“Abdul Sa’ad, Nuruddin, the PLO, Yemenis and a European, probably a Latin,” the Scorpion ticked them off on his fingers. Suddenly, he straightened.

“They talked about a hit. It’s a coup, isn’t it?”

“The m-m-man who would be k-k-king,” Braithwaite murmured.

The Scorpion put down his drink and stood up, casting his shadow across Braithwaite’s face. He took a deep breath and the smell of the eucalyptus tree from the tiny courtyard filled his nostrils. He put his hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. It was like holding a broom handle.

“So long, Ralph. Salaam.”

Braithwaite looked up, his eyes red and teary.

“What are you g-g-going to do about me, Nicky?”

“I’m turning you in once I get to Arabia. You’ve got about twenty-four hours’ head start. Hide, Ralph. Just don’t let them find you.”

“Where would I go, Nicky? God, I love this place … the souk … the dar … the women veiled like ghosts, the men puffing at their narguilehs … Amair. I love the bloody wogs and I think they l-l-love me too,” Braithwaite said breathlessly.

“I know, Ralph,” the Scorpion said quietly.

“There’s nowhere to g-g-go, Nicky. Don’t you know that?”

“I know, habibi, I know,” the Scorpion said, closing the door quietly behind him.

After a moment Braithwaite went and stood by the window, listening to the footsteps fading in the darkness. In the distance he could hear the faint barking of a dog. He poured himself another drink and swallowed it with a shudder. It had been a close call; only he knew how close. He had survived because the Scorpion thought he was too old.

He paused in front of a small bronze-framed mirror speckled with yellowing spots and patted down a stray hair. Old isn’t dead, he thought. He liked the sound of that and said it out loud.

“I may be old, b-b-but I’m not d-d-dead yet, am I, darling?” he said, pausing to stroke the cobra. The snake flared its hood and stared back with its unblinking gaze.

The Scorpion sat cross-legged on the prow of an old wooden dhow, its lateen sail bellied out with the breeze. The deck rolled as the fishing boat slid through the dark waves. The night was full of stars and the wooden deck was rank with the oily smell of barracuda, the usual catch. Back at the stern, the old nakhoda kept one arm on the tiller while he brewed coffee on a small primus stove. The only sound was the young boy, the nakhoda’s son, singing an ancient shanty in a clear voice, punctuated by the slapping of the waves against the hull.

Oh Allah, be my guardian,

Oh Allah, watch over me always,

Oh Allah, bring me home again,

To the one who waits for me.