Scorpion Read online

  She glanced at the car window. The vague dark shapes of fields and houses slid silently through the reflection of her face in the glass. He had turned off the périphérique to the A-6 Autoroute Sud towards Lyons. Wake up Kelly, she urgently told herself, but there was only the pain in her hands and the pain told her with a horrible certainty that it wasn’t a dream.

  She had spent her life living in a fool’s paradise, she told herself bitterly. One moment everything was just as it had always been and suddenly, it was as if she had taken a single step off a curb and the gutter had turned out to be a dark and bottomless pit. It was all the more shocking because the day had begun so well …

  It had been one of those rare sunny days in Paris when the city seems to shimmer with light, when the flowers in the Tuileries sparkle with color and when even the taxi drivers manage a smile now and then. She and Lori wanted to take advantage of the light and spent the morning snapping photos of the barges and flower stalls along the pea-green Seine from the Ile St. Louis. In the afternoon it had rained on and off. Strands of drops hung like pearls from the café awnings, each of them a tiny miniature of the street. In Paris, the summer rain is warm and teasing, like a brief flirtation.

  They went shopping for an umbrella at the Galeries Lafayette near the Opéra. It was still raining when they came out and they stopped off for a kir at the nearby Café de la Paix to wait it out. She remembered how they laughed when an American woman at a nearby table had slipped the Dubonnet ashtray into her purse, self-righteously assuring her husband that “they expect you to take it.”

  When the contact came, it wasn’t at all what she’d expected. They met Randy, a long-haired American in jeans searching for the ghosts of ’68 at the café. He was with Jean-Paul, a good-looking would-be actor. They went to the Bois and passed around some joints and wound up at Ondine’s. The crowded chrome-plated club on the rue de Ponthieu was one of the places that everyone went to, if only to say they’d been there. Later, they all climbed into Jean-Paul’s battered Renault and went to a party on a private barge moored near the Pont d’Iena.

  The party was packed with people shouting in a dozen languages and soon the barge began to glide down the river. There was a stereo blasting in the salon and couples danced, while women wearing originals from the rue Sainte Honoré shrieked as they greeted each other, as though they hadn’t seen each other in twenty years. The air reeked of perfume and the unique smell of Paris, that unmistakable melange of garlic, Gauloise smoke and café au lait. Lori and Randy disappeared and Jean-Paul was taken in tow by Angela, an attractive blonde, in her forties at least, Kelly thought cattily, who had once appeared in a Truffaut film.

  Kelly wished someone would ask her to dance, but the men seemed afraid to approach her, somehow intimidated by her classic blond beauty. She wondered if she would always feel that way. Once, when she was a teenager, her father had said, “Beauty can be as much of a burden as ugliness, kiddo.” In school, the boys who had always been so brash, would fall silent and nudge each other when she went by. As she passed, she could feel their hot eyes on her body. She remembered how Brad would always stammer, “You’re so beautiful” in the car, before they began their nightly tussle.

  “Beauty is only skin deep,” she had snapped, when she finally realized that all he was after was to brag that he had screwed the prettiest girl in the school.

  “Who wants more … a cannibal?” he had retorted with a silly grin, and he couldn’t understand why she had began to cry.

  She stepped outside the salon and found a spot not occupied by the embracing couples. Beauty didn’t merely snare those attracted to it, it trapped its owners forever, she thought.

  She stood at the rail, holding a glass of wine and watching reflections of the city lights shattered like glass on the surface of the Seine. The light breeze of the boat’s passage ruffled her hair and she could hear the sounds of the stereo in the salon, thumping its way through an old Beatles tune. She was still annoyed because of the way Jean-Paul was acting. He was dancing with Angela, his slim tan body tightly pressed against hers, and he was murmuring something that made Angela’s eyes burn as though with fever. Just an hour before, at the club, he had told Kelly that she was brilliant, truly “éclatante” and now he was probably telling Angela the same thing. He couldn’t be the one, she thought. The boat was approaching the Pont de la Tournelle and ahead she could see the spotlighted towers of Notre Dame, bathed in white light. She remembered thinking that it was so beautiful and somehow sad too and her eyes began to water.

