to feed and grow on the spite he felt. “Aisha will marry me or die an old maid,” he had declared.
Youssef became so desperate he even talked of elopement, but Nick dissuaded him. If they eloped, Aisha would be considered merely a concubine, a dishonor that might force her to commit suicide and would certainly compel Safooq to blood vengeance. Nick convinced Youssef to try to reason with Bandar one more time. They agreed to pool everything they owned to make an enormous gift to Bandar. With Sheikh Zaid’s help, they managed to put together a million riyals, a fabulous sum for a woman.
That Zaid had such a sum at his disposal was a reflection of the enormous changes which had come to the Mutayr because of the oil wealth. No longer nomads, they now lived in concrete houses near the pipeline pumping station on the outskirts of Hofuf. Although the royal family kept most of the petrodollars, enough trickled down to the desert sheikhs so there was no lack of money. Everyone had become car and gadget crazy, although since there was no one to fix them, as soon as they broke they were thrown away and the land behind their houses became covered in enormous junk piles. The towns were full of foreigners—Palestinians, Iraqis, Egyptians, Yemenis, Pakistanis and even western Giaours with fair hair and blue eyes that everyone knew were the sign of the evil eye.
As a result of his once-despised western origins, Nick’s stature had grown enormously as well. He alone knew what to make of these strange dhimmis and their clever gadgets. When Sheikh Zaid first moved into his house, he kept dates and fruits in his toilet bowl because he could not imagine any other use for such an incredible object. Laughing, Nick explained its real function and Zaid turned away, embarrassed. “What a bizarre use for precious water,” Zaid muttered into his beard.
Nick had become a strong and resourceful youth and he was acknowledged as a leader among the young men. Mounted on Fidda, his splendid white mugathir camel, he had led the Mutayr on a ghazwa against the Saar raiders, killing two of them with his own hand. He had well-learned the harsh law of the desert: “Mercy is for women and children; for men, weakness is death.”
On the way back, his natural talent for warfare led him to bypass the wadi they would normally have passed through, thereby avoiding a retaliatory Saar ambush. When they returned, the Mutayr honored him with a lavish feast and Sheikh Zaid called him “a true son.” His reputation was beginning to precede him, like a shadow when the sun is low. The legend of “the Scorpion” was becoming known among the tribes of the Najd and the Hasa. Only Bandar remained his enemy.
Together with his brother Youssef and Sheikh Zaid, Nick went into the desert with Faraj and Bandar. Ostensibly, they were going on a falcon hunt, but everyone knew that their real purpose was to try one last time to convince Bandar to release Aisha.
At their first camp Youssef, unable to restrain himself any longer, stood meekly before Bandar, his head bowed, and humbly begged Bandar to accept his gift of a million riyals. In the sight of his brothers and Allah he swore eternal honor and friendship. Sheikh Zaid and the Scorpion promised that Bandar would be honored in the tribe. Youssef pledged that he and Aisha would name their first son after Bandar.
To all this Bandar listened in silence, lounging insolently, his elbows on his knees. Then he smiled, his good eye gleaming, his teeth shining under the sparse black moustache he had recently grown.
“Tatahattim! You cringe like a Hutaymi!” Bandar sneered.
Youssef’s head snapped back as if he had been struck. His eyes burned into Bandar as he stood there rigidly, trying to control his anger. Then all at once he broke. With an anguished cry he grabbed a handful of gold coins from the sack he had brought with him as a down payment and flung them into the sand at Bandar’s feet.
They all sprang up, appalled. It was a terrible insult.
Bandar’s face burned. His good eye rolled in its socket. He looked insane. With a savage growl he leaped upon Youssef, pummeling him to the ground. Zaid and Faraj were stunned. For one Bedu to strike another was an inconceivable sin.
Suddenly the Scorpion was between Bandar and the fallen Youssef. His riding crop slashed at Bandar’s face, ripping his cheek open. Bandar staggered back, his hand pressed against the bleeding gash. Howling like a wolf, Bandar tore his khanjar dagger from his sheath and advanced upon the Scorpion. Nick’s khanjar was already in his hand.
“Enough!” Zaid cried, leaping between them. For an endless moment they held their positions, like figures in an ancient tableau.
“No more!” Zaid cried hoarsely. “Or there will be a blood feud that will tear this tribe apart.”
“Kafir dog, this is not over,” Bandar hissed, sheathing his khanjar.
The Scorpion smiled. It was not a pretty smile.
That night it was decided to send Bandar to the Royal Army. It was hoped that the discipline he would learn there would teach him how to behave. It was also necessary to separate him from Zaid’s sons. As for Aisha, nothing could be done. She too would be sent away—to a girl’s school in Riyadh.
“Bandar has turned out like some fancy rifle, all fine inlay and gleaming stock, but which proves not to shoot straight and true,” Sheikh Zaid declared sadly. They sat on the rug in a circle, sipping coffee served by Iffat from the old coffee pot. The electric lamps gave off a smoky yellow light. Insects beat against the window screens like rain.
“How could you have struck your cousin?” Zaid asked Nick at last. For a moment the veiled woman, grown immensely fat, glanced compassionately at the young man, then she waddled discreetly out of the room. Nick glanced after her. She was growing old, he told himself sadly.
“You know the saying: ‘I and my cousins against the world, I and my brothers against my cousins, I against my brothers.’ How could I not? Youssef is my brother,” Nick replied in a quiet voice.
Zaid nodded, deeply troubled. “This anarchy has infected all of Arabia. Such people will destroy the world,” he said, and they knew he was speaking about more than Bandar. A savage dispute was raging in the ulama as to whether King Saud should be deposed and replaced by Prince Faisal.
After some discussion, they decided to send Nick and Youssef on a mission to the Awazim and Rualla tribes, so that all of the noble northern tribes would be in agreement over whom to support for king.
“It is best to send you two away for awhile. Then too, it may be your last chance to cross the Nefud by camel. The old ways are dying. Soon they will pave the sands with kafir roads and the Bedu will cross the desert in Tooyooti trucks from Yapan,” Zaid said with some bitterness.
“Is there no way to swallow the western machines without choking?” Youssef asked, his voice desperate. The attempt to straddle two divergent cultures was splitting them apart in ways they could not understand.
Zaid gently tapped his son’s knee. He knew the boy’s heart had been shattered by the loss of the woman. But wasn’t their whole world being ripped apart? The little Scorpion more than any of them, he thought. Time and again he had seen the young man torn by some memory of his childhood, jogged by an encounter with something western. But what could they do? Oil had brought the entire world to their hearth.
“When a houbara is struck by a falcon and lies dying in t
he sand, you can see the colors of its feathers fade and dull. The beauty is gone. But if you don’t kill and eat the bird, how are you to live?” Zaid asked.
Riyadh
SNAKE-LIKE, THE MUSCLES of the dancer’s belly began to ripple down from her ribcage to the gold-tasseled skirt which barely clung to her quivering pelvis. As the sinuous rhythm of the tambor drum increased, her hips began to move in a graceful simulation of coitus. Sweat glistened on her skin as she thrust her soft young body against her invisible lover. Suddenly, she stamped her bare feet and stood stock-still in the center of the spotlight. The darkness around her was alive, filled with eyes and the sound of breathing.
With a little cry, she began to whip her head back and forth, sending her long black hair flying. She stretched her arms to embrace the smoky light. As the drum went wild, she stiffened and every muscle in her lower body began to tremble in a paroxysm of desire. In a crescendo of drums she thrust her pelvis in a savage series of shudders and groans, then head bowed she sank to the floor, utterly spent.
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.
Scorpion Page 17
