A tonga piled high with oranges and pulled by a water buffalo rumbled slowly down the dusty street. They always reminded the Scorpion of the carts in Vietnam. The memory reeked with the smells of nuoc mam and cordite and as always, he immediately pushed it away. He stood up and moved towards the shop, using the cart for cover. For a moment, the storyteller’s glance caught his, the sightless eyes covered with a milk-white glaze, like the eyes of a statue. They made him uneasy, as though the old man could see him. It’s nothing, he’s blind, the Scorpion told himself as he moved with a fluid ground-eating stride alongside the tonga.

When the young Mahsud glanced over again, the Scorpion had simply disappeared.

The shop was cool after the blazing heat of the street. It was empty, except for a fat, sweating Pakistani in a white robe, who rose like a jinn from behind a large copper urn. The merchant bowed his head and touched his hand to his heart.

“Sahib Khattak?” the Scorpion asked.

“You honor my shop, Sahib,” the man said and bowed again.

“Have you the copper lamp I ordered? The one with a tiger’s face?”

“There are no tigers in Peshawar, Sahib,” Khattak said, glancing anxiously at the bright street outside, looking for eyes that looked back.

“There are tigers that smile in Islamabad,” the Scorpion replied, completing the sequence.

Khattak went to the front of the shop and noisily pulled the metal shutter across the doorway, sealing them in the suddenly dim light, as in a tomb. When he turned back to the Scorpion, he held a .45 automatic in his hand.

“Did anyone see you come here?” Khattak asked nervously, his sweat-slick face shining like the man in the moon.

“Only the storyteller without eyes.”

“I am to search your person,” Khattak said, coming closer. The .45 was cocked.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Does anyone know who anyone is in Peshawar?” Khattak said, his eyes darting about like fish in a tank. The Scorpion smiled.

“I am called ‘the Scorpion,’” he said.

Khattak paled. The gun began to shake in his hand. He nervously stuffed it back inside his robe and bowed, his hand over his heart.

“A thousand pardons, Sahib. The one you seek is waiting,” he said and with a series of anxious bows, he led the Scorpion through a beaded curtain to a small airless room in the back, where Bob Harris was sitting like a sultan on a leather hassock. Harris was grinning as though it was all a glorious adventure. Iced lime drinks for both of them were already set up on a large copper tray.

“Oh Christ,” the Scorpion muttered and shook his head. With another bow, Khattak eased his huge bulk past the curtain, leaving them alone. Harris winked and gestured for him to sit down, but the Scorpion just stood there.

“What was all that James Bond bullshit with Khattak?”