His sweat-slick face reflected the lamplight like a discolored mirror. At the sound of his voice, the cobra stirred evilly in its basket, flicking its forked tongue repeatedly in their direction. At the sight of him, Amair shivered like a trapped animal. It reminded him of how much he had dreaded coming here. But Nuruddin had insisted.

“I hate that crazy old cuni. Him and that filthy snake of his! Every time he touches me, it makes my flesh crawl,” he had protested.

“Remember Qatif,” Nuruddin had replied, his eyes narrowed. In 1979, a group of religious zealots led by a fanatic who proclaimed himself to be the long-awaited Mahdi had invaded the Sacred Mosque in Mecca. When they heard the news, the suppressed Shiite minority had rioted for days in the city of Qatif. The rioters had been ruthlessly suppressed by the Royal Saudi Army. Although none of Amair’s family had been hurt, his mother’s family had come from Qatif and he had taken it personally.

“Why not just leave him? Let the old cuni take his chances,” he had objected, a spoiled whine in his voice. When he had first become involved with Nuruddin, they had told him he was a hero. But when he heard the sounds of battle as they fled Dariyyah and their Mercedes had been buzzed by a Royal Army helicopter, he could scarcely breathe. And when he saw the bodies near Riyadh airport after the fighting there, he had gagged and barely had time to stick his head out of the window to be sick. They hadn’t told him it was going to be like this.

“If either the Scorpion or al-Amir, his police ashab, gets to Braithwaite, they’ll get to you and through you to me,” Nuruddin had said.

“Better to kill the old fool,” Amair had truculently insisted, not realizing the implication of what he was saying.

“In time,” soothed Nuruddin, an odd gleam in his eye that made Amair tremble. “In the meantime, you must get the old man to Europe. Once there, you can abandon him as you like. It is all arranged. The Roosees will protect you.”

But how to convince Braithwaite to leave, Amair wondered, glancing at the old man. The Americani was supposed to have died. It was Nuruddin’s fault. Now they were all marked men.

“Al-Amir is after me. And after him, the Scorpion. They will kill us,” Amair cried.

“I’ll t-t-talk to him, habibi. I still have some c-c-clout, you know,” Braithwaite said. In the corner, the snake began to coil, as though to strike.

“It’s too late for that. We have to run—to Europe. It’s all arranged,” Amair insisted. Why was the old man being so stubborn?

“I c-couldn’t let you, not with martial law and all,” Braithwaite insisted. He hugged the younger man to his bony chest, holding him tightly.