“My God,” Komarovsky muttered, in his shock actually pronouncing the forbidden word. He looked up at them, his face drawn and bloodless. “We’re on the brink of nuclear war,” he said, his voice confused and stunned.
Fyedorenko could sense them hesitating. Now was the time for him to intervene.
“By the time the West can react, it will be too late. You see, comrades, the coup has already begun. The PLO is crossing Syria into Iraq at this moment. Troops from the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen have begun to mobilize. The assassination plot is already in motion,” Fyedorenko said with studied nonchalance, conscious that every eye was riveted on him. He expected a murmur of surprise, and got it, but what startled him was Suvarov’s air of indifference. Fyedorenko was instantly on guard.
“You dared—without Politburo approval!” Komarovsky sputtered.
As Fyedorenko rose to crush Komarovsky as he had planned all along, Suvarov gestured to an aide, who came forward and handed Suvarov a message. Suvarov smiled.
“I have some news that pertains to our discussion, comrades,” Suvarov said. The silence was total. Their careers hung by the thread of what he would say next, Fyedorenko thought with a sickening feeling.
“Perhaps the West will have more time than Comrade Fyedorenko anticipates. It seems this Arab conspiracy has been penetrated by a western agent. According to the GRU,” Suvarov said, putting on his bifocals to read the note, “the final meeting was broken up by this agent, who managed a remarkable escape. They call him ‘the Scorpion.’”
Everyone turned towards Fyedorenko, sensing weakness. But Fyedorenko smiled and leaned calmly back in his chair. Years of training masked his inner turmoil. That damned Marshal Orlov had allowed Suvarov GRU access, playing both ends against the middle, the gutless bastard. His turn would come too, Fyedorenko thought. Not even a single bead of sweat broke the perfection of his calm exterior.
“That is old news, comrade. Orders to terminate this Scorpion have already been issued,” Fyedorenko said, looking intently at Svetlov.
Svetlov nodded. Check and mate, he thought, watching Suvarov develop a sudden intense interest in his fingernails. Fyedorenko had recovered beautifully.
As for this Scorpion, Svetlov mused, he was as good as dead.
Doha
SOMETHING IN THE PATTERN didn’t fit. It was like one of those puzzles where you have to find the images of animals hidden in the illustrated foliage.
Macready was right on time, carrying a copy of the Gulf Times folded under his left arm to signal a clear approach. He should have been able to just walk up and join him at the Juice House bar, but still the Scorpion held back. Everything was just as it should be, but there was danger hidden somewhere. The animal in the foliage. He carefully and methodically checked the rendezvous again.
Shiny Buicks and Cadillacs were parked outside the row of Juice Houses, each painted a different color of the rainbow. The cars were filled with young Qataris in jeans and punk T-shirts, sullenly sipping the milky juice made of fruit, sugar, powdered milk and ice pulverized in a blender, to which some of the bolder blades added a shot of illicit gin. Their eyes smoldered dangerously, yet futilely, in this womanless world, money burning in their pockets and no place to spend it.
Cars roared along the Corniche, skimming through the shimmering Gulf heat like brightly painted water bugs. Dhows and yachts crowded the distant harbor, their reflections perfectly mirrored in the clear still water. The mud huts which used to cluster along the quays were gone. Instead, white concrete and cinder-block buildings lined the waterfront. The rectangular National Monetary Agency Building, its glass turned to gold in the late afternoon sun, towered over the shops and cafés along the Corniche. Offshore, the oil rigs which had changed everything dotted the horizon like steel islands. Only the rancid mud smell from the fishing quays and El Khalij, the clear green Gulf itself, were as the Scorpion remembered them.
Macready sat at the bar of the Sphinx Juice House, meticulously chewing a deep-fried Palace bread roll. His every movement was deliberate and slow, almost ritualized, as if to slice time into smaller chunks of boredom. He stared without seeing at the big yellow sign that gave the Juice House its name. The lopsided face of the Sphinx on the sign looked like an unhappy beagle, as if it had been painted by a faintly disturbed first-grader.
