With a wild howl, Bandar came at the Scorpion, slashing savagely and methodically. The Scorpion backed away, parrying the blows, blade to blade, counterslashing back. Suddenly, Bandar feinted left and struck right. The Scorpion twisted away from the thrust and kicked out, his foot catching Bandar’s shoulder and knocking him sideways. But his own footing slipped and he went down.
Bandar was on him like a bull on a matador, stabbing in a frenzy. The Scorpion saw the blade coming at his groin as if in slow motion. He grabbed a handful of sand with his left hand and flung it into Bandar’s face as he rolled just out of reach. Bandar howled like a blinded Cyclops and slashed wildly at the Scorpion.
Now, the Scorpion told himself as he scrambled to his feet. Now!
He stepped inside the circle of Bandar’s frenzy, using a forearm to block against Bandar’s forearm and side-kicking at the inside of Bandar’s knee. As Bandar began to go down, he thrust desperately up at the Scorpion’s rib cage. The Scorpion chopped at Bandar’s wrist with the hard edge of his left hand as he simultaneously made a wrist-twisting slash with the khanjar, disemboweling Bandar with a single wrenching cut.
Bandar’s scream was not human. His insides spilled out on to the sand like tangled snakes. He slithered on the ground like a dying worm, slashing at the Scorpion’s feet in his final frenzy. The Scorpion danced out of the way and with a single savage slice, cut the forearm muscle of Bandar’s knife hand to the bone.
He watched Bandar writhing in agony on the ground, screaming unintelligible sounds. Suddenly, an M-16 opened fire. Bandar arched his back like a bow and was still. His good eye stared open and empty at the evening star rising over the dunes of Dahna.
“Now it’s over. Aisha is paid for,” Youssef said, standing over Bandar, the M-16 dangling from his hand.
Kelly came wordlessly up to the Scorpion and they stumbled back towards the Land-Rover, their arms around each other. Before they got into the Land-Rover she put her blistered lips to his ear and whispered:
“I have to know. Would you have let him kill me?”
The Scorpion caressed her long blond hair with his torn fingers and kissed her lips with great tenderness. His eyes were sparks of fire in the last red rays of the sun.
“No,” he said.
It was the first lie of their relationship.
Bub al Bahrain
THE MIDNIGHT SILENCE of the dark narrow street was broken by the barking of a small dog. It belonged to the owner of the dar, who kept it in the tiny courtyard shaded by eucalyptus trees that he shared with the Inglizi. The yellowish mongrel stood in the center of the courtyard barking at the shadows. A dark figure came out of the shadows and the dog flattened his ears and charged, yipping wildly. A sudden movement and the dog lay motionless in the shadows. The figure stumbled hurriedly across the moonlit courtyard and knocked at Braithwaite’s back door. The door was flung open and a rectangle of light splashed almost, but not quite, to the feet of the small carcass.
“Amair! C-c-come in, d-dear boy,” Braithwaite stuttered.
The young Shiite slipped in, glancing nervously behind him as Braithwaite carefully closed and locked the door. He turned and tenderly taking the Shiite’s hand led him to the divan. The Shiite leaned his expensive lizard-skin attache case against the divan. It looked out of place next to the threadbare upholstery.
“I fear for you,” Braithwaite said.
“You should,” the Arab burst out petulantly. “Your Scorpion has ruined us.”
His sweat-slick face reflected the lamplight like a discolored mirror. At the sound of his voice, the cobra stirred evilly in its basket, flicking its forked tongue repeatedly in their direction. At the sight of him, Amair shivered like a trapped animal. It reminded him of how much he had dreaded coming here. But Nuruddin had insisted.
“I hate that crazy old cuni. Him and that filthy snake of his! Every time he touches me, it makes my flesh crawl,” he had protested.
“Remember Qatif,” Nuruddin had replied, his eyes narrowed. In 1979, a group of religious zealots led by a fanatic who proclaimed himself to be the long-awaited Mahdi had invaded the Sacred Mosque in Mecca. When they heard the news, the suppressed Shiite minority had rioted for days in the city of Qatif. The rioters had been ruthlessly suppressed by the Royal Saudi Army. Although none of Amair’s family had been hurt, his mother’s family had come from Qatif and he had taken it personally.
