The Scorpion nodded. That sounded a little better. They’d obviously done some advance planning with him in mind for a change.

“What about communications?”

“Use Macready. He’s in Doha,” Harris said, unable to keep the distaste out of his voice.

The Scorpion’s mind raced. They had to be desperate if they were willing to use Macready. Mentally, he raised the price.

“I want a quarter mill in U.S. dollars or Swiss francs. Usual terms.”

“You always did have an exaggerated idea of what you were worth,” Harris said.

The Scorpion shrugged. He knew they wouldn’t have turned to an independent like him if they’d had a better alternative.

Harris nodded reluctantly. He didn’t bargain and that worried the Scorpion even more, because it meant they knew it was going to be trouble and they’d probably never have to pay off. Harris stood up and carefully straightened his safari jacket.

“Well, what do you think?” Harris asked finally.

“What do you think I think? She could be anywhere from Baghdad to Casablanca by now. Arabia alone is half the size of the U.S. and even the king doesn’t know what his borders are or what the population is. A pretty white woman is worth about seventy thousand bucks on the hoof and you can’t even ask anyone ‘How’s your wife?’ without getting your throat cut. And even if I found her, anyone rich enough to buy her is powerful enough to keep her and all we can offer is more money, which he probably needs like a hole in the head. And I can’t use Company resources or go near the embassy. What do you think I think? Anyone who figures we can find her, much less get her back, probably thinks a ticket on the Irish Sweepstakes is a conservative investment.”

“What shall I tell the congressman?” Harris asked quietly.

“Tell him to call ‘Dial-a-Prayer,’” the Scorpion retorted.

Harris sighed, like a high-school coach with a primadonna player.

“Find the girl, Scorpion,” he said seriously. “Just find the girl.”

“Is there a back way out of here?” the Scorpion asked.

Harris nodded and glanced at the curtained doorway.

“One more thing. You were our second choice on this. We pulled Chambers out of Istanbul last week. They found his body on the beach near Manama. Both his arms and legs had been cut off,” he added, his face bland and emotionless. All the CIA types were like that, the Scorpion mused. Always trying to show how cool and efficient they were.

“You son of a bitch,” the Scorpion whispered. He’d liked Chambers, who’d had a bigger repertoire of corny jokes than Bob Hope.

Harris grinned maliciously. He reminded the Scorpion of the Cheshire Cat. Then he shrugged, hands in pockets, like good old Jimmy Stewart, faithfully doing his job. “I just thought you ought to know, if you know what I mean.”