“You don’t really expect me to transmit such crap, do you? It’s all speculation, damn it!” Macready exploded. He looked suspiciously out of the corner of his eye, as though the Scorpion was trying to pass him a bad check. “What are you up to? Is this something you and Harris cooked up?” he demanded, his voice going up a full octave.

“You’ve grown fat, George,” the Scorpion said mildly, unable to keep the distaste out of his voice. With Macready as the case officer, the way he was now, it was hopeless. He’d have to dump Macready and let Washington handle it.

“I know. I’m not the man I was,” Macready said suddenly, looking at him with that even-featured American face that would remain boyish well into middle age. “Ever since Saigon,” he added softly.

Now how do you deal with a man like that? the Scorpion thought. One minute he had you going and the next he had you feeling sorry for him.

“This is the way back,” the Scorpion said. “You’ve got to convince those assholes that a coup is going down—and soon.”

“It’s too thin. They won’t believe me,” Macready said pathetically. Macready looked down at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him. He picked up and smoothed the half-crushed cigarette. He didn’t relight it.

“Send a CRITIC, George. Wake them up.”

“I’ll pass it on. That’s all I can do,” Macready said glumly.

“I was in Nam, too. Remember. I’m not the enemy,” the Scorpion said.

He was sweating, but it wasn’t the memory of Nam that did it. He had to get away. Now. Something inside him was screaming that it was all wrong. But what was the missing piece, the face hidden in the foliage?

He touched the ignition key, hesitated, then started the car.

“What is it?” Macready asked, startled.

“Who are they after—you or me?” the Scorpion murmured aloud, almost to himself. Macready didn’t answer, but his hands began to shake again.

Then the Scorpion suddenly realized what was wrong. The two Arabs in white dishdashas hadn’t returned to their Pontiac. He had checked out the Corniche in the rear-view mirror again and when he had looked back at the Juice Bar they were gone. Even before he had completed the thought, he had thrown the car into reverse. The wheels spun wildly and he caught a powerful whiff of burnt rubber. Macready was jerked forward almost into the windshield. The tires howled as the Scorpion backed out on to the Corniche and slammed into drive. The Chevy fishtailed as he floored the accelerator, then straightened as he raced towards the harbor. The Juice Bar began to recede in the rear-view mirror.

“What the hell …” Macready began.