“Why not just leave him? Let the old cuni take his chances,” he had objected, a spoiled whine in his voice. When he had first become involved with Nuruddin, they had told him he was a hero. But when he heard the sounds of battle as they fled Dariyyah and their Mercedes had been buzzed by a Royal Army helicopter, he could scarcely breathe. And when he saw the bodies near Riyadh airport after the fighting there, he had gagged and barely had time to stick his head out of the window to be sick. They hadn’t told him it was going to be like this.
“If either the Scorpion or al-Amir, his police ashab, gets to Braithwaite, they’ll get to you and through you to me,” Nuruddin had said.
“Better to kill the old fool,” Amair had truculently insisted, not realizing the implication of what he was saying.
“In time,” soothed Nuruddin, an odd gleam in his eye that made Amair tremble. “In the meantime, you must get the old man to Europe. Once there, you can abandon him as you like. It is all arranged. The Roosees will protect you.”
But how to convince Braithwaite to leave, Amair wondered, glancing at the old man. The Americani was supposed to have died. It was Nuruddin’s fault. Now they were all marked men.
“Al-Amir is after me. And after him, the Scorpion. They will kill us,” Amair cried.
“I’ll t-t-talk to him, habibi. I still have some c-c-clout, you know,” Braithwaite said. In the corner, the snake began to coil, as though to strike.
“It’s too late for that. We have to run—to Europe. It’s all arranged,” Amair insisted. Why was the old man being so stubborn?
“I c-couldn’t let you, not with martial law and all,” Braithwaite insisted. He hugged the younger man to his bony chest, holding him tightly.
“Help me!” pleaded Amair, tears starting out of the corners of his eyes. When all else failed, tears had always worked for him.
“Oh my d-d-dear, my dear,” Braithwaite murmured, and kissed Amair full on the lips. Amair suffered it. He’d do anything to get the old cuni to move. Sheikh al-Khatifa’s police might come barging in at any minute.
“I have been given false passports, money, instructions, everything,” Amair gasped, pulling out of the embrace. He placed the attache case on the coffee table.
“Where did you get this? Nuruddin?” Braithwaite inquired, throwing a sudden suspicious glance at Amair. How deep in was Amair, he wondered. He began to realize that it might be too late to save the boy.
Amair nodded. He was to go over everything with Braithwaite. The papers and the money would convince the old man, Nuruddin had insisted, handing over the locked case. And they must do it when alone and in a place safe from prying eyes. To have such papers was proof of their treason, he had reminded the Shiite. The prescribed penalty for such an offense was one hundred lashes, followed by beheading. The very thought of it made Amair queasy.
“Show me,” Braithwaite commanded. Amair took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.
The sudden explosion shattered the silent night. The street was illuminated by a brilliant orange fireball that made the old stone houses glow red as though dusk had returned.
In a white Mercedes parked far down the street, Nuruddin leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. As the Mercedes passed the shattered ruin of Braithwaite’s building, Nuruddin nodded with satisfaction. What was left of the side of the building was a wall of flames. There could be no survivors.
Now at least two loose ends were taken care of, he thought. As the car sped through the silent streets of Manama back towards the old walled gate of the city, the Bab al Bahrain, and then on to
wards the Airport Road, Nuruddin nervously fingered his prayer beads and tried to decide what to do. He had to get away from Bahrain, but where? Salim’s forces had put down all resistance and the American presence in the Gulf was stronger than ever. How would Moscow react now that the Molotov Plan was a complete shambles?
Ya Allah, but it was all because of that Scorpion and Prince Abdul Sa’ad’s incompetence. Who would have believed it? The man was a demon. Four times they had set traps for him and four times he had escaped. He had blown the plot and sent the survivors scurrying in the darkness like rats, their nest destroyed.
But at least he, Nuruddin, had tied up the last two loose ends which could link the Arabian fiasco to the Russians.
