“Maybe the bank forgot to stamp his deposit slip,” the Scorpion said and the two men chuckled. While the gleaming row of banks on Government Road had become the money center of the Middle East ever since Beirut had fallen apart, Prince Abdul Sa’ad could have one of his retainers do all the banking he needed by telephone from Riyadh.

“I knew him as a b-b-boy … selfish little b-bugger,” Braithwaite remarked. The Scorpion looked at him curiously. It was a serious charge. A true Bedu would rather die than be labeled “selfish.” Everything belongs to Allah. To be selfish about possessions was to deny God what was rightfully his. Arabs judged a man not by what he kept, but by what he gave away.

“They say he likes western women … very much western women,” al-Amir said, wrinkling his nose with distaste. It was probably incomprehensible to al-Amir, who like most Arabs undoubtedly liked his women fleshy, functional and obedient.

“So do I,” the Scorpion grinned.

“Too skinny,” al-Amir sniffed. “They think they are men in disguise.”

“That’s how we like them,” the Scorpion smiled.

“You’re a Giaour. For you there is no hope,” al-Amir grinned back. It was like old home week, the Scorpion thought. Next they’d be discussing the World Cup finals.

“Blondes,” Braithwaite put in, his eyes beginning to dull with the whisky.

“What was that?” the Scorpion replied, putting down his drink. His eyes had gone icy gray, like winter frost. They were finally getting down to it.

“They say he’s p-partial to long-haired blondes, habibi,” Braithwaite said, nervously glancing at al-Amir for support. The Scorpion’s eyes were cold as stainless steel as he glanced at the two men. No wonder Harris had warned him away from the station in Riyadh and told him to report through poor George Macready in Doha. He had known George in Nam and he supposed that they had posted Macready to a shit-hole like Qatar for the unpardonable sin of opposing Company policy in Southeast Asia and being proven right. He had thought at the time that Harris was doing it to protect his cover from a leaky embassy, but that wasn’t it at all. They were telling him that the snatch reached into the Saudi royal family itself. Of course they were running scared. It was political, after all. Nobody would want to touch it. As for the girl, nobody gave a shit about her … except maybe him, he thought.

“Sheikh al-Khatifa is curious about Prince Abdul Sa’ad’s recent visits,” al-Amir said, playing nervously with his prayer beads.