  “Vous êtes triste, mademoiselle?” a modulated masculine voice said and she turned and saw him standing there. He was tall and dark, with soft brown eyes in a handsome triangular face. He was wearing an expensive blue suit, obviously cut by a London tailor who knew what he was doing. His dark curly hair was cut short and neat and she felt her heart flutter like a bird ruffling its feathers.

  “What was that?” she stammered in English and her glance involuntarily shot over at Jean-Paul and Angela.

  “He is handsome, yes, but he is also a fool,” he said with a wry smile, following her glance.

  “What makes you say that?” she asked.

  “Mon chèr papa used to say that the true fool smiles even as he exchanges gold for brass,” he replied in a musically accented English. He told her his name was Gerard. They stood at the rail, chatting about nothing and watching the city lights as the barge slid silently down the river.

  It wasn’t until later, after he had brought her the champagne, that she had begun to feel sick. She had thrown up twice in the toilette by the time the barge tied up near the Pont Neuf. Suddenly she straightened, as the realization hit her. He had drugged her! It was the champagne! He had planned it all along, she realized miserably. At the time she thought he was being generous, offering to drive her back to the hotel in his gleaming white Mercedes. Lori had offered to come back with her, but she hadn’t wanted to spoil it for Lori, who was clearly taken with Randy and it seemed silly not to go with Gerard. Besides, she was too miserable to argue. She had felt so awful that she hadn’t really paid attention to where they were going until, instead of turning up the rue de Chateaubriand to the hotel, he entered the whirl of lights around the Etoile. When they recrossed the Seine to the Left Bank, she knew something was terribly wrong.

  The first time she told Gerard he was going the wrong way, he simply ignored her. His profile stared fixedly at the windshield. She repeated herself, raising her voice and he viciously slapped her face with the back of his hand. Something exploded inside her and she clawed at him, yelling for him to let her out. He hit her again and showed her the gun and her world blew apart like a house of feathers in a strong breeze, just like that.

  Her mind raced. She knew she had to get away before he took her out of the center of town. There must be some people still awake she thought desperately. She told him she was going to be sick again and he carefully pulled over. Given the way she felt, it was hardly a lie. Fortunately, the door wasn’t locked then and she opened it and bent over as if to throw up. But instead, she rolled head over heels the way she used to in high-school gym and was momentarily blocked from his view by the wing. She desperately scrambled on all fours around a parked car and began to run, her spine tensed for the impact of a bullet. She ran wildly, terrified that she might slip because of her high heels. When she rounded the corner into the shadows of the rue de Seine, she briefly thought she might make it. But she never really had a chance, she realized dully.

  They turned off the autoroute near Fontainebleau and drove down a country road overhung with dark and ancient trees. It felt as if they were entering a primordial forest. Every so often Gerard glanced over at her, his eyes dark and calculating. Mercifully, her hands had gone numb, but she felt a terrible urge to urinate. She squeezed her legs together to hold it in, like a child. Then he pulled into a dark driveway and left the car to open an old metal gate. She briefly thought of running again, but how and where? She was helpl
ess.

  He drove the car past the gate, then went and locked it. She felt a warm flush between her thighs and wondered if she had wet herself. Then he drove up to a dark house, with a single light in one of the windows. He hauled her out of the Mercedes and unlocked the front door. There was a murmur of voices coming from what appeared to be the living room. Then a small dark-skinned man peered from the doorway. Kelly was about to beg him to help her, when she realized that he didn’t seem in the least surprised to see her.

  “Tout va bien?” the man said to Gerard, in a harsh voice that grated like fingernails on metal.

  “Pas des problems,” Gerard replied. No, no problems. She had been easy as pie, she thought miserably. Gerard led her down a dimly lit stairway to a tiny room lit by the harsh glare of a naked bulb and walled with whitewashed stone. Except for a narrow bed and a dirty sink, the room was bare as a nun’s cell. Gerard clicked open a long stiletto blade. It glittered like ice.

