They had already passed the television platform at the halfway mark and the gap between him and Bandar was widening. Worse, he had lost his whip. He had to do something, or the king was certain to die. And Kelly too, a small voice whispered inside him.
Holding the reins in his teeth to keep Basbusa heading straight, the Scorpion tore at the fringed leather cartridge belt around his waist. Freeing it, he grabbed the reins with his left hand and veered Basbusa towards the sideline, cutting across the path of an onrushing Harb rider, his eyes wide with fear.
The Scorpion slashed at Basbusa’s flanks as hard as he could with the cartridge belt. Hitting her again and again, as he shouted “Al an, now, my beauty, my she-bitch,” into the camel’s ear and urged her into a flat-out gallop.
It was like dropping off a cliff, so sudden was Basbusa’s acceleration. She crossed just in front of the Harb’s camel, her tail in its face, as she shot obliquely towards the sideline, then at a touch from the Scorpion, galloped after Bandar who was flying well ahead. She was moving very fast, overtaking one camel after another.
The roar of the nearby crowd, almost near enough to touch, was in his ear as they thundered after Bandar, who had overtaken the leaders and had broken into the clear with no one in front of him. He was still a good eighty meters ahead and moving strongly, holding the pace with only a mile to go. Basbusa was bleeding where the Scorpion had whipped her and her mouth foamed green with slime. Her breath was beginning to labor, but the Scorpion sensed that she still had those reserves he had saved for her.
“Al an, now,” he called again to her and she thundered ahead, almost wild, her ears flat against her head. He was only sixty meters behind now, but his way was blocked by two Najd camels running neck-and-neck. They were too close together to slip between and he would lose too much ground if he tried to go around them. Worse, the finish line was fast approaching, perhaps only a quarter-mile away.
He saw Bandar reach behind him and unsling his musket. The onlookers would no doubt assume that it was to fire a victory volley, but the Scorpion knew that there were only seconds left. But he couldn’t shoot through the two riders blocking him. And it was still too far a shot.
There was only one chance left. It was a long shot at best and he would have barely a millisecond to aim from such a position. It would require going flat out with Bandar, plus incredible riding skill and balance. In the instant in time when he realized this he expressed none of it with words, only saying, “Inside and up,” to himself. That and the knowledge that ready or not, this was his moment and it would never come again.
He slashed once, viciously, at Basbusa with the cartridge belt, then flung it away as he steered her next to the sideline rope, almost running over a guard as he jostled against the near camel, barely slipping through on the inside. The noise of the crowd was like a windstorm as he dropped the reins and let Basbusa run wild and free.
The camel extended her neck almost parallel to the ground and thundered forward, inching ahead of the two riders beside him. He could see Bandar clearly now. He was only forty meters ahead and approaching the finish line. He was just starting to swing the musket into the firing position against his shoulder. There were shrieks and gasps from the crowd, but it was all happening too quickly for anyone to react. Others screamed wildly as they saw the Scorpion suddenly stand almost fully erect atop the charging Basbusa and snap his own musket into firing position.
He had the sensation of falling even as he stood, but he knew it didn’t matter because there was only that millisecond and he couldn’t hear the crowd, or feel the camel pounding beneath him, or see anything beyond the sight at the end of his gun barrel moving towards Bandar. And then it was like looking down a dark tunnel at a distant shape silhouetted against the light, as the sight on the front of the ancient barrel came to rest lightly as a butterfly on Bandar’s back and the Scorpion discovered that he had squeezed the trigger before he had realized it.
For what seemed like minutes, but must have been a second or two at most, Bandar aimed directly at the king as he swept by the finish line, then he seemed to throw his rifle forward, as if he had been violently shoved from behind. As the Scorpion threw his own musket away and slid back down to a squatting position, Bandar started to tilt sideways. Reaching forward alongside Basbusa’s neck to grab back the rein, the Scorpion watched Bandar topple to the ground, his arms flung wide as if to catch at something. As Bandar hit the ground, Basbusa’s giant foot came slamming down on his face, crushing it. But Bandar was beyond screaming.
