Clipped to the top page was a deciphered telex. It confirmed the worst. Those bungling Arab scum had let the Scorpion slip through their fingers a second time. Now, after reading Directorate Five’s dossier he understood why. The Scorpion was no ordinary agent.

He picked up the report and studied it again for a few minutes. It was based on CIA records and provided an incomplete history of the American agent up to his recent gun-running episode in Afghanistan. The American record ended with the curious computer notation:

“Delete from Files.

Initiate Global Record Search and Purge.”

That meant that the CIA didn’t even want their own people to know about him.

He drummed his fingers nervously on the padded desk top. He had to assume that the Scorpion already knew about the planned assassination. The disposition of the Arab’s body in the department store toilet in Doha indicated that the American had had time to question him. Whether the Scorpion learned enough to interfere or not was debatable. On principle, he had to assume the worst. He had learned never to count on luck. As his grandmother used to say, “Roast pheasant won’t fly into your mouth.”

Question: Could the plan succeed without the element of surprise?

Like most Russians, Svetlov thought of the Arabs as Chernomazy (niggers). If there was a way of pissing in the soup the Arabs would find it, he thought.

What complicated the issue was that they couldn’t just send in KGB teams to terminate this Scorpion. Russians would be as conspicuous in Arabia as blackbirds in a snowfield. They would have to use Palestinians, he decided. Chernomazy.

They only had to delay the Scorpion for another seventy-two hours. If the Palestinians killed him, so much the better, he thought, pleased with the idea of a countermove to present to Fyedorenko to offset the news about the Scorpion’s second escape.

Although it was 2 a.m., Fyedorenko was sure to still be in his office, he thought, slipping the dossier into his briefcase.

Fortunately, Svetlov was in his office in the Great Kremlin Palace and not at KGB headquarters, that yellow monstrosity with the Stalinist wedding-cake façade on Dzerzhinsky Square. Svetlov had long ago learned the virtue of staying close to the Kremlin. Now, he didn’t have far to go.

He closed the door to his office located in a corridor off St. George’s Hall and headed towards the octagon-shaped Hall of St. Vladimir with its cathedral ceilings. At every door, silent Kremlin guards snapped to attention before opening the door for him. He went down the stairs and crossed Upper Savior Square. Despite the fact that it was June, the night was still very cool and clear. The stars burned with a cold white fire and his footsteps made the only sound. He felt very alone.