Angrily, Nick knelt by Youssef and drew his khanjar. “Here!” he rasped, his eyes dried and inflamed. He looked a hundred years old. “Take my blood and drink it! But don’t shame me. Don’t make me tell my father that I left my brother to die in the sands,” he croaked, the khanjar trembling in his hand.
Youssef nodded weakly, his face a weary mask torn by dry, open sores. With Nick’s help he struggled to his feet and they went on, facing into the rising sun which was destroying them. Arm in arm they staggered through the watery columns of heated air as though wading through boiling water. One way or another, it would be over today, Nick thought.
At first, he sensed another presence in the emptiness. When he finally saw the distant speck he thought it was just another mirage. He decided not to tell Youssef, whom he was half-dragging by now. It would be too cruel a disappointment. Then Youssef nudged him and gestured, his eyes wild and unfocused. They heard a distant “halloo-ing” and waved wildly. Nick tried to shout, but nothing came out of his throat. The rider waved back and spurred his camel with excitement, shouting as he approached. Nick closed his eyes in thanksgiving and sank to the ground.
Braithwaite supported Nick’s head with one hand and held the water skin with the other. Nick sucked greedily at the water. “Like a little n-nipper at the teat,” Braithwaite used to say when he would retell the story.
“Easy, lad, easy,” Braithwaite cautioned.
“How’s Youssef?” Nick asked.
“Fine. Fit as a f-f-fiddle,” Braithwaite laughed. He looked shrewdly at Nick.
“They said you were a westerner,” he said in English. “Imagine that,” he grinned.
“Imagine,” Nick echoed in English.
Braithwaite patted Nick’s head tenderly.
“Time to g-get you home, laddy-buck,” he smiled.
“Home,” Nick said, dazed. “Where’s home?”
Al Aramah
THE HOODED FALCON stirred restlessly on its perch as if dreaming of the sky. Abdul Sa’ad was asleep, his breathing deep and regular. Kelly was wide awake, her eyes staring into the darkness, her hand clenched around the letter-opener, trying to decide what to do.
This time there would be no going back, she thought. But should she kill Abdul Sa’ad and then try to escape, or just flee while she had the chance?
In three days they would assassinate the king and the whole country would erupt. She had to warn someone. She thought of Bandar, his piggy eye roving over her body, and shuddered. She had to get away. But what about Abdul Sa’ad? If she killed him the conspiracy might collapse. And she would have her revenge, she thought grimly.
But what if she missed in the darkness? What if she struck and he cried out? The letter-opener felt slippery in her sweaty palm. This was her last chance, too. He might not send for her again before the assassination.
If only Robert were here. He would know what to do. She longed for his strong arms around her. “What is most important?” she imagined him asking. Doing the job, getting the information out, she decided.
It was awful. The Middle East was about to explode in a flame that could engulf the world and no one knew about it except her. And even if she could get away and tell them—would they believe her?
She couldn’t worry about that now, she thought. Sending the message was more important than anything. That’s what Robert would do, she decided. Besides, every fiber of her being was screaming to escape. Abdul Sa’ad was reprieved, she thought bitterly.
She went over the plan again in her mind. The guard outside Abdul Sa’ad’s door was used to seeing women come and go. So long as Abdul Sa’ad didn’t cry out, he should be no problem. Providing no one saw her in the halls, only the guard by the door to the courtyard stood between her and the Mercedes. He usually fell asleep around 3 a.m. If he was awake, she would have to kill him. Once in the car, nothing would stop her, she vowed.
She had gone over it again and again. At first the thought of the guards and barbed wire and minefields had defeated her. Then the realization had hit her that there was an easy road out. Abdul Sa’ad had built this place as a fortress, not a prison. A fortress is designed to keep people out, not to prevent them from leaving. It would work, she thought. It had to.
Silently she eased away from Abdul Sa’ad and began to stand up. There was a whisper of silk and Abdul Sa’ad shifted position. Her heart pounded wildly and she wondered whether to strike after all. Her arm coiled above his dark form. A soft snore issued from him and she found herself breathing again. Sweat stung her eyes. She picked up her handbag and shoes, pulled her veil down over her head and padded quietly to the door.
