Scorpion Betrayal by Andrew Kaplan Page A

against me because of my work in our holy cause?” He stepped closer to the table and held out his hand. “Either kill me now and burn forever in
jahannam
or give me the gun, Brother.”
    The bearded man’s eyes darted around, looking at his friends and followers. Everyone was riveted on the confrontation. One of the Moroccans from the van started to pull his gun out of a shoulder holster, then stopped halfway. From outside the warehouse came the sound of a car honking in traffic. No one moved. The bearded man’s fingers tightened on the gun. The Palestinian could see specks of dust floating in the shafts of sunlight coming through the high warehouse window, and he wondered if it would be the last thing he ever saw. At last the bearded man exhaled. Without a word, he pushed the gun on the table toward the Palestinian.
    â€œAllahu akbar,”
God is great, the Palestinian said, picking up the gun. The others started to echo
“Allahu akbar”
when the Palestinian aimed the gun and shot the bearded man in the head, the shot ringing unbelievably loud in the silence. One of the women gave out a muffled cry as the body slumped to the side of the chair.
    The Palestinian turned on the group and stared at them. “Our moment of truth has come. There can be only one leader here,” he said, and told them what he wanted them to do.
    â€œW here do you want the delivery?” Francesca said, tossing her long blond hair, her dark roots showing only at the part. They were having dinner in a small exclusive restaurant in Milan, near Sempione Park.
    â€œIn Torino,” the Palestinian said, and told her the name of the street. He was eating the best Piedmontese veal
battutu
he’d ever tasted, washed down with an excellent Sagrantino wine. “Just deliver it and walk away.”
    â€œAnd the money?”
    â€œBefore your men go two meters, they will have the rest of the money.”
    â€œYou understand with the Camorra, you don’t get two chances?” she said.
    â€œYou aren’t afraid to talk about the Camorra here?” he said, looking around at the well-dressed diners at nearby tables.
    â€œWhy not? I own this place.” She had a rough contralto laugh. “Many others too. You are surprised to find a woman
capa,
yes? Of the Camorra, it is the custom when the husband dies or is in the
prigione,
for the wife to take over. Good custom. We hold it close,” she said, touching her chest. “But you were surprised. I see it in your eyes.”
    â€œOnly at how attractive you were.” She was in her forties, her skin tan, with a good shape shown off by the red designer dress she wore, her breasts so perfect that only a world-class surgeon who was half in love with her could have done them.
    â€œNon c’è male,”
she said—not bad—licking a drop of spaghetti sauce from the corner of her mouth. “Listen. You want to take me to the bed? What job is this? You tell me and this will be the best night of your life.”
    â€œTempting. Also dangerous—in more ways than one,” he said, glancing at the two bodyguards she’d come in with, now standing on either side of the front door, their suit jackets unbuttoned.
    â€œYou are not afraid. I can see you are not a man who fears. You understand, we women are curious, like cats. Arouse a woman’s curiosity and you can have her.”
    â€œAny woman?”
    â€œAny woman on earth—and in heaven too,” she said, lighting a cigarette. “You want me?”
    â€œI won’t tell you. Ever.”
    â€œMaybe I don’t care,” she said, tossing her hair. “Maybe I want to make
chiavare
with you in the bed,” she said, leaning forward so he could see the swell of her breasts.
    â€œMaybe you’d rather have the money. Sixty thousand now as agreed.”
    â€œYou see! You do understand women. Where is it?” she said, getting up.
    â€œA package. I