“Everything is understood. Go with Allah and unto you peace. This,” he said with a nod to indicate the unmoving Mercedes, “is the last of them, isn’t it?”

“It’s all over now,” the Scorpion said and started to leave the car. Then he turned back to the Bahraini for a moment.

“Just out of curiosity. How will you explain all this to the public?” gesturing at the Mercedes.

“We’ll blame it on foreign agents. After all, it’s foreigners who cause all the trouble in the Middle East anyway,” the Bahraini shrugged.

From the moment he entered the Gulf Hotel lobby, the Scorpion knew something had gone wrong. For one thing, there were too many Arabs in western suits with nothing to do at that hour of the morning in the lobby. An Arab who had “cop” painted indelibly all over him was taking an exaggerated interest in his copy of yesterday’s Al Bilad.

He could feel eyes on his back as he entered the elevator. He pressed the button for the floor above his and took out the big Colt automatic, standing to the side of the door in case they were waiting to cut him down as soon as the door slid open, as they’d done to Fleming in Vienna. If it weren’t for Kelly, waiting for him in the room, he’d be heading for the exit now, he thought.

The elevator slowed and he checked the mirror before leaping out, gun first. The hotel corridor was silent and empty. He crept quietly to the emergency exit and down the stairs to his floor. The corridor near his room was also empty, but he sensed it was being watched. He glanced up at the lighting fixtures as if they were looking back at him.

When he came to the door to his room, he found proof that it wasn’t his imagination lying on the carpet next to the door: a tiny sliver of transparent, almost invisible plastic which he had wedged between the door and the jamb.

The Scorpion cocked the automatic. His palms began to sweat. According to standard procedure, he was standing in the red zone and should get out. If the door was rigged to an explosive, they could mail him home. But Kelly might still be there, he told himself. There was no going back.

With infinite care he turned the key in the lock. He held his breath. Nothing. He flung the door open and somersaulted into the center of the room, coming up in a crouch, his gun ready, but it was pointless.

“That was quite an entrance, Scorpion, but I think you’re outgunned,” al-Amir said, glancing around the room at the half-dozen of his men, their automatic weapons trained on the Scorpion.

“Where’s the girl, Jassim?” the Scorpion asked.