She took a deep breath and tried to think of a prayer. The only line that came to mind was “The Lord is my shepherd.” She said it over to herself three times, then opened the door. The guard said nothing as she closed the door behind her. He looked carefully at her, as if wondering what to do. She felt his curious eyes on her as she glided like a ghost down the hall, her bare feet making no sound on the carpeted floors. Sweat prickled her spine as she went down the corridor, half expecting a sudden shout from the guard. But everything was still.
As she approached the corridor leading to the courtyard she took off her veil and unbuttoned her blouse so her breasts could be easily seen. If the guard was awake, the sight of an unveiled attractive woman, her breasts exposed, should distract him so much that she ought to be able to get close enough to strike, she thought. She wiped her palm on her skirt and clenched the opener tightly. Then she peeked around the corner.
The guard was asleep, his back against the doorpost. His legs were sprawled across the doorway, an automatic rifle cradled on his thighs. Kelly bit her lip to keep from crying with relief. Then carefully, one silent step at a time she inched her way to the door until she stood beside him, scarcely daring to breathe. She reached across to the big iron bolt securing the heavy wooden door. As she raised the knob an almost infinitesimal sound of scraping metal froze her blood. The guard slept as if drugged.
With painstaking care, millimeter by millimeter she eased the bolt open, sweat prickling out of every pore. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle, carefully swung the door open, gathered up her skirt and stepped cautiously over the guard.
Once out in the courtyard she sidestepped into the shadows, her back against the stone wall. She took deep gulps of night air. Her clothes were drenched with sweat. She had a terrible urge to run and fought it down somehow.
She waited until she had caught her breath and her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She could distinctly see the black outline of the Mercedes. It was only about fifty yards away and most of that was in deep shadow. High above the courtyard, stars filled the blackness. There were so many of them. She hadn’t known there were so many. It was as if she had never seen stars before.
She got down on all fours and began to cross the courtyard, balanced on her fingers and toes. Lizard-like, she crawled towards the car, one limb at a time. It seemed to take forever. Once she looked up at the stars. They seemed impossibly beautiful, impossibly distant. Like an animal, she looked back down at the ground and pressed on.
When at last she reached up to touch the car handle, she felt as though she had crossed a marathon finish line. The car latch opened with a loud click. Surely someone heard it! Scarcely breathing, she waited for what might have been seconds or minutes, but nothing moved. Her heart throbbed wildly. She was almost free! At last she was in the driver’s seat. She quietly closed the car door. She opened her handbag and began looking for the key she had stolen. Then her heart plummeted to her stomach like a runaway elevator.
It wasn’t there! It was impossible; it had to be there, she told herself. Desperately she rummaged through the bag. Please, please be here, she prayed.
Suddenly the car light clicked on and a harsh male voice said in clumsy English: “Is thees what you looking on?”
She uttered a little cry of despair. It was Bandar! In one hand he dangled the car keys.
“But how
…” she began and then it hit her. The eunuch! Yesterday she had discovered him in her room, looking as if he were searching for something. But the handbag looked as if it hadn’t been touched, so she had ignored it. What an idiot she was!
Bandar’s good eye glinted evilly at her. He seemed delighted with himself. A blind rage erupted in Kelly’s brain. With a savage cry she stabbed at him with the opener.
Bandar reacted as quickly as a snake. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it painfully behind her back. She struggled against him, but it was futile. He held her as easily as he would a child.
His body odor was disgusting, as if something had died and rotted inside his skin. It made her gag. He held her close, one hand fondling her breasts as casually as he might pet a dog. He acted as if she was already his possession.
As Bandar led her back to captivity, she cast a last, longing look at the distant impervious stars. A falling star flared briefly in the darkness and she made a sudden wish of death for Nasir the eunuch.