Moscow hated loose ends.
Well, at least his immediate plans were set. He had to catch the Concorde flight to Paris, then on to Geneva with the help of sympathetic French communist intellectuals. Once in Switzerland—well, the Swiss knew how to treat someone with a large numbered bank account. Then he could safely gauge Moscow’s mood.
The Mercedes began to slow. Annoyed, Nuruddin began to lean forward to tap his driver. Didn’t the fool understand he had a plane to catch? Then he saw the flashing yellow lights of the police road block at the Bab al Bahrain.
Nuruddin frowned. Was it possible that al-Amir had reacted so quickly? He began to sweat. Then he relaxed. It was a standard police roadblock. Since the fighting in Arabia, Bahrain had been under martial law. There were roadblocks at all major intersections, he reminded himself.
He leaned back and reached for his well-upholstered wallet. Allah be praised, Bahrain was still a civilized place, where baksheesh could buy any official. With a familiar sigh, he began calculating how much he would need to bribe his way through the roadblock.
The two figures watched the white Mercedes approach the roadblock from the darkness of a parked sedan. One of the figures lit a cigarette. It glowed in the darkness like a firefly. They watched the Mercedes stop and said nothing.
A Bahraini police sergeant glanced in the direction of the parked car and spotted the cigarette glow. He motioned to his men as they approached the Mercedes, submachine guns at the ready.
The sergeant motioned for the windows to be rolled down, then demanded their papers.
The two figures in the sedan watched the nervously smiling brown face in the back seat of the Mercedes lean forward to hand over an identity card together with what was obviously a thick wad of riyals.
Suddenly, Nuruddin’s smile froze as the submachine guns swung into position. The sound of automatic fire shattered the night as the three policemen sprayed the interior of the Mercedes for a full thirty seconds, turning the car into a bleeding metal sieve. Then the police jumped into a patrol car and sped away. Other policemen quickly dismantled the roadblock and drove away in another car. It was over in seconds.
An unreal silence returned to the intersection blocked by the unmoving Mercedes.
The two figures in the sedan glanced at each other.
“Good job, lieutenant. I’m sure asayid al-Amir will be pleased at your efficiency,” the Scorpion said.
“I’ll tell him of your approval. And will you be leaving Bahrain shortly?” the young Bahraini police lieutenant asked, raising his eyebrow to indicate that this was al-Amir’s polite way of telling the Scorpion to get out.
The Scorpion nodded and said, “I have only to go back to the hotel and collect the woman, who has suffered much in all this.”
The Bahraini raised his hands as if in surrender.
“Everything is understood. Go with Allah and unto you peace. This,” he said with a nod to indicate the unmoving Mercedes, “is the last of them, isn’t it?”
“It’s all over now,” the Scorpion said and started to leave the car. Then he turned back to the Bahraini for a moment.
“Just out of curiosity. How will you explain all this to the public?” gesturing at the Mercedes.
“We’ll blame it on foreign agents. After all, it’s foreigners who cause all the trouble in the Middle East anyway,” the Bahraini shrugged.
From the moment he entered the Gulf Hotel lobby, the Scorpion knew something had gone wrong. For one thing, there were too many Arabs in western suits with nothing to do at that hour of the morning in the lobby. An Arab who had “cop” painted indelibly all over him was taking an exaggerated interest in his copy of yesterday’s Al Bilad.
He could feel eyes on his back as he entered the elevator. He pressed the button for the floor above his and took out the big Colt automatic, standing to the side of the door in case they were waiting to cut him down as soon as the door slid open, as they’d done to Fleming in Vienna. If it weren’t for Kelly, waiting for him in the room, he’d be heading for the exit now, he thought.
The elevator slowed and he checked the mirror before leaping out, gun first. The hotel corridor was silent and empty. He crept quietly to the emergency exit and down the stairs to his floor. The corridor near his room was also empty, but he sensed it was being watched. He glanced up at the lighting fixtures as if they were looking back at him.
When he came to the door to his room, he found proof that it wasn’t his imagination lying on the carpet next to the door: a tiny sliver of transparent, almost invisible plastic which he had wedged between the door and the jamb.
