From this side of the Watergate complex the floodlit dome of the Capitol Building sparkled white and clear, as if sculpted in snow. Below, he could see the lights of moving traffic reflected in the Potomac. In the distance the marble spire of the Washington Monument pointed at the sky like a rocket. It was the kind of view real-estate agents spend a lot of time talking about in order to avoid mentioning the price.

“Nice view,” the Scorpion commented, gesturing at the lights. The movement of his hand set the ice cubes in his drink tinkling. His other hand held Harris’s Smith and Wesson. 38.

“Are … are you going to kill me?” Harris asked.

“Sheikh Zaid once taught me that it is easier to kill a man than to trust him.”

“Trust was never a part of our relationship,” Harris snapped. Suddenly, what had happened earlier at the embassy began to make some sense.

“No, we’re not in the trusting business, are we?” the Scorpion admitted.

“I’ve been promoted. I’m deputy director now, Scorpion. You can’t do business without me—” Harris began. He leaned back and crossed his legs, trying to look relaxed. But with his hands tied behind him, he simply looked uncomfortable.

“How was the party at the French Embassy tonight?” the Scorpion asked, knowing Harris would understand and hate him for it.

“Where’s Kelly?” Harris demanded. His handsome all-American face suddenly looked very ugly. It made the Scorpion think of the picture of Dorian Gray.

“What’s the matter, Bob? Lose your girl?” the Scorpion mildly observed.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Harris exploded. He tried to struggle to his feet. The Scorpion’s icy eyes narrowed. Harris subsided at once.

Harris swallowed hard and said, “How did you know? I didn’t see you at the party.”

The Scorpion grinned as widely as a Cheshire cat. He pulled out something dark and furry and tossed it onto the coffee table. It lay there like a dead animal.

“It never ceases to amaze me how unobservant people are. A bit of silly putty in the nostrils, some furry foliage”—gesturing at the phony beard—“a few chest decorations and you could fool your own mother,” the Scorpion said, watching comprehension light in Harris’s eyes as he remembered the bearded bore at the party complaining in atrocious English about the disastrous impact of U.S. interest rates on the franc.

“What made her run away? One minute she was fine and then all at once she turned white as a ghost and bolted,” Harris asked.

“In a way, she did see a ghost at the banquet. She saw you speak to Gerard,” the Scorpion said.

“Don’t worry about Gerard, He’s a dead man,” Harris said.

“He’s not the only one,” the Scorpion replied.