Riyadh
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT Nasir was visited by an evil zar spirit at Prince Abdul Sa’ad’s Riyadh apartment. Although the fat and womanish eunuch had always considered zars a silly Bedu superstition, from the moment he woke up he had no doubt whatsoever that his visitor was not of this earth. Who else but a demon could have slipped by the guards, one of whom was later found outside his door, his windpipe crushed by a single blow? All Nasir knew was that he had awakened with a khanjar dagger at his throat and a strange apparition seated on his bed. Even though it was summer, the demon was shrouded from head to foot by a black bisht, similar to the cloaks worn by the Mutayr of the Hasa desert. The dark figure stared coldly at him through eyes the color of smoke. Nasir tried to swallow, but his fear was too great.
Without a word, the zar rammed a wad of cloth into Nasir’s mouth. Then he grabbed Nasir’s little finger and bent it backwards till it broke. Nasir screamed into the gag, but only a faint high-pitched squeal could be heard. Sweat poured out of Nasir like a river as an unimaginable pain exploded in his hand. Nasir flopped desperately on the bed like a fish tossed on a dock, but the demon held him down with the strength of ten men. The zar calmly pushed the broken finger back till the fingernail touched Nasir’s wrist and the eunuch almost swallowed the gag in his agony. His eyes bulged out with horror like a frog’s eyes. Perhaps he had died in his sleep and this was hell!
“That was just to get your attention,” the demon said softly.
The demon removed the gag and held the razor-sharp blade edge just underneath Nasir’s nose, gripping the eunuch’s hair with his other hand.
“Tell me what I want to know or I’ll slice it off. After all, a man who’s already lost one nose should want to hang on to his second,” the demon said smiling. It was a cruel joke for the eunuch, alluding to the custom that when a Bedu inadvertently exposed his privates, Arabs would chorus: “Your nose is showing!” to tell him to cover up.
“By the Prophet I will, Master,” the eunuch blubbered, his eyes rolling in their sockets as if weighted in the back like doll’s eyes.
“Where is the assassination to be?” the demon demanded.
“I know nothing, Master,” Nasir wailed. A sudden pain seared his face and he gasped for air as his mouth filled with a warm flush of blood. The khanjar had sliced through his septum. The demon held a picture of the western woman before his eyes. Nasir tried to turn away, but the demon held him fast by his curly hair.
“Hear me, slave. I won’t ask you again. It’s the King’s Camel Race, isn’t it?” the demon rasped. The eunuch’s face collapsed into a fleshy red scowl, like a baby about to cry. The zar began to rotate his broken finger like a wheel.
“Yes, the race! Aiee Allah!” Nasir cried.
“How is it to be done?” the demon demanded.
“Please, no more …” Nasir pleaded.
“Answer! You needn’t betray any confidences. All you have to do is nod. Is it a bomb? Poison? A single rifle …” the demon asked in a soft, almost crooning, voice. He looked at Nasir’s mutilated finger and smiled.
Nasir nodded desperately.
So, the Scorpion thought. A single sniper with a high-powered rifle; the hardest hit to stop. His shoulders gathered as he made a sudden move. The eunuch’s scream was cut off by a strangulating grip, the Scorpion’s thumb jammed deep into his Adam’s apple.
“Who is it to be? A spectator? A guard?”
Sweat poured out of the eunuch like a sprinkler.
“A contestant. The one-eyed man they call Bandar. He’s the one,” Nasir blubbered.
The Scorpion blanched. Was it possible? he wondered. Bandar—his childhood enemy? And yet, ever since he had taken this mission, he had found himself rummaging in the past.
“This Bandar, the one-eyed. Is he Bandar ibn Faraj of the Mutayr?” the Scorpion demanded, in a voice he barely recognized as his own.
The eunuch nodded. “He’s a Mutayri, Master. A dangerous man,” Nasir confided, a desperate dog-like slavishness in his eyes.
The Scorpion’s mind reeled. It was as if the entire world was being drawn into the vortex of a single event. After all these years, his kismet and Bandar’s, drawn at last to a single killing-ground as he had somehow always known it would be.
“Will the prince bring the Yankee woman to the Camel Race?” the Scorpion demanded.