The Scorpion spotted a gap in the rope barrier just past the reviewing stand and swerved Basbusa into it, barely missing Royal Guards who dived out of the way at the last second. The Scorpion bent low as Basbusa raced through the royal compound, a few wild shots ringing out behind him.
But it had all happened too quickly for them to react, he told himself, as he headed for Abdul Sa’ad’s tent and Kelly. He struggled with the holster at the small of his back as he slalomed between the tents. Women screamed and figures raced back and forth without registering on him. Ahead, he could see only the black-and-white tent. In front of it the eunuch stood brandishing the sword in shaking hands.
The Scorpion managed to free the pistol just as Basbusa came pounding up to the tent. As he started to aim, the eunuch shrieked and dropped the sword. He fled behind a nearby tent, screaming.
The Scorpion knew he had only seconds before half of Arabia was on him. He leaped from the camel and yanked at the tent flap, but it was fastened shut. As he picked up the eunuch’s sword, he heard screaming and gunshots and the sound of a helicopter from the direction of the royal reviewing stand.
Something had gone wrong. Very wrong. But he had no time to find out what had happened. He had to get Kelly now. It was the only chance either of them would ever have. With a single sword-slash, he cut an opening in the side and stepped into the cool dark interior of the tent.
The tent was completely empty except for a single female figure veiled from head to foot and seated on a chair in the center. She was so perfectly still that she had to be either bound and gagged or asleep, he thought. He refused to even think of the possibility that she might be dead.
As he ran to free her, he heard odd sounds from outside, muffled by the tent fabric. Something very strange had happened, but all he could think about now was Kelly. He placed his hand on her shoulder and ripped the veil from her face.
He staggered back in shock, unable to believe his eyes. Because it wasn’t Kelly, but a department-store mannikin tied the chair. Its face was white as marble, the painted eyes at once doll-like and sinister.
He barely had time to react or even realize what a fool he had been when the sound of a gun being cocked caused him to whirl around.
Standing only a few feet away was Bandar, his good eye glittering like dark ice. He was very much alive and he had an AK-47 pointed straight at the Scorpion’s chest. As did a dozen more of Abdul Sa’ad’s soldiers stationed all around the tent.
The Ruins of Dariyyah
“ALL THAT B-B-BRAVERY w-wasted. How s-silly, dear b-boy,” Braithwaite said, fondly patting the Scorpion’s knee.
They were in a silver-gray Mercedes limousine racing down an untrafficked single-lane road. The Scorpion’s hands and feet were tightly tied with nylon flex. He sat in the middle of the back seat, wedged between Braithwaite on one side and an unsmiling Shiite on the other. The Shiite kept a Walther automatic jammed into the Scorpion’s ribs. Facing the Scorpion on one of the jump seats was Bandar, lovingly caressing an AK-47 pointed at the Scorpion’s chest.
The Scorpion would have recognized Bandar anywhere, even after all these years. Bandar’s bad eye was white as a statue’s; it had no iris, no center. His moustache was ragged and he needed a shave. He would always need a shave. His lower lip had a hungry droop to it, as if he had swallowed something dark and squashy. He looked at the Scorpion with a kind of triumphant hatred. If a spider had a face, it would have an expression like Banda
r’s as it prepared to devour a fly.
The others in the limo weren’t that pretty either. One of Abdul Sa’ad’s soldiers, a man with an ugly harelip, sat next to the driver, who glanced with frank curiosity at the Scorpion in the rear-view mirror. After all, it is always interesting to observe the face of a man about to die.
Braithwaite, on the other hand, was positively beaming. He seemed a lot younger. Then the Scorpion realized that Braithwaite had dyed his hair jet black. It made him look like one of those aging Lotharios at singles bars trying to charm sweet young things with hints of convertibles and condominiums and trips to places with palm trees on the brochures.
The Scorpion glanced out of the window. The sun was high and there were no shadows cast by the distant Jabal Tuwaiq. The yellow desert was empty and still. A telephone line ran alongside the road. The line drooped in long valleys between the widely separated metal telephone poles. He watched the wire rising and falling like the sea as they rode along.
“So it was a snatch, not a hit,” the Scorpion said, the metallic taste of failure in his throat somehow more bitter than the knowledge that he was about to die. They just wanted to do it where it would be more convenient.