Macready sighed and took another slow bite. That had changed, the Scorpion thought. He remembered Macready’s restlessness in Saigon, his foot always tapping, his eyes always darting about as if wanting to dash around the next corner. He had put on a lot of weight, too. His lightweight linen suit stretched in tight folds across his sagging belly. Maybe it was the hurt look in Macready’s eyes that made him nervous, the Scorpion thought.
Still, it should’ve been all right. After all, Macready was famous for his paranoia about security. There was even a joke that had once made the rounds at Maclean: “I overheard George calling his grandmother yesterday. Of course he ran an in-depth check on her first.” After Saigon fell, they didn’t tell it any more. Instead, it was “poor George,” or “that fucking Macready,” depending on the speaker’s politics. The Company had shipped him to Doha station hoping he’d resign. Qatar was the ultimate backwater in those days. But Macready had just hung on and on.
Harris must be pissed as hell to have to use Macready for something as hot as this, the Scorpion thought with a grim smile.
His eyes ran over the scene again. Besides Macready’s gray Chevy, there were three other cars parked outside the Sphinx. In one a couple of Qatari women sipped juice through the mouth-holes in their facemasks. Four Arab boys in a Cadillac next to theirs bobbed their heads in time to the whining amalgam of quarter-tones and rock that passes for pop music in the Gulf. The music blared so loudly it could have been used to mask jet takeoffs. The third car, a black Pontiac Trans Am convertible, was empty, the door open. Two Arabs in white dishdashas sat at the bar near Macready, as the Pakistani barman worked the electric blender. That was normal, too. The Pakistanis were cheap labor. They were to the Gulf Arabs what Mexicans were to white Californians.
That was all. Traffic on the Corniche was light and moving. There was no surveillance. Then he noticed Macready’s license plate. Damn! The idiot had used an embassy car. It was an amateurish mistake; the kind of thing Macready never would have done in Saigon. But that was another world, the Scorpion thought.
The Scorpion thought of calling it off, then changed his mind. He had to get the data and the film to Maclean. Besides, Macready had signaled the safe sign. And in his dishdasha and kaffiyeh, the Scorpion knew that he himself was fairly anonymous. To any but the most careful observer, he was just another Arab. Still, his sense of foreboding grew as he crossed the Corniche. He ordered a mishmish and sat next to Macready.
“Ya Allah, if it isn’t asayid …” the Scorpion began, smiling broadly.
“Smith,” Macready put in hurriedly. He placed the newspaper on the counter. “And you are Sheikh Ahmet’s cousin, dear Mister …”
“Abu ben Adam, may my tribe increase,” the Scorpion said drily. It was a game anyone could play.
“Yes, Mister ben Adam, of course,” Macready winced. “Perhaps you might be interested in a spare shipment of air conditioners. Very good price,” he added, rolling his eyes as if to suggest that the Qatari Customs would give their left nut to get their hands on it.
“Ah, how sly you westerners are. But Allah sees everything,” the Scorpion said with a wink. He picked up the folded newspaper and they carried their drinks back to the car. As Macready was getting behind the wheel, the Scorpion shoved him over and took the driver’s seat.
“What’s up?” Macready asked.
“Something stinks, George—and it’s not the mud-flats.”
“Are you hot?” Macready asked, looking around nervously, as if they were already trapped.
“I shouldn’t be. Am I?” the Scorpion said, slipping the new I.D. and money out of Macready’s newspaper. When he passed it back t
o Macready, the film cartridge was folded inside.
“I was watched as I left the embassy. I’m sure I shook them in town, but it’s a little unnerving,” Macready said with a nervous laugh. “This is the first time it’s ever happened. It’s always been live and let live here. No one cares and everyone makes a few bucks on the side. That business about air conditioners is true. It’s amazing how much you can make with a little fiddle on the side.”
“Save it for the Junior Achievement Club, George,” the Scorpion said and was pleased to see Macready’s cheeks color. The hurt look was back in his eyes. Macready looked back at the Juice House.
“What’s all this about a hit?” Macready asked glumly.
“You don’t need all those players for just a hit. It may be tied to a coup,” the Scorpion said.
