Scorpia Rising

Grief walked over as soon as his session with Dr. Flint was over, crossing the open space where some of the other prisoners were enjoying the sun, sitting on rickety chairs between the trees. The two terrorists were playing Scrabble. As Julius walked past, one of them noticed him and nodded vaguely in his direction. He had just made the word JIHAD with the J on a triple letter, scoring thirty-three points. The assassin was nearby, reading a celebrity magazine, circling some of the heads with a black felt-tip pen. The other prisoners didn’t really like having a teenager among them. It offended their sense of dignity.
    Julius had to force himself not to hurry. He knew that his every movement was being watched and that any strange behavior, any indication that he was planning something would be reported immediately. He actually hesitated before he went into the library, as if he wasn’t sure whether he needed a book or not. Then he made up his mind and passed through the glass doors.
    “ Buenos días, Julius.” The librarian was a Spaniard who also worked in the prison accounts office. His name was Carlos and he was plump and good-natured, dressed in the same uniform as the guards, an olive green shirt and dark trousers. “You are coming to the talk tonight?”
    “I’m looking forward to it,” Julius said.
    There were occasional talks in the library, given by the prisoners or by the guards. Two weeks ago, one of the secret agents had given an hour’s lecture on the Cold War. Tonight, the chef was demonstrating his mother’s recipe for paella.
    “What brings you here today?” Carlos asked.
    “I’ve come to borrow a book.”
    Carlos glanced at his computer screen. “But you already have three books in your cell.”
    “I know. But I’ve finished two of them. And I’m not enjoying the third . . .”
    Julius walked toward the bookshelves, feeling the librarian’s eyes boring into his back. What exactly was he looking for? The note had told him to come here . . . he would find further instructions. But apart from Carlos, there was no one else in the building. Would there be a second letter hidden somewhere here—and if so, how was he meant to find it? He decided to head for the children’s section. After all, that was where “they” would have expected him to go.
    He stopped in front of the shelves. The Dahl collection stretched from one side to the other. Julius had never read any of it, although he had once come upon one of the terrorists with The Fantastic Mr. Fox. As far as he could see, nothing had changed since his last visit. He could even make out the gaps where he had pulled out his own choice of books.
    And then he saw it. One new book, lying flat on its side. A fat, dusty-looking hardback called Wildlife in Gibraltar: Volume 2—Birds and Insects. It shouldn’t have been here. It should have been on the other side of the room, in Natural History. But that wasn’t what had caught his eye. It was the cover. There was a picture of an insect that seemed to be gazing at him with its tiny eyes. It couldn’t just be a coincidence.
    It was a scorpion—the same creature that had appeared on his note.
    He glanced around. Carlos was sitting, tapping at his keyboard. The librarian seemed to have forgotten him. But there were still cameras mounted in all four corners of the room. They would be watching him from the control room beside the gate. Julius put on a performance for their benefit. He took out one book, then another—as if considering which one to read—then finally lifted the wildlife volume and carried it over to a table.
    He had chosen the position carefully. The table was right next to a shelf, which screened it from the cameras. Carlos could still see him. But he was fairly certain that the book was out of sight. Very carefully, he opened it. And gasped. How could this have happened? Nobody knew about the prison. Nobody could possibly infiltrate it. And yet there it was in front of him. The pages of the book had been cut out to provide a hiding place for a gun, a Mauser C96 automatic pistol with the barrel shortened to allow it to fit. Julius ran a finger over the cold metal. He had been taught to shoot when he was six years old and had killed for the first time when he was nine. But it had been a long time since he had held a gun in his own hands, and he had thought he would never have one again. For just one moment he felt an urge to pick it up, to turn around and shoot Carlos in