“Abdul Sa’ad has spoken against this insanity of educating females. In Riyadh women ride buses with men and even work in banks,” Safooq said in a peevish tone.

“What women want is what they have always had,” Sheikh Zaid said. His shiny new false teeth gave him the peculiar look of someone who smiles for a living.

“What is that, my father?” asked Faisal, an air of amusement hovering at the corners of his mouth.

“Their own way, of course,” Zaid wheezed triumphantly and they all laughed.

“Still, something must be done. We don’t want an Iran in Arabia,” Faisal put in seriously as the laughter died down.

“Allah forbid!” muttered Zaid.

“Let the royal family fight it out among themselves. What is that to us?” Safooq grumbled.

There were murmurs of approval from some of the other tribesmen gathered around the fire.

“But with Abdul Sa’ad comes the Roosees,” the Scorpion said softly.

“And with King Salim the Americani. Which is worse? It is still dog and master,” Faisal said, holding up his little finger when he said “dog” and his fist when he said “master.”

“In Riyadh it is said that when America sneezes the king gets pneumonia,” Youssef said.

“Sa, it is even thus,” Zaid grumbled.

“These giaour treat us like strangers in our own home. They are like lice. No matter how you scratch you cannot get rid of them,” Safooq snapped irritably.

“What would be so bad about the Roosees? At least they support the Falastin against the Jews,” someone called out.

“The Roosees are atheists,” the Scorpion murmured.

“Abomination,” a voice rumbled in the darkness. The Scorpion thought it might have been old Turki, father of Safooq.

“I too have heard this said of the Roosees,” Faisal said.

“What sort of men are they? To think all this is an accident—and meaningless besides?” Sheikh Zaid said, gesturing at the starry sky.

“What does it matter to us what the infidels believe? Are the men of the Mutayr to fight because the great powers covet Arabia as they always have?” said Muhammed of Heikal, elegantly tossing the tail of his headcloth over his shoulder, like a woman with a fur piece. A wealthy merchant of the Rualla, he had married one of Zaid’s daughters. Although new to the Mutayr, his free-spending ways had given him influence. He knew of the Scorpion only by reputation.

“It will matter. I have been in Afghanistan, where the Roosees have rained poison gas on the moujahadin. And there is no oil in Afghanistan for the Roosees to covet. The land of the moujahadin is utterly desolate,” the Scorpion replied slyly, his heart beating.

Now they could be turned with the slightest touch, he knew, the way fingertip pressure on a wheel can turn a great ship. In some secret part of him he was shamed at using them. For whose benefit? he wondered. Theirs? The Americans? or his own?