Something was wrong. He could feel it, like watching a wire being stretched tighter and tighter, waiting for it to snap. The animal part of his brain, honed by a million years of hunting and warfare, had recognized a danger signal, but had been unable to transmit what it was to his conscious mind.
“Who’s the target?” Macready asked.
“With Abdul Sa’ad in on it, my money is on King Salim,” the Scorpion said, checking the rear-view mirror. There were no new arrivals; no one stopping along the Corniche to see the view or pretending to have car trouble.
“What about the girl?” Macready asked, lighting a cigarette. His hand trembled and he had to shake the match twice.
“It all leads back to Abdul Sa’ad,” the Scorpion said.
“When and where is this alleged hit to take place?” Macready demanded. He stabbed out the just-lit cigarette as if he were crushing a bug. His thoughts were obvious. The Scorpion was putting him on the spot. The data was too thin. Washington would ream his ass on this one.
“I don’t know—yet. But it’s soon. They may have even moved their timetable up because I broke up their little powwow.”
“You don’t really expect me to transmit such crap, do you? It’s all speculation, damn it!” Macready exploded. He looked suspiciously out of the corner of his eye, as though the Scorpion was trying to pass him a bad check. “What are you up to? Is this something you and Harris cooked up?” he demanded, his voice going up a full octave.
“You’ve grown fat, George,” the Scorpion said mildly, unable to keep the distaste out of his voice. With Macready as the case officer, the way he was now, it was hopeless. He’d have to dump Macready and let Washington handle it.
“I know. I’m not the man I was,” Macready said suddenly, looking at him with that even-featured American face that would remain boyish well into middle age. “Ever since Saigon,” he added softly.
Now how do you deal with a man like that? the Scorpion thought. One minute he had you going and the next he had you feeling sorry for him.
“This is the way back,” the Scorpion said. “You’ve got to convince those assholes that a coup is going down—and soon.”
“It’s too thin. They won’t believe me,” Macready said pathetically. Macready looked down at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him. He picked up and smoothed the half-crushed cigarette. He didn’t relight it.
“Send a CRITIC, George. Wake them up.”
“I’ll pass it on. That’s all I can do,” Macready said glumly.
“I was in Nam, too. Remember. I’m not the enemy,” the Scorpion said.
He was sweating, but it wasn’t the memory of Nam that did it. He had to get away. Now. Something inside him was screaming that it was all wrong. But what was the missing piece, the face hidden in the foliage?
He touched the ignition key, hesitated, then started the car.
“What is it?” Macready asked, startled.
“Who are they after—you or me?” the Scorpion murmured aloud, almost to himself. Macready didn’t answer, but his hands began to shake again.
Then the Scorpion suddenly realized what was wrong. The two Arabs in white dishdashas hadn’t returned to their Pontiac. He had checked out the Corniche in the rear-view mirror again and when he had looked back at the Juice Bar they were gone. Even before he had completed the thought, he had thrown the car into reverse. The wheels spun wildly and he caught a powerful whiff of burnt rubber. Macready was jerked forward almost into the windshield. The tires howled as the Scorpion backed out on to the Corniche and slammed into drive. The Chevy fishtailed as he floored the accelerator, then straightened as he raced towards the harbor. The Juice Bar began to recede in the rear-view mirror.
“What the hell …” Macready began.
“Hang on!” the Scorpion shouted. The rest of his words were lost in a deafening roar as the Pontiac exploded into a brilliant fireball. A blast of fiery air almost knocked them off the road.
The Chevy skidded against a traffic circle curb, the shock almost wrenching the wheel from the Scorpion’s hands. They bounced off the circle, grazing a blue Cadillac which had gone out of control. The driver, a Qatari businessman, stared in horror as his car started to roll over. The Cadillac turned on to its back, smashing into a gaudily painted van. The two vehicles slammed into a parked truck, just missing a car full of wide-eyed children. As the Chevy slued towards the pileup, the Scorpion twisted the wheel to fight the skid, sliding halfway across the road before straightening out.