The Scorpion cocked the automatic. His palms began to sweat. According to standard procedure, he was standing in the red zone and should get out. If the door was rigged to an explosive, they could mail him home. But Kelly might still be there, he told himself. There was no going back.
With infinite care he turned the key in the lock. He held his breath. Nothing. He flung the door open and somersaulted into the center of the room, coming up in a crouch, his gun ready, but it was pointless.
“That was quite an entrance, Scorpion, but I think you’re outgunned,” al-Amir said, glancing around the room at the half-dozen of his men, their automatic weapons trained on the Scorpion.
“Where’s the girl, Jassim?” the Scorpion asked.
“Gone. No—we had nothing to do with it,” the Bahraini Chief of Police added hurriedly, seeing the iciness come into the Scorpion’s gray eyes. “It was your own people. Company business. And I fear she seemed quite willing, habibi.”
The Scorpion shook his head. It made no sense. “What about all this? A welcoming committee?”
Al-Amir bit his lip and absentmindedly rubbed the scar on his cheek. He was obviously troubled.
“It’s your own people. CIA. They want you terminated, Scorpion. This is your firing squad.”
“I don’t get it.”
Al-Amir shrugged and said, “Neither do I. If it were up to me you’d get a medal. You Americani are very difficult to understand.”
The Scorpion aimed the Colt at al-Amir’s head. “I’ll take you with me, Jassim,” he said.
Al-Amir raised his hands in mock surrender. “No need, Scorpion. I’m letting you go. A matter of sentiment. My lord, Sheikh al-Khatifa, is related through his maternal grand-mother to your adopted father, Sheikh Zaid. Also, he wants to stay in King Salim’s good graces and Salim owes you a life. But I must ask you to leave Bahrain at once. Things have been very noisy since you came to Manama, Scorpion,” he said, leaning back on the sofa.
The Scorpion nodded and put away the gun. He sat on the sofa next to al-Amir and poured himself a drink of iced mineral water. His heart was pounding and there was a roaring in his head as if he were holding seashells to his ears.
“I wouldn’t go back to the States if I were you,” he heard al-Amir say.
The Scorpion shook his head.
“I’ll report you dead. With both the CIA and the KGB wanting to terminate you, it’s your only chance,” al-Amir added.
“What will you do for a body?” the Scorpion asked.
“The driver of the Mercedes will do nicely for the CIA. The guns made quite a mess of him. I’m having his body brought here now.”
The Scorpion stared
into space. He raised the glass to his lips, but didn’t drink.
The pattern was rearranging in his head. None of it made any sense and then all at once, it all made perfect sense. He drank the mineral water as if it were hemlock.
He had made the worst mistake an agent can make. He had completely misunderstood the nature of his mission.
PART FOUR
One day a scorpion stood on the bank of a river. He wanted to cross it, but scorpions can’t swim. So he went up to a frog and proposed that the frog carry him across. But the frog was afraid.
“You might sting me and I’ll die,” said the frog.
“Nonsense. If I sting you and you die, then I’m bound to drown too,” the scorpion replied.
So the frog agreed and he began to swim across the river with the scorpion on his back. When they were halfway across, the scorpion stung the frog. With his last gasp, just before he sank, the frog asked the scorpion:
“But why? Now you’ll die too. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a scorpion. It’s in my nature to sting,” said the scorpion.
—An Arab story, circa eighth century A.D.
Watergate
“DON’T TURN ON the light!”
Harris’ hand hesitated by the switch. He had just come in. The apartment was dark except for the lights of the city reflected on the glass balcony door. Was that how the intruder had come in, he wondered. He carefully began to reach for his shoulder holster with his free hand.
“Another inch and I’ll blow it away,” the voice snapped sharply. It was at once chilling and yet oddly familiar.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Harris whispered nervously. His throat was dry.
“Use your left hand. Take out your gun and toss it on the carpet,” the voice ordered.
Harris did as he was told. He tried to locate the voice. It seemed to be coming from somewhere in the living room.
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