“Ah, how sly you westerners are. But Allah sees everything,” the Scorpion said with a wink. He picked up the folded newspaper and they carried their drinks back to the car. As Macready was getting behind the wheel, the Scorpion shoved him over and took the driver’s seat.

“What’s up?” Macready asked.

“Something stinks, George—and it’s not the mud-flats.”

“Are you hot?” Macready asked, looking around nervously, as if they were already trapped.

“I shouldn’t be. Am I?” the Scorpion said, slipping the new I.D. and money out of Macready’s newspaper. When he passed it back to Macready, the film cartridge was folded inside.

“I was watched as I left the embassy. I’m sure I shook them in town, but it’s a little unnerving,” Macready said with a nervous laugh. “This is the first time it’s ever happened. It’s always been live and let live here. No one cares and everyone makes a few bucks on the side. That business about air conditioners is true. It’s amazing how much you can make with a little fiddle on the side.”

“Save it for the Junior Achievement Club, George,” the Scorpion said and was pleased to see Macready’s cheeks color. The hurt look was back in his eyes. Macready looked back at the Juice House.

“What’s all this about a hit?” Macready asked glumly.

“You don’t need all those players for just a hit. It may be tied to a coup,” the Scorpion said.

Something was wrong. He could feel it, like watching a wire being stretched tighter and tighter, waiting for it to snap. The animal part of his brain, honed by a million years of hunting and warfare, had recognized a danger signal, but had been unable to transmit what it was to his conscious mind.

“Who’s the target?” Macready asked.

“With Abdul Sa’ad in on it, my money is on King Salim,” the Scorpion said, checking the rear-view mirror. There were no new arrivals; no one stopping along the Corniche to see the view or pretending to have car trouble.

“What about the girl?” Macready asked, lighting a cigarette. His hand trembled and he had to shake the match twice.

“It all leads back to Abdul Sa’ad,” the Scorpion said.

“When and where is this alleged hit to take place?” Macready demanded. He stabbed out the just-lit cigarette as if he were crushing a bug. His thoughts were obvious. The Scorpion was putting him on the spot. The data was too thin. Washington would ream his ass on this one.

“I don’t know—yet. But it’s soon. They may have even moved their timetable up because I broke up their little powwow.”