“Was it someone new?”
“What do you want me to say?”
Scorpion kicked his knee again.
“Was it?”
“Of course someone new,” al-Zuhrahi snapped. “Another American. That was of immediate interest.”
Ramis, Scorpion thought.
“You had someone put the Trojan horse software on Peterman’s laptop. Then after the ambush in Ma’rib failed, you had him killed.”
“So you say.”
“How did you know Peterman was CIA? His laptop?”
“You’ll never know,” al-Zuhrahi said grimly. The realization that he was not going to survive had hit him. His expression was set.
“It was your men who killed him, wasn’t it?” Scorpion said. “One last thing. What do you know about Scorpion?”
“A jinn. A name to frighten children. He doesn’t exist.”
“You knew Peterman had met with Scorpion?” Scorpion said, kicking al-Zuhrahi’s knee again, causing him to gasp in agony.
“We knew it was on his laptop! That’s all, inshallah!”
“This Scorpion, what does he look like?” Scorpion said, putting the Glock back in his calf holster and taking the prosthesis with the bad teeth out of his mouth. He took out a packet of makeup remover wipes and began removing the dark skin coloring from his face.
“I don’t know,” al-Zuhrahi said, staring wide-eyed as Scorpion wiped the makeup off. There was no flicker of recognition in his eyes, Scorpion thought excitedly. Al-Zuhrahi didn’t know what Scorpion looked like. His identity was safe.
He finished removing the color from his face and hands and put the used wipes and prosthesis in his pocket. Then he moved behind al-Zuhrahi and knelt on his knees. After knocking al-Zuhrahi’s shaal off, he pulled his head up by his hair, the jambiya knife in his other hand. The steel blade gleamed in the sun.
“Wait,” al-Zuhrahi said desperately. From his voice, it was clear he knew he was about to die. “Who are you doing this for?”
“Myself,” Scorpion said.
“What are you talking about? I’ve never seen you before.”
“I had to be sure of that. But there’s something else.” Scorpion hesitated. He had never put it into words before. In a way, the fact that he was telling someone who was about to die made being honest imperative. “When someone on your team is lost, even if you didn’t know him or even if you couldn’t stand him, you can’t just let it go. It’s why men seek Allah. Because things need to be made right.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Scorpion said, thinking, This is for McElroy. And Peterman. And Alyona. And me, drawing the curved edge of the blade across al-Zuhrahi’s throat.
Chapter Forty-One
Constanta
Romania
The two men approached from opposite directions on the promenade by the Casino, a massive art nouveau building on a promontory overlooking the Black Sea. The promenade was along the seafront with nothing else around, so it was easy to spot if there were any watchers or tails. The two men were alone as they walked toward each other. The wind blew off the choppy waves, sending a chill spray over the deserted seawall. Shaefer wore an overcoat and a black sheepskin hat, Scorpion a Burberry raincoat. For a moment they stood facing each other.
“Are we still friends?” Shaefer said.
“Let’s walk,” Scorpion said.
They walked side by side around the curve of the promontory, past hotels and palm trees swaying in the wind. It was cold and there were no sailboats out on the water, only the distant silhouette of a freighter on the horizon. In summer, Constanta was a crowded resort town, but in winter the city had the deserted feel of a carnival that had closed.
“They say this is where Jason brought the Golden Fleece,” Shaefer said, gesturing vaguely at the seacoast. Scorpion didn’t answer. For a time they just walked.
“You took care of al-Zuhrahi?” Shaefer said.
“He was working with al Qaeda. He was responsible for McElroy and Peterman,” Scorpion said, pulling his collar up against the chill. “What about this guy, Ramis?”
Shaefer grimaced. “Don’t ask. Fucking pickle factory,” using one of the insider slang names for the CIA.
Scorpion stopped walking, and Shaefer did too.
“Who’s protecting him? Not Harris?”
“Not Harris,” Shaefer agreed, and they started walking again. “You heard about Kulyakov?”
“I saw something about a mutilated body found in one of the old Stalin tunnels in the online Kyiv Post. ”
“Whoever it was took their time. They spent two days and nights cutting pieces from him before they burnt him alive. There’s a rumor it was a Syndikat hit. SBU was buzzing, then suddenly the case was closed,” Shaefer said, glancing sideways at Scorpion. “Must’ve cost someone a pretty penny.”
“Couldn’t have happened to anyone more deserving,” Scorpion said.
They walked on along the promenade. A young Gypsy woman was sitting on the pavement by the rail overlooking the sea. As they approached, she got up and came toward them.
“ Pleaka!” Shaefer snapped. Go away! For a moment she kept coming, then looked at his expression and how big he was and stopped. She watched them walk by, her dark hair blowing in the wind. “Gypsies, beggars, and thieves. That’s this whole country. You know the joke? You’re traveling on a train in Europe. How do you know when you’ve reached Romania?”
“How?” Scorpion said, a faint listening-to-a-joke-smile on his lips.
“Keep looking at your watch. When it isn’t there, you’re in Romania,” Shaefer said. “Look,” he pointed at a dilapidated blue building with a faded sign. “There’s a cafe. It’s crap, but we can get out of this wind.”
They went into the cafe and sat at a table by the window. At that hour there were only two other customers, an old couple who were sitting at a table reading newspapers and not talking to each other. Music came from a radio on the counter; a male singer was singing a bizarre combination of Romanian doina and Eurotrash rock. Scorpion looked out the window at the empty promenade and the choppy gray water against the gray sky and wondered if this winter would ever end. The waiter came over.
“You want some brandy?” Shaefer asked.
Scorpion indicated no. “Just a Turkish coffee.”
“Doua cafea Turceasca si cozonac,” Shaefer ordered. He turned back to Scorpion. “How are you doing?”
“I’m okay,” Scorpion said. “It took a while, but I’m all right.”
Shaefer leaned toward him. “It was the job. I had no choice. It was either lie to you or blow the mission. For the record, I hated it. Every minute.”
“I wasn’t too crazy about it myself,” Scorpion said.
“I’m sorry,” Shaefer said.
The waiter put down the coffee and two brioches on the table.
“How’s Iryna?” Scorpion said after the waiter left.
“She’s heading the opposition in the Verkhovna Rada. She’s making a name for herself. But things are deteriorating. You heard Kozhanovskiy’s in Lukyanivska Prison?”
“My old stomping grounds.”
“He’s been charged with taking bribes. A bit ironic considering he was probably the only politician in the country who wasn’t on the take, but there it is.”
