“Help me!” pleaded Amair, tears starting out of the corners of his eyes. When all else failed, tears had always worked for him.

“Oh my d-d-dear, my dear,” Braithwaite murmured, and kissed Amair full on the lips. Amair suffered it. He’d do anything to get the old cuni to move. Sheikh al-Khatifa’s police might come barging in at any minute.

“I have been given false passports, money, instructions, everything,” Amair gasped, pulling out of the embrace. He placed the attache case on the coffee table.

“Where did you get this? Nuruddin?” Braithwaite inquired, throwing a sudden suspicious glance at Amair. How deep in was Amair, he wondered. He began to realize that it might be too late to save the boy.

Amair nodded. He was to go over everything with Braithwaite. The papers and the money would convince the old man, Nuruddin had insisted, handing over the locked case. And they must do it when alone and in a place safe from prying eyes. To have such papers was proof of their treason, he had reminded the Shiite. The prescribed penalty for such an offense was one hundred lashes, followed by beheading. The very thought of it made Amair queasy.

“Show me,” Braithwaite commanded. Amair took the key from his pocket and turned it in the lock.

The sudden explosion shattered the silent night. The street was illuminated by a brilliant orange fireball that made the old stone houses glow red as though dusk had returned.

In a white Mercedes parked far down the street, Nuruddin leaned forward and tapped his driver on the shoulder. As the Mercedes passed the shattered ruin of Braithwaite’s building, Nuruddin nodded with satisfaction. What was left of the side of the building was a wall of flames. There could be no survivors.

Now at least two loose ends were taken care of, he thought. As the car sped through the silent streets of Manama back towards the old walled gate of the city, the Bab al Bahrain, and then on towards the Airport Road, Nuruddin nervously fingered his prayer beads and tried to decide what to do. He had to get away from Bahrain, but where? Salim’s forces had put down all resistance and the American presence in the Gulf was stronger than ever. How would Moscow react now that the Molotov Plan was a complete shambles?

Ya Allah, but it was all because of that Scorpion and Prince Abdul Sa’ad’s incompetence. Who would have believed it? The man was a demon. Four times they had set traps for him and four times he had escaped. He had blown the plot and sent the survivors scurrying in the darkness like rats, their nest destroyed.

But at least he, Nuruddin, had tied up the last two loose ends which could link the Arabian fiasco to the Russians.

Moscow hated loose ends.