So the frog agreed and he began to swim across the river with the scorpion on his back. When they were halfway across, the scorpion stung the frog. With his last gasp, just before he sank, the frog asked the scorpion:

“But why? Now you’ll die too. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I can’t help it. I’m a scorpion. It’s in my nature to sting,” said the scorpion.

—An Arab story, circa eighth century A.D.

Watergate

Watergate

“DON’T TURN ON the light!”

Harris’ hand hesitated by the switch. He had just come in. The apartment was dark except for the lights of the city reflected on the glass balcony door. Was that how the intruder had come in, he wondered. He carefully began to reach for his shoulder holster with his free hand.

“Another inch and I’ll blow it away,” the voice snapped sharply. It was at once chilling and yet oddly familiar.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Harris whispered nervously. His throat was dry.

“Use your left hand. Take out your gun and toss it on the carpet,” the voice ordered.

Harris did as he was told. He tried to locate the voice. It seemed to be coming from somewhere in the living room.

A blow to the stomach doubled him over, knocking the wind out of him, followed by a savage kick in the mouth which sent him spinning to the floor. By the time he regained his senses, his hands had been tied behind him. He didn’t have to check to know that the knots were tight and professional. Although it wasn’t cold, he began to tremble.

He had recognized the voice.

“Is that you, Nick?” Harris asked in a shaky voice.

“Nick disappeared a long time ago,” the voice said.

“The Scorpion,” Harris managed to whisper.

“He’s dead, haven’t you heard?”

“How did you get into my apartment?”

“Come on, Bob. I thought security at the Watergate was a pretty clichéd topic,” the voice said.

“You wouldn’t do anything crazy … I mean, you’re too smart for that,” Harris squeaked unable to conceal the quaver in his voice.

“A scorpion only knows how to do one thing, Bob. It knows how to sting,” the Scorpion replied.

“Listen—I can explain—” Harris began.

“I know. You’re good at that.”

The Scorpion was seated in an armchair. He motioned Harris to the couch opposite him. Like Harris, the Scorpion wore a dinner jacket and black tie. Lounging across from each other like that against the backdrop of the city lights, they could have been posing for a whisky ad. For a moment they sat silently in the dark apartment, Harris watching the Scorpion, the Scorpion glancing away at the city lights.