“I am forbidden …” Nasir gasped, unable to go on. The pain shot up his nose into the center of his brain as the demon probed with the khanjar’s point. Nasir felt his mind drowning in the pain.
“She will be in my master’s tent in the royal pavilion,” Nasir gasped.
“Is she unharmed?”
“She is my master’s new favorite,” the eunuch leered. Something about the way he said it bothered the Scorpion.
“What’s he done to her?” the Scorpion demanded.
“Nothing, truly. After she was ‘trained,’ she was willing,” Nasir babbled, alarmed at the icy storm cloud in the demon’s eyes.
“How was she trained?”
“I never touched her. By the Prophet, I swear. We simply kept her in the hut in the courtyard. When she got thirsty enough, she gave in,” he said with a sly grimace that turned to a groan as the Scorpion twisted his broken finger.
“What else?” the Scorpion said.
“It’s nothing, Master. Only harim gossip,” he whimpered. “Who pays attention to women’s babbling?” Nasir tried to shrug it off, man to man.
“Tell me, you camel slime,” the Scorpion growled.
“It is whispered that the prince is so debauched that he can only have pleasure by watching a woman using—devices,” the eunuch said, a snigger in his voice at such a delicious piece of gossip, despite his fear.
“Bastard,” the Scorpion breathed.
“She is only a woman,” Nasir muttered placatingly, then comprehension began to dawn and his bulging eyes grew even wider. “She is of your khamsah,” he whispered in horror. The word khamsah was derived from the number five and defined the five patrilineal generations of a person’s immediate family. A man was bound to blood vengeance for any dishonor committed against any member of his khamsah.
The Scorpion nodded. In a way it was true. After all that Kelly had gone through, he felt as though he had somehow adopted her. He felt a kind of kinship between them that had little to do with them both being Americans. After all, Washington didn’t care about her any more. They had bigger fish to fry. No one cared, except him. There was something special about her. He had seen it in the photograph. The mission was no longer business, he admitted to himself. It had become personal. Very personal.
“Did you ever touch her?” the Scorpion asked quietly.
Nasir nodded, his chin trembling like a child about to cry. Who could lie to such a fearsome demon?
“Only once. She was stubborn so my master ordered me to whip her with a riding crop. But it was only that once,” he blubbered.
The Scorpion made a sudden move and the eunuch’s
body thrashed on the bed with jerky motions, like a puppet gone haywire.
“You also only die once,” the Scorpion said. He stood up and wiped the khanjar on the bedclothes. He had to contact Macready. It was imperative to get the data to Washington.
On the bed, the eunuch gasped his last desperate breaths as the blood gurgled out of his severed throat.
Washington
ALLEN WAS RIGHT. The president was furious at being woken up in the middle of the night for the second time in a week. The chief executive’s face was hard and his jaw set, and the others crowded in the room uneasily glanced away. They were meeting in the Lincoln Sitting Room in the southeast corner of the White House, because Allen had suggested that they avoid showing any lights in the Oval Office, which might alert the press corps. The room was the smallest in the mansion, barely thirteen by sixteen feet. It was furnished like a Victorian sitting room and portraits of President Lincoln and his family hung over the marble fireplace.
This room was the president’s private retreat, his “querencia”, Allen thought, the word recalling his junior year at Yale when he had spent the summer in Spain and had briefly become an afficionado of the bullfights. “My Hemingway period,” Allen used to drily describe it. A querencia was a place in the ring where the bull felt at home. A bull was at his most dangerous in hisquerencia and a good part of the matador’s skill involved keeping the bull away from it, Allen reflected. Indeed, the president, still dressed in his robe and pajamas, reminded Allen of an old hull as he glared at his advisors from the depths of his leather armchair.
“What the hell took you so long to find out about all this?” the president demanded, fixing Page with an angry glance.
“The CRITIC just came in a few minutes ago, Mr. President. It took the Scorpion a couple of days to find out exactly when and where the assassination is planned to take place,” Allen stepped in. He wasn’t about to let the meeting degenerate into recriminations. There’d be plenty of those before this crisis was over, he thought.
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