  “Please … don’t kill me … oh, please,” she gasped.

  “Kill you,” Gerard frowned. “Pas de tout. You’re worth more to me than that, ma petite.”

  He cut the knots tying her wrists and stepped away, as she rubbed them gratefully, the pain flooding into her fingers.

  “Here, clean up,” he said, tossing a towel at her.

  “Thank you,” she said, her eyes blurred with tears. She took her time washing, trying to find some sense of normality in the everyday actions. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. He looked so handsome, even approving.

  “Bien,” he murmured and she felt a strange gratitude. Perhaps he wouldn’t kill her after all, she thought.

  “Take off your clothes,” he ordered.

  “Yes, anything,” she whispered, and began to unbutton her dress with clumsy fingers. When she had stripped down to her bra and panties, she looked expectantly at him, but he just stood there. Confused, she hesitantly unhooked her bra and then, after a moment, stepped out of her panties.

  “Do you want me to lay down?” she asked, motioning at the bed. If there was a bulge in his pants, she couldn’t see it.

  “Just stand there,” he snapped irritably.

  Then she heard the heavy steps of men coming down the wooden stairs. Four men in suits entered the room and studied her as if she were in a cage at the zoo. One looked like a fat, graying French businessman with dark, beady eyes and a moustache which he twitched like a rodent. The other three were dark-skinned. Algerians or Arabs, she guessed. One of the Arabs, a scrawny man with a scar on his cheek and long hairs growing out of his nose, came up to her and fondled her breasts. He breathed heavily in her face and she thought she was going to pass out. His breath was foul, as if he fed on carrion. A tear edged its way out of the corner of her eye. Then another Arab gestured for her to bend over. She closed her eyes and felt his harsh fingers probing. She felt their hands all over her, moving her this way and that, as though she was a giant plastic doll. She let them do what they wanted, thinking Kelly’s not here. Kelly’s far away with her Daddy and her Mommy who are still married and they still love their little girl.

  Then the hands were gone and when she opened her eyes, they had gathered in a circle and were babbling furiously in French. She felt her legs were about to collapse under her and somehow made it to the edge of the bed and sat down. Every once in a while, one of the men would glance over at her. She looked pleadingly at Gerard, but his eyes were cold and calculating; they followed the conversation back and forth as though it were a tennis ball.

  They were arguing and although her French wasn’t good enough to understand all the words, she had the strange impression that they were bidding for her. It was almost as if it was an auction and she was the prize, she thought and then shook her head, because that seemed more bizarre than anything else that had happened tonight. It just couldn’t be, she thought.

  When she looked up, they had stopped talking and were all looking expectantly at her. One of the Arabs gave Gerard a thick roll of money and Gerard smiled crookedly at her. Then he was gone. A tall, thin Arab said something and the others laughed harshly. It sounded like dogs barking.

  “Why not?” the ugly Arab with the bad breath said suddenly in English and she knew that he wanted her to understand. “Nobody expects a western woman to be virgin,” and the men laughed again. Kelly looked down at her naked breasts, watching drops of water trickle down, not even aware that she was crying. Kelly’s not here. Kelly’s gone away, the voice inside her kept saying.

  She felt their hot breath as they gathered around her like a wolf pack closing in for the kill. The fat gray-haired Frenchman came closer and grunted something. Teardrops spattered on her breasts, weaving tiny streams on her skin. Then Kelly looked up defiantly, her eyes large and luminous. Once, a handsome young district attorney she had dated briefly had told her that her eyes should be registered as a lethal weapon. But they didn’t seem to have any effect on these men. The fat Frenchman harshly pushed her back on the bed.

  One by one, the men in the room began to undress.

  Pakistan

  THE SAFE HOUSE was a small copper and brass shop in the Misgaran Bazaar. Over the doorway hung a corrugated metal awning which made it indistinguishable from the other shops and stalls crowded along the Street of the Storytellers. Near the front of the shop, a brass coffee pot with its lid open sat on the upside-down copper kettle. It was the signal that it was clear to approach, but still he held back. The Russians had put a price on his head and Peshawar was thick with men who would stick a knife in someone’s back for a dollar and give you back change.

