The Scorpion suddenly turned into the empty center of the oval and hit the gas. He tore down the runway as though he were taking off. The Mercedes’ lights flashed in the rear-view mirror, coming fast behind him. As he neared the inevitable collision at the end of the oval, he spun the car 180 degrees and headed back. Behind him he heard the gratifying sound of tearing metal as the Mercedes ploughed into the front end of a white Buick. Driving away, he heard the sounds of furious arguing, as the Bahraini from the Buick pounded his wing and called upon Allah to witness the perfidy of German cars. The Scorpion was grinning as he turned up the road to Manama, while behind him dozens of angry fists were shaken at him, cursing his descendants for a hundred generations.

Manama

Manama

BRAITHWAITE LIVED IN A TINY FLAT in the old Arab Quarter, near the arches of the Bab al-Bahrain which had once been the gateway to the ancient walled city. It was in a small stone house on a narrow street, hidden in a warren of adobe houses and shops. The Englishman was well known in the quarter and he would spend hours at a small dar next door, sipping tea and smoking his pipe, its stem gnawed away as though by a rat, while the men of the street would puff at their narguilehs and discuss the latest gossip. Although it was almost midnight and the dusty street was dark and empty, the Scorpion wasn’t surprised to see a light in Braithwaite’s curtained window. He could hear the sound of the BBC’s Overseas Service on the radio. The announcer was saying something about a meeting in San’a between the representatives of North and South Yemen, mediated by the Russians. The Scorpion knocked on the door and the radio was turned off. When Braithwaite saw who it was, he just stood there blinking in frustrated confusion, the way a tennis player who’s completely missed the ball looks at his racket.

“Nicky … My G-G-God! What happened?” Braithwaite said, using a name the Scorpion hadn’t heard in a long time.

“It was a rough party,” the Scorpion shrugged as Braithwaite led him into the room and closed the door. Braithwaite’s worried face seemed bright, almost festive as he bustled around the sink, fetching a basin, antiseptic ointments and bandages. His color was high and the Scorpion could have sworn that the old rogue had applied rouge to his cheeks and outlined his eyes with kohl. The effect on his wrinkled skin was grotesque, like lipstick on a corpse. Passing a mirror, Braithwaite paused to smooth his hair and flick a speck of lint from his white thaub, like a girl primping for a date.