This room was the president’s private retreat, his “querencia”, Allen thought, the word recalling his junior year at Yale when he had spent the summer in Spain and had briefly become an afficionado of the bullfights. “My Hemingway period,” Allen used to drily describe it. A querencia was a place in the ring where the bull felt at home. A bull was at his most dangerous in hisquerencia and a good part of the matador’s skill involved keeping the bull away from it, Allen reflected. Indeed, the president, still dressed in his robe and pajamas, reminded Allen of an old hull as he glared at his advisors from the depths of his leather armchair.

“What the hell took you so long to find out about all this?” the president demanded, fixing Page with an angry glance.

“The CRITIC just came in a few minutes ago, Mr. President. It took the Scorpion a couple of days to find out exactly when and where the assassination is planned to take place,” Allen stepped in. He wasn’t about to let the meeting degenerate into recriminations. There’d be plenty of those before this crisis was over, he thought.

“All right,” the president relented, biting his lower lip as he often did when agitated. “What counter measures have we taken so far?”

“The Nimitz is standing by, monitoring the Russian fleet. We’ve placed the RDF and the Marines on DEFCON Yellow and we’re mobilizing transport now,” General Baker reported. Defensive Condition Yellow was the highest military ready status except for DEFCON Red, which meant war.

“What about the ‘Contingency Plan’?” the president asked.

“It’s on its way,” Baker replied. The Pentagon had sets of contingency plans drawn up for every possible military situation, up to and including the potential invasion of the South Pole by Hottentots.

“We might want to send SR-71 Blackbirds and AWACs to overfly Arabia and keep us posted on what’s happening out there,” Secretary of State Wallace put in, lighting another cigarette from a still burning butt.

“We might want to send a few to overfly Russia, if it comes to that,” Harris said with a smirk.

Allen quickly turned to confront Harris. His eyebrows were raised in wordless fury. They formed a single ridge across his forehead, giving him the appearance of an angry Neanderthal. Then he apparently thought better of it. Harris, as the Scorpion’s senior case officer, was indispensable right now—and the son-of-a-bitch knew it too, Allen thought.

“Just re-establish contact with this Scorpion of yours,” Allen snapped.

“What do I tell him?” Harris asked.

“We’ll have to pay him out of the CIA budget,” Allen said.

“A million dollars! Who the hell does he think he is? John Wayne?” Wallace muttered.

“He thinks he has us over a barrel, Mr. Secretary,” Harris said.

“Does he?” the president asked.

“Yes sir, I think he does,” Harris replied softly.

“Gary …” the president looked up at Allen.