Andrew Kaplan - Scorpion Deception

At this point, when he aimed, he should be dead on.

The only other concern was the sound of the shot, which might alert the target in the event of a miss about a second after he fired. But the urban setting would make the sound reverberate, and thus harder to alert the target or identify the shooting source. Also, he didn’t intend to miss.

The downside was that from his location, if Zahra got into trouble, he would be too far away to help her. And then he heard one of Sadeghi’s men come in and say something.

“Hold her,” he heard Sadeghi respond, followed by a slap. “You jendeh !” Sadeghi shouted. “The safe house! They weren’t there!”

“Of course they weren’t there,” Zahra said. “Did you think they would wait around for you? They’re probably halfway out of the country.”

“No. Ghanbari wouldn’t just leave. He’d fight me. But it won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Let’s just say his closest associates are no longer in a position to help him,” Sadeghi said.

“Dead?”

“Forget about them. It’s the Swiss, Westermann, that concerns me.”

“You keep saying he’s CIA. What makes you so sure?” she asked.

What Sadeghi said next riveted Scorpion, sending a chill down his spine.

“I’m going to ask you something,” Sadeghi said. “It’s the most important question you have ever been asked. I’m only going to ask it once. Have you ever heard of ‘Scorpion’?” He used the Farsi word, aqrab . It was unmistakable. Scorpion.

He took his prone shooting position and sighted in, taking deep breaths to calm the sudden rapid beating of his heart. My God, what was this about? Through the scope he could see Sadeghi’s back. It blocked his view of Zahra, but he could just make out part of the face of one of Sadeghi’s men behind her, holding her arms.

But it confirmed that Sadeghi was the Gardener. Only the Gardener would know about Scorpion from the Bern CIA files.

“I don’t understand. Scorpion. No. Never,” she stammered. “Why?”

“Are you protecting him, jendeh ?” Sadeghi demanded. “Did you sleep with him?” using the vulgarity.

“No!” she cried. “I would have. It’s what VEVAK and General Vahidi jenab wanted, but I fell asleep. I think he put something in my drink.”

“Too late,” Sadeghi said. Through the scope, Scorpion saw him holding a pistol. “You’re tainted. And you haven’t told us where you are supposed to meet him.”

“I don’t know!” she pleaded. “Please, I don’t know where he is. I’d tell you if I did. I swear.”

“Don’t blaspheme, you jendeh whore. No one can trust you now. And the war coming,” Sadeghi said, aiming his pistol.

Scorpion aimed as well, held his breath and tightening his finger on the trigger.

“I don’t understand. .” she wailed. She knelt before him, grabbing at his knees. “I’ll find out. I’ll get him for you. I will. ”

“We need to know who this Westermann is. This is his visa photo. This is him, correct?” He showed her something.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is it possible he’s American, not Swiss?”

“I don’t know. He speaks French and English. And Farsi. I’ll find out for you,” she whispered.

“You’re wasting my time! You either know or you don’t,” Sadeghi said.

Scorpion took a long deep breath and held it; all his focus in the scope was on top of Sadeghi’s back. Sadeghi was going to kill her. He couldn’t hold off any longer.

“But why?” Zahra wailed. “Who is this Scorpion? Why is he so important?”

“You little fool! What do you think this is all about?” Sadeghi said, aiming at her head.

Scorpion fired.

The crack of the shot echoed over the buildings. A squadron of pigeons flew up from a distant roof. Through the scope, he saw Sadeghi jerk up for an instant and then he was gone. There was the briefest glimpse of Zahra’s terrified blood-splattered face looking up toward the window, the young man next to her moving forward, and then nothing, because Scorpion was already moving.

Even as he cleaned the gun with an antiseptic wipe and left it there, grabbing his pack and already running for the roof door, he felt his stomach heave. Zahra was on her own. He hoped she’d run and get away, but there was nothing he could do to help her. Worse, the entire universe had just shifted, and as he got into the elevator and rode down to the building lobby, Sadeghi’s statement blotted everything else out of his mind.

What do you think this is all about?

Bakaara Market,

Mogadishu, Somalia

“Will you come?” Ghedi asked her, tucking a belawa knife in the waist of his ma’awis .

“How do you know it’s her?” Sandrine asked. She was in her tent, getting ready for what had to be the most dangerous thing she had ever done. Shadows from passersby flickered past on the canvas siding from the blazing sunlight outside. “What do you know of this boy?”

“This boy. He is Labaan. Of Buur Hakuba. I know this place. It is not far from Baidoa.”

“But he is not of your clan. Turn around,” she ordered.

He complied. She fished inside a pair of Bensimon sneakers she kept inside her carry-on next to the cot and pulled out a thick wad of five hundred shilling bills. About 100,000 Somali shillings; sixty U.S. dollars. Plus three fifty-dollar bills. Total $210 U.S. It would have to be enough. It was all she had. She turned Ghedi back around and sat on the bunk so she could look levelly into his eyes.

“What makes him think it’s your sister? Did he know her?”

“He says her name. Amina. Six years old. This is right name, age. He say Al-Shabaab is bringing her to Mogadishu from Baidoa to be in the House of Flowers,” using the name for the children’s brothel. “Right time when she disappear. It must be Amina.”

“And how does this boy know of the House of Flowers? Does he work there?” she asked, going outside the tent. The camp was crowded, dusty and trash strewn. The heat was intense and she could smell the open ditch used as a public toilet. The South African, Van Zyl, was waiting near the road with a white Toyota SUV with the UNHCR decal painted on the side.

“His brother is oday ,” Ghedi said, using the Somali word for elder or boss.

“You mean his brother is a maquereau for children,” she said, a pimp, covering her head with a hijab , both for the sun and to appear less threatening to Somali men. “How can you trust this boy?”

“I don’t trust,” Ghedi said, touching the handle of his belawa knife. “I trust you, isuroon .”

“If it is your sister, Amina, there’s no guarantee we can get her out. All I can offer is money-not very much. If they say no, we might have to leave her.”

“If Amina is in this place, I will not leave her. Better to die,” he said, looking up at her.

She nodded. His mind was made up. If she didn’t come, it was almost certain they would kill him. As they reached the road, she stopped for a moment at a roadside stall, where two women were selling kashaato , squares of white coconut candy, one of them waving her hand to brush away the flies.

“For the children,” she said, paying the women, who counted out forty pieces of candy into a big plastic bag.

“This is a bloody stupid idea,” Van Zyl growled, getting into the SUV. She noticed he was wearing a pistol in a holster on his hip. “Have you any idea how dangerous this is?”

“You don’t need come, mzungu ,” Ghedi said to Van Zyl, climbing in. “ Isuroon and I, we can do this.”