But Scorpion or no Scorpion, Abdul Sa’ad was doomed, Bandar decided. No one was supposed to have found them until the king had abdicated and the succession was clear. By what demon’s trick had they been discovered? Treason or worse, he thought darkly. But one thing was certain. Abdul Sa’ad could not be the Mahdi, the Chosen of Allah, after all. The Mahdi would never have failed so badly, Bandar thought. But he, Bandar, still lived and there were debts due him. The image of the American woman came to him, her white breasts heaving in fear, her loins moist with desire. It was kismet, he swore to himself. With a wolfish howl, Bandar whirled and ran for the fortress gate closest to the old well.

Even as Bandar broke for the gate, the Scorpion emerged from behind a crumbling column, his face half-concealed in the shadow of the colonnade. For a split second he might have had a shot at Bandar, but he was almost out of ammunition. He would find Bandar with Abdul Sa’ad, he told himself. There would be time to settle old scores.

Suddenly, he felt his spine prickle, somehow aware of someone behind him. The corner of his eye caught the gleam of a khanjar blade. The Scorpion whirled and fired almost point blank into a bearded Shiite soldier’s face, opening a bleeding red hole where the nose used to be. The dying Shiite slashed savagely with the khanjar as he fell forward. The Scorpion fired again, but there was only the hollow click of the hammer on the firing pin. He had fired his last round! The blade sliced into the Scorpion’s arm even as he tried to sidestep. He swung the rifle with both arms, smashing the butt into the back of the Shiite’s head, cracking the skull like an eggshell.

The Scorpion retrieved the dead Shiite’s khanjar and his M-16 rifle. It had a full clip. Two more Shiites ducked under the portico, their guns blazing. The Scorpion shot them where they stood.

He charged across the colonnade, jumping over the bodies of the dead Shiites and through the arched doorway into the ancient citadel which stood at the heart of the fortress. He raced for the stone stairs leading to the old tower, where he had heard Salim’s scream coming from, just before Bandar had tried to execute him at the well.

The narrow steps were steep and barely a foot wide. There was no banister and only a dim light filtered through the dusty air which seemed as ancient as the fortress itself, as if it had been here since the beginning of time.

The Scorpion paused before ascending. His left arm had been cut near the bicep. It was bleeding steadily, but there was no time left to bind it. His luck still held, he thought, at least the muscle hadn’t been sliced through.