But his triumph would be short-lived, Fyedorenko thought grimly. At least he had made sure of that.

After the Molotov Plan had fallen apart, he had launched a complete top-secret security check on everyone involved. The only way the Scorpion could have been positioned to interfere was if there had been a leak. His agents reported that there had been meetings between Svetlov and the capitalist, Ormont. Then there was the rumor surfaced by the KGB that the Scorpion wasn’t dead and that he was the one who had terminated Ormont in Dallas. But up until last night, he still hadn’t known what hold Ormont had had on Svetlov. Then he got a midnight call from Novorossisk.

One of his agents found Svetlov’s great-aunt still alive. Under torture, the old woman had revealed that Svetlov’s mother was a Jewess and that Svetlov’s twin brother hadn’t been killed by the British as Svetlov had claimed all these years. The Jews had smuggled the infant to France, where the family name “Goldberg” was translated to Ormont.

But by then, it was too late. Svetlov had made his move. Fyedorenko barely had time to pass a hand-scribbled note to his housekeeper with instructions to get it to Kishinev. Although the foreign minister was his enemy and was now staring at him with barely concealed delight, Fyedorenko knew Kishinev would know how to use the information against Svetlov.

As for himself, it didn’t matter. The Molotov Plan was too big a fiasco to paper over by pointing the finger at Svetlov.

Suddenly, it was over. Calling him a “sukin sin” for the last time, Suvarov motioned for the guards to take him away.

Fyedorenko stood and faced