“So why did he leave his post?” Harris asked.

“Because he saw something—or someone,” the Scorpion said, his eyes wide as saucers. “Someone on his way to the airport,” he breathed.

“Who could it be?” Harris asked, mopping his face with the ascot and rearranging the table, which had been knocked over during their struggle.

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?”

Harris looked suspiciously at him. “You wouldn’t be holding out on me, would you? Not telling me for your own reasons?”

“Of course not. Any more than you’d keep something from me,” the Scorpion replied.

The two men smiled at each other.

The Scorpion carefully lowered himself into the chair like someone entering a steaming hot bath. Harris took in his bloodshot eyes and unshaven cheeks.

“You look like you’ve been through the mill. Are you going to be able to pull it off?” Harris said sympathetically.

“Do I get a choice?”

“Not at these prices.”

They shared a quiet chuckle.

“The president asked me to convey his personal regards and confidence in you. We’re all counting on you,” Harris said, his voice resonating with manly sincerity.

“Save the half-time speeches, Bob. The only thing the president’s counting on is for me to save his political neck. And that’s not Number One on my list of Things to Do Today.”

“What about the girl?” Harris prompted.

“Which comes first, stopping the coup or the girl?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I do,” Harris snapped peevishly and moved the little fan back and forth across his face like a windshield wiper.

He stared at the tiny whirring blades in fascination. A dreamy look came over his face. “You know, it’s like living a little piece of history. Like being in Sarajevo in 1914, or Berlin in 1939. There’s an appalling amount of misery in store for humanity if you miss,” he said in a philosophical tone, as if he were about to brush a blackboard with tweed-covered elbows.

“Thanks Bob. That’s just what I needed right now. More pressure,” the Scorpion remarked wryly.

Harris leaned forward with a worried look. If Harris let that much worry show through, then the Scorpion knew he himself probably had the life expectancy of a rare butterfly at a convention of lepidopterists.

“Don’t miss,” Harris said earnestly.

“How bad is it? Can you tell me?” the Scorpion asked, glancing around the tent as if to search out any bugs.