  The street shimmered in the afternoon heat, as throngs of Pakistanis and turbanned Pathan tribesmen and women veiled in white from head to foot haggled in the bazaar. The air was ripe with the smells of animals and herbs, meat roasting over charcoal braziers and sweetish scents of khat and hashish smoke, that unmistakable scent of the Orient which whispers of ancient sins. Motor scooters weaved through the crowd, buzzing like giant insects in the gas haze.

  Near the corner, a blind storyteller sat under a canvas awning, calling to passers-by in Urdu and Pushtu. From an unseen loudspeaker near the mosque came the tinny wail of a Pakistani love song. In the distance, sunlight turned the parapets of Bala Hisar to gold, like a fairy-tale castle. The huge brick fortress towered over the city as it had since the time of the Moguls, the sun casting its shadow far across the sea of rooftops. Soon it would be time for dusk prayers.

  “In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful,” the blind storyteller said and began to tell the story of how the great Afridi leader, the Fakir of Ipi, had annihilated a British regiment in the shadow of the holy mountain, Shahur Tangi. A small crowd of old men and wide-eyed boys clustered around the storyteller. Near the edge of the crowd, a Pathan in a dark brown robe casually gazed over at the copper shop, rapidly quartering the street in a single glance. The Pathan was taller than most tribesmen, his body wiry and desert-hardened. He sat listening to the storyteller, with the deadly stillness of a beast of prey. With his dark stubbly beard and skin burned mahogany by the sun, only the most careful observer would have spotted him as a westerner by his features and cold gray eyes. Yet he was noticed.

  A dark-skinned Mahsud, still in his teens, couldn’t resist stealing a shy glance at the foreigner, although he knew that no one was to speak of him. The moujahadeen of the Khyber said that he was a great warrior. Others said that he was an escaped murderer. Wherever he went, he was followed by whispers. No one even knew his name. Among the tribes he was known only by his code name. They called him “the Scorpion.”

  The storyteller spoke of how the tribesmen had shot down the British biplanes with their breech-loading rifles and there was a murmur from the crowd. Did not the moujahadeen do the same to the godless Russians? Were they not men like their fathers? Then he told of how the great Fakir, who could not be defeated in battle, was finally slain by treachery. The crowd grumbled threateningly. The soul of the infidel wa
s black with sin.

  “It is said that the British cut out his heart. It was placed in a gold box lined with silk and sent to a museum in London city. The heart weighed ten pounds. Who can doubt it?” declared the storyteller.

  A tonga piled high with oranges and pulled by a water buffalo rumbled slowly down the dusty street. They always reminded the Scorpion of the carts in Vietnam. The memory reeked with the smells of nuoc mam and cordite and as always, he immediately pushed it away. He stood up and moved towards the shop, using the cart for cover. For a moment, the storyteller’s glance caught his, the sightless eyes covered with a milk-white glaze, like the eyes of a statue. They made him uneasy, as though the old man could see him. It’s nothing, he’s blind, the Scorpion told himself as he moved with a fluid ground-eating stride alongside the tonga.

  When the young Mahsud glanced over again, the Scorpion had simply disappeared.

  The shop was cool after the blazing heat of the street. It was empty, except for a fat, sweating Pakistani in a white robe, who rose like a jinn from behind a large copper urn. The merchant bowed his head and touched his hand to his heart.

  “Sahib Khattak?” the Scorpion asked.

  “You honor my shop, Sahib,” the man said and bowed again.

  “Have you the copper lamp I ordered? The one with a tiger’s face?”

  “There are no tigers in Peshawar, Sahib,” Khattak said, glancing anxiously at the bright street outside, looking for eyes that looked back.

  “There are tigers that smile in Islamabad,” the Scorpion replied, completing the sequence.

  Khattak went to the front of the shop and noisily pulled the metal shutter across the doorway, sealing them in the suddenly dim light, as in a tomb. When he turned back to the Scorpion, he held a .45 automatic in his hand.