“Hang on!” the Scorpion shouted. The rest of his words were lost in a deafening roar as the Pontiac exploded into a brilliant fireball. A blast of fiery air almost knocked them off the road.

The Chevy skidded against a traffic circle curb, the shock almost wrenching the wheel from the Scorpion’s hands. They bounced off the circle, grazing a blue Cadillac which had gone out of control. The driver, a Qatari businessman, stared in horror as his car started to roll over. The Cadillac turned on to its back, smashing into a gaudily painted van. The two vehicles slammed into a parked truck, just missing a car full of wide-eyed children. As the Chevy slued towards the pileup, the Scorpion twisted the wheel to fight the skid, sliding halfway across the road before straightening out.

As they pulled away, the accelerator jammed against the floorboard, he risked a glance at the rear-view mirror. The Pontiac and one of the Cadillacs were gone, obliterated. The other Cadillac where the women had been was a sheet of flame. The Sphinx and the Juice Bar next door were black twisted rubble. Only the sagging back walls remained. Another Juice House was burning rapidly. Black smoke built an immense column that could be seen for miles. Broken glass littered acres of ground.

And there was something else. A couple of hundred yards behind them and gaining fast was a black BMW 733i. Inside it were the two young Arabs from the Pontiac at the Juice Bar.

“My God! They tried to kill me,” Macready said, his face white. He grasped the dashboard so tightly, pools of blood collected under his fingernails.

“Not you, me,” the Scorpion snapped bitterly. Macready’s carelessness had put them on his trail again. What was worse, there was no way the Chevy was going to be able to outrun the BMW. Although he was flying down the Corniche, passing cars going sixty as if they were standing still, the BMW was still creeping closer.

The Scorpion turned the rear-view mirror so Macready could use it.

“Recognize either of those guys in the BMW?” he asked.

“No,” Macready said. Then he added “I’m sorry,” although the Scorpion wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for. Life, maybe.

The Scorpion remembered Koenig in his neat khaki uniform, balancing on the balls of his feet in that stifling Quonset hut in Virginia, telling them: “‘Sorry’ is a word for children and lovers’ quarrels. If you ever have to say ‘sorry’ in this business, it’ll mean somebody died because you fucked up.”

“What makes you so sure it’s you they’re after?” Macready asked.