“Go!” the Scorpion shouted as he pulled the key out of the ignition and flung himself out of the car. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Macready jump out of the other side and run with a fat man’s bouncing gait up the one-way street, now jammed with traffic completely corked by the accident. He looked back for the BMW as he watched Macready turn the corner and disappear. The Arabs had abandoned the BMW. He felt a sense of grim satisfaction that he had been right, they were coming after him, not Macready.

A symphony of noise exploded as angry Arabs pounded on their horns, cursing and calling upon Allah. The Scorpion headed up the one-way street, his spine tensed for the bullet that might come any second. He started towards the pavement, then hesitated for an instant. The narrow walks were jammed with bystanders swarming towards the accident. Instead, he began to weave in and out of the blocked cars, jumping over wings and locked bumpers. He risked a backward glance over his shoulder. They were still coming. He had to get off the street. Then he spotted the entrance to a small department store.

Just before he dodged through the crowd into the store, the Scorpion spotted the Arabs from the BMW shouldering their way through the crowd in a serious way. They were good, making way without raising too many eyebrows, he thought. They would try to bracket him. Get him to an isolated killing-ground, where hunter and prey would play the oldest game on earth.

At least they hadn’t brought the AK-47 because it was too conspicuous, he thought, waiting until he was sure they spotted him before he entered the store.

After the street the store was an oasis of quiet. The coolness of the air conditioning was like a caress. The store had just reopened after the midday siesta and there were only a few customers, mostly women veiled in black from head to toe, flitting among the racks like dark ghosts. Except for the signs in Arabic and that indelible scent of the Gulf made of mud and decay, he might have been in a suburban shopping mall anywhere.

It was difficult to force himself to walk not run as he made his way through the men’s clothing area. Time was short. The Arabs from the BMW would be in the store any second. He had to change the image, he thought, his eyes running urgently along the endless racks of overpriced suits.