“Q-q-quite. The assassination was a r-r-red herring all along,” Braithwaite cheerfully agreed.
“Oh Ralph, what you did for love,” the Scorpion sighed.
Braithwaite smiled.
“Is this Amair?” the Scorpion asked, glancing sideways at the sullen-faced Shiite with the Walther.
“All in g-g-good t-time, you rogue,” Braithwaite smiled, batting his eyelashes like an ingénue.
“Just out of curiosity, who did I kill?” the Scorpion asked.
“No one important. Just one of Abdul Sa’ad’s men who had no idea what he was volunteering for,” Braithwaite replied, airily gesturing as if to brush aside a cobweb.
“We switched at the start of the race. That’s why we were off so late. The prince said you would not suspect and he was right. Where is your sting now, O Scorpion?” Bandar mocked in a harsh guttural voice. His smile revealed brown and broken teeth, like stained and tilted gravestones in an old church cemetery.
“You’re still the same charmer you always were, Bandar,” the Scorpion observed mildly.
Bandar’s face tightened like a fist. He slapped the Scorpion viciously across the lips.
The Scorpion licked at a trickle of blood out of the corner of his mouth. “Knowing it was Bandar, I was bound to believe he would be used for an assassination,” he continued conversationally.
“The assassination attempt was the p-p-perfect cover for Abdul Sa’ad to b-b-bring in a helicopter to spirit His Majesty away—presumably to s-safety. He actually m-m-managed to incorporate you into his p-p-plan. You were q-q-quite useful, d-dear b-b-boy,” Braithwaite smiled.
“Ingenious,” the Scorpion admitted. It was. Everyone had underestimated Abdul Sa’ad.
“Oh, the R-R-Russians will have their h-hands full t-t-trying to run Abdul Sa’ad,” Braithwaite said cheerfully, as if reading the Scorpion’s mind.
Hearing him say that made the Scorpion’s heart sink with certainty. Braithwaite would never have mentioned the Russians unless they planned to kill him. “So the Russians are finally moving south, after all these centuries,” he mused aloud.
“Not q-q-quite yet, dear b-boy. But the revolt is on. The Shiites are rioting in Q-Qatif. The Yemenis are moving into the Tihamah and pushing towards Mecca, and the PLO are b-blowing up the oil facilities at Ras Tanura and Sea Island.”
“No more filthy Yankee dogs,” Bandar growled.
“Only Russians dogs now,” the Scorpion shrugged as best he could and was rewarded with a flicker of something in Bandar’s one good eye.
“Oh, surely you knew the R-Russians were in on it, d-dear b-b-boy. We always assumed that,” Braithwaite said. He seemed years younger. His eyes were positively sparkling. And then the Scorpion realized what it was. Too late, he thought bitterly. He had understood everything too late.
“So you’re back in the game at last, Ralph,” the Scorpion said.
“You all wrote me off. A h-has-been. I’m only taking my d-due, dear boy,” Braithwaite said. It reminded the Scorpion of an old saying of Sheikh Zaid’s: “Take what you want,” said Allah, “take it and pay for it.”
“You lied to me Ralph,” the Scorpion said softly.
“You are naive, dear boy. I’m a s-s-spy. Lying is my b-b-business,” Braithwaite snorted.
They drove to the ancient ruins of Dariyyah, lying desolate and abandoned in the desert. They left the limo and marched him through the rubble of the empty city, the roofless ruins of the ancient mud brick fortress rising in jagged spires to the perfect blue sky. The town had been abandoned long ago. No one knew why. But there were whispers that it was inhabited by afreet and zars and other evil spirits. They stood the Scorpion next to the lip of an old dry well as two of Bandar’s men struggled to move the massive stone covering the mouth of the well. The Scorpion’s mind was racing. He remembered Sheikh Zaid teaching him how a Scorpion will sting itself rather than be taken alive. He thought of how most of the wells in this part of the Najd were about twenty feet deep and sand often seeped in when the wells went dry. Most of all, he was counting on Bandar’s vanity and skill.
