Seeing a black-veiled woman chatting with a salesgirl near the opening of the partitioned women’s clothing area gave him an idea. It was the element of surprise he needed, because it was the one thing no Arab would ever think of. He was debating whether to try it when he saw the outside door begin to open, and before the two Arabs came in he was on his hands and toes, crawling crab-like between the racks of clothes towards the women’s partition.

If only they didn’t come this way first, the Scorpion thought, sweat streaming down his face. He crouched by the partition, hesitating. Now luck was everything, because if anyone spotted him on the women’s side, they would raise an outcry that would wake the dead.

The sound of a carpeted footstep on the other side of the rack he was crouching behind froze his blood. Without thinking, he slipped silently behind the women’s partition. The footsteps had stopped and he could visualize the Arab standing there, listening.

He cautiously peered over the top of a rack of women’s black full-length veils. A fat woman shopper in western dress was heading right towards him. Fortunately she hadn’t seen him yet. In desperation the Scorpion grabbed one of the veils marked Extra Large and threw it over his head. He cautiously straightened up. The veil covered him from head to the bottom of his trousers. Because of his height he would have to walk with his knees bent, but only his man’s sandals might give him away.

He began to walk openly down the aisle, counting on the notion of a man in a woman’s veil being too outlandish for Arabs to even consider. But his security was as flimsy as the veil itself, he knew. He had to get something to cut down the odds, something quieter than a Walther automatic. What made it harder wasn’t just that there were two of them, but that he needed to get one of them alive. They only had to kill him.

He headed for the kitchenware section and began to examine the kitchen knives. A salesgirl started to come over. The Scorpion turned away, his heart pounding. He faced a display of plates with a French country pattern, no doubt mass-produced in Korean sweatshops. The salesgirl was still heading towards him. She looked at him oddly, as if trying to make up her mind about something. He was sure she had spotted something wrong. He had to do something.

“What is that on your face? Is it lipstick or blood?” the Scorpion said in a falsetto voice.

The salesgirl looked at him wide-eyed, as if he was from Mars.

“What’s the matter with your face? Quick, go find a mirror,” the Scorpion whispered intently, pointing at her face.