“I think if he can pull it off it’s a bargain, Mr. President,” Allen replied.

“I thought we had lots of oil,” the president began peevishly, rubbing his hand against his stubbled cheek.

“We have lots of oil because Arabia wants us to have lots of oil. Abdul Sa’ad and the Russians could change all that, Mr. President,” CIA Director Page said.

“Well, why can’t we send in our own security—or maybe get King Salim out of the country?” the president asked brightly.

“Might make things even worse. King Salim has to be in Arabia as a focal point for the tribes to rally around, Mr. President,” Allen replied.

“All right, suppose they cut off the oil. What’s the bottom line?” the president demanded angrily.

“It would make the thirties look like boom times, but it would never get that far,” Page answered.

“Why not?”

“Because we couldn’t allow the Russians to get away with it,” Wallace said.

“In other words …” General Baker began.

“In other words ‘World War Three,’ General,” Wallace snapped.

The president slumped back in his chair. Suddenly, he looked very frail.

“What shall I tell the Scorpion?” Harris asked softly.

The president glanced around the room. It was so still for a moment he imagined he could hear the dust settling. “I see no alternative. Tell him it’s his mission,” he said, his voice sounding old and tired.

“Using any means?” Harris inquired.

“I have no interest in details,” the president angrily snapped.

The soft burring of a telephone on the ornate end table was somehow as jarring as a fire alarm. Allen quickly picked it up, listened intently for a moment and hung up, after a “Thank you” muttered in a strangled voice. Everyone looked at Allen as though he were a doctor about to pronounce a life-or-death verdict.

“That was the Air Force Recon Office. They’ve just received SAMOS photos showing extensive military activity among the Caucasus Army Group along the Iranian border,” Allen said.

The edges of Harris’ mouth curled up with an I-told-you-so maliciousness. Evidence from one of the SAMOS spy satellites was conclusive.

Each twenty-two-foot satellite was capable of picking up all radio transmissions in its area on all known frequencies and had cameras which could photograph the lettering on a golf ball on a green from a hundred miles up, even through dense cloud and fog cover.

“Does that mean what I think it means, General?” the president asked, fixing Baker with the steely glint which had been known to cow a roomful of political bosses into uneasy silence.

“Yes sir, it means the Russians are mobilizing,” Baker said.

The president stood up and ran his fingers through his sleep-touseled hair. The others also stood, at once together and apart in an uneasy, silent group, like people in a lift.

“All right, let’s get those spy planes up,” the president ordered.

“Russia too?” Page prompted.