“Where is the king?” the Scorpion asked.
“Q-quite nearby,” Braithwaite said, unable to resist a glance at the old fortress. “Prince Abdul Sa’ad is ‘persuading’ Salim to abdicate in f-favor of Abdul Sa’ad.” A faint cry, thin and distant like a bird trill, came from the direction of an ancient tower. Bandar smiled.
“Shouldn’t take long now,” Braithwaite remarked, squinting at the Scorpion in the bright sunlight.
Bandar stood near the lip of the well and called down. Kelly, the Scorpion thought, his heart leaping.
“Do you want up—be for me—no more escape—or stay under dark—think more?” Bandar called down in clumsy English.
“Leave me alone,” a defiant voice echoed from the depths of the well. Good girl, the Scorpion thought.
“Not alone! I send friend—keep company on you!” Bandar growled.
The Scorpion’s heart pounded. He stood alone on the lip of the well, his hands still bound behind him. He looked around at the silhouettes of the ruins against the blue sky, blue and unblemished from horizon to horizon. At that moment, he never had wanted to live so badly.
Bandar had backed away about twenty feet and cocked the AK-47. The sound of the bolt slamming home had a feel of terrible finality.
“Because you are a Mutayri, I give you a choice to be a man. Do you want it in the head or the heart?” Bandar called, sighting at the Scorpion.
The others stood there, watching.
“Heart—and I bet you can’t do it with a single shot, you slimy offspring of a Hutaymi camel,” the Scorpion shouted, his mouth dry as the desert.
Bandar’s face was terrible to see in that last moment. The Scorpion’s last conscious memory was the sound of a single shot and the impact of a terrible blow in his chest, sending him flying backwards into the well.
The Well of Death
THE SCORPION WAS AWAKENED by the most hideous sound he had ever heard: the scraping of his coffin lid as it closed over him. He opened his eyes and saw only blackness. He tried to fight the panic bubbling up inside him. But the thought of being trapped forever in the dark was overwhelming. A groan escaped his lips.
“Oh dear God, it’s alive!” a frightened female voice cried out in the darkness and he suddenly remembered everything. The scraping sound was the heavy stone that sealed the old well being rolled back into place. He was trapped, like a fly in a bottle.
“Please, if you’re alive, say something,” the frightened female voice said. She was very near. He could feel her breath on his cheek.
“Hello, Kelly,” the Scorpion said.
“Oh God,” she groaned and began to cry. He could feel her tears dripping on to his lips like raindrops. H
e licked his lips. They tasted salty.
There was a hysterical note somewhere in her crying, like a piano with a bad key, and he knew that she was very close to the edge. He stretched his neck up and grazed her cheek with his lips. It felt as soft as bird’s down.
“So soft,” she murmured and then it hit her. He heard the rustle of her clothes as she sat up sharply in the pitch darkness, the hysterical note giving a stridency to her voice.
“But you’re dead. They shot you,” she said.
“The bullet hit a transmitter over my heart wrapped in a special bullet-proof plastic mesh fabric. Bandar is a world-class shot and I was counting on his accuracy, only I thought he would try a shot at the race, not later on.”
“The race! They mean to kidnap the king!” she exclaimed.
“It’s already happened,” he said.
“And you must be the American agent they were talking about—the Scorpion,” she said.
“I’m here to get you out,” he said.
“Fine job you’re doing of it,” she snorted and it seemed so funny that they both couldn’t help laughing, the sounds of laughter echoing in the well.
“I’ve had better days,” the Scorpion admitted, and that set them both off again. They laughed till their sides hurt and as the echoes died down, somehow the darkness seemed a bit friendlier.
“What are we to do?” she asked at last, a pensive note in her voice. It was an interesting voice, smooth as cream, with a catch in it, and he felt he was truly hearing it for the first time, without the fear. But it had such sadness in it and he sensed how terrible it had been for her.
“I’m taking you home,” he said softly.
“Oh sure. I’ve tried to escape but they keep catching me,” she began bitterly.
“This time we finally have a couple of advantages.”
“Like?”
“For one thing, they think I’m dead.”
“Might as well be. Trapped in here,” she muttered glumly.
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