“Does Nuruddin have a connection with Prince Abdul Sa’ad?” the Scorpion asked. Now he knew why they needed an outsider and why no one wanted to touch it with a ten-foot pole. It was the kind of log that might come crashing down on you if you weren’t careful, and if you did manage to turn it over, God only knew what slimy things might crawl out.

“Do you know the Place of the Tombs near Sar?” al-Amir asked.

The Scorpion nodded.

“Nuruddin and the prince are meeting there tonight … secretly. Perhaps you might find what you’re looking for,” al-Amir said. His face revealed nothing, as though he wore one of those black face-masks still worn by the older Gulf women. The Scorpion flushed angrily.

“Is that where Chambers went?” he demanded. Al-Amir looked as shocked as if the Scorpion had reached for food with his left hand, the most unforgivable breach of manners possible.

The color drained out of Braithwaite’s face as though a plug had been pulled in his neck. “Now … now … hardly cricket, old lad,” he stuttered.

“Just checking,” the Scorpion grinned. He felt like the commander of the Light Brigade who’s just been given his orders and knows it’s a fuck-up and that there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it, except go charging like an asshole into the Valley of Death. “This isn’t a business for heroes. Guts stand about as much chance against brains and logistics as a rabbit in a tiger cage,” Koenig had told them once. Well, what would Koenig do if he were here now, the Scorpion wondered. He didn’t really want to think about that, because he suspected that Koenig would be looking for the emergency exit at this point. Almost superstitiously his fingers touched the pocket where he kept the girl’s photo. Although she didn’t know he existed, he was really all she had. He took a deep breath, because it was time to show his hole card and he didn’t know whether he was holding an ace or a deuce.

“Just remember, it’s the girl I’m after,” the Scorpion said.

“Allah be praised,” al-Amir murmured, piously raising his hands.

“Quite … quite,” Braithwaite said, nervously pouring himself a glassful. His eyes were teary and the Scorpion wondered if Braithwaite was remembering him as a skinny teenager in the desert, all those years ago. The Scorpion nodded at the old man and stood up. They looked at each other for a long moment, both of them remembering their first meeting in the flat searing plain near Wadi er Rumania. They had both changed so much since then, it was something of a miracle that they could still recognize each other. Or perhaps old friends don’t really recognize each other, perhaps they just acknowledge the walking images of their memories, he thought.

“Good seeing you again,” the Scorpion said.

“Salaam, asayid … Shaw,” al-Amir murmured.