As they pulled away, the accelerator jammed against the floorboard, he risked a glance at the rear-view mirror. The Pontiac and one of the Cadillacs were gone, obliterated. The other Cadillac where the women had been was a sheet of flame. The Sphinx and the Juice Bar next door were black twisted rubble. Only the sagging back walls remained. Another Juice House was burning rapidly. Black smoke built an immense column that could be seen for miles. Broken glass littered acres of ground.
And there was something else. A couple of hundred yards behind them and gaining fast was a black BMW 733i. Inside it were the two young Arabs from the Pontiac at the Juice Bar.
“My God! They tried to kill me,” Macready said, his face white. He grasped the dashboard so tightly, pools of blood collected under his fingernails.
“Not you, me,” the Scorpion snapped bitterly. Macready’s carelessness had put them on his trail again. What was worse, there was no way the Chevy was going to be able to outrun the BMW. Although he was flying down the Corniche, passing cars going sixty as if they were standing still, the BMW was still creeping closer.
The Scorpion turned the rear-view mirror so Macready could use it.
“Recognize either of those guys in the BMW?” he asked.
“No,” Macready said. Then he added “I’m sorry,” although the Scorpion wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Life, maybe.
The Scorpion remembered Koenig in his neat khaki uniform, balancing on the balls of his feet in that stifling Quonset hut in Virginia, telling them: “‘Sorry’ is a word for children and lovers’ quarrels. If you ever have to say ‘sorry’ in this business, it’ll mean somebody died because you fucked up.”
“What makes you so sure it’s you they’re after?” Macready asked.
“Because we’re close, damn it. This is the second time in twenty-four hours that they’ve tried to kill me. There’s your proof, George. They’re going to hit the king. Or do you play these car games all the time?” the Scorpion said, whipping around a slow-moving red sedan and slipping neatly into a gap in the traffic ahead. Traffic began to thicken as they approached the waterfront. The BMW was only a few cars behind.
The Scorpion’s mind raced. Assume that they were after him. Macready was just along for the ride. Then if he could peel them off, Macready would be free to get the data to Maclean. On the plus side, they probably hadn’t expected him to survive the blast, so they were playing it by ear. There would be no traps lurking for George at the embassy. On the minus side, they knew their way around town better than he did and the Chevy was no match for the BMW.
In the gospel according to Koenig, you could always break a single tail. The theory was that action is faster th
an reaction and since (assumption) they don’t know where you’re going, any surprise combined with average driver reactions in normal traffic flows ought to break you free long enough for them to lose line of sight, etcetera. He could just drop Macready off somewhere near the embassy, and hide after dumping the Chevy.
That was the theory, anyway. But a glance in the rear-view mirror convinced him that it wasn’t going to happen that way. By this time only a single car separated them from the BMW. But that wasn’t the problem.
He had seen the Arab in the BMW’s passenger seat speaking into a car phone.
“I don’t suppose you have a phone or a CB in this thing?” the Scorpion asked as they went around the last traffic circle before the quays. The setting sun gilded the crowded shops and street cafés with their brightly-colored umbrellas with a golden glamor, as though it were the Riviera.
Macready shook his head. “Budget,” he said, as if that covered everything in life.
Macready’s sense of futility was beginning to grate. The Scorpion hoped the prick could find his zipper when he needed it.
“The embassy still near the bank?” the Scorpion asked. He had to make a move quickly, before whatever reinforcements the BMW had called were in place.
Macready shook his head.
“Just two blocks from … What are you going to do?” Macready asked, suddenly pale.
“When I yell ‘Go,’ don’t argue. Just get out of the car and run like hell for the embassy. With any luck, Mr. Smith will get a call from Abu ben Adam to confirm the assassination,” the Scorpion said, his eyes darting as he calculated the traffic flow. Ahead, near the white-filigreed façade of the Royal Bank of Qatar, a one-way street jammed with traffic fed into the Corniche.
A rear-view mirror check showed the BMW right behind them. One of the Arabs was pulling what looked like an AK-47 out of a gun case. In this traffic, Macready and he were sitting ducks. If only the car in front of them—a rheumatic old Citroen belching black exhaust and driven by an elderly Qatari sitting bolt upright behind the wheel as if he had been nailed there—did not move immediately when the van ahead of him, striped red and green like a candy cane, started up, they might have a chance.
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