He reached towards her and then hesitated. He let his hand drop on to the table and lay there like something dead. “I could try. Who knows? Maybe I’d like kibbutz life?” he ventured awkwardly.

She put her hand to his cheek. “Dear Nick. You know that’s not you. There are a hundred reasons. You’re not Jewish—and that matters here. But mostly you’d resent it because that’s not who you are. And I’d resent it because I’m a romantic too and I love who you are.”

They looked helplessly at each other.

“You’re right,” he said.

A yellowish full moon rose over the brooding shadow of the Golan Heights and shone down on the lake like a beacon, its light shattered into millions of fragments.

“Beware the Russians. Robert told me you’re Number One on their list,” she said, concern etched on her face.

“I won’t forget the Russians,” the Scorpion said in a quiet voice.

She shook her head and looked out over the water, shining white as fields of snow in the moonlight. She listened to the lapping of the waves and the croaking of the frogs and tried to think of a way to say goodbye. Smile, Kelly. Let him remember you smiling, she told herself and turned to face him. The terrace was deserted.

The Scorpion had gone.

Moscow

Moscow

FYEDORENKO SAT UNMOVING as a statue in the Penal Chair. His famous stone-face stood him in good stead, giving nothing away even now, as Suvarov’s searing invective poured over him like molten metal.

Every face was turned towards him, their hatred naked and plain to see at long last. He had seen it before and understood it well. They were like a pack of wolves tearing one of their own to pieces as soon as he went down. Always before, he had led the attack.

This time they were attacking him.

Two six-foot blond Neanderthals stood at his sides. As soon as this little farce had been played out, they would take him out to the courtyard and bundle him into a limousine. It would be a short ride, he knew. It wasn’t far from the Kremlin to the Black Wall in Lubyanka Prison.

Now Andreyev, head of the KGB, joined the attack. His voice cracked like a whiplash as he denounced Fyedorenko as “a mad dog Enemy of the People.” That wasn’t his crime, of course, Fyedorenko knew. He was guilty of the only crime in the world for capitalist or communist alike: failure.

Fyedorenko’s glance fell on Svetlov, the newest member of the Politburo. It was his reward for betraying Fyedorenko to Suvarov and Andreyev. Svetlov’s bulging frog eyes blinked repeatedly as he stared in sneering triumph at Fyedorenko. Yes, I engineered your downfall and I’m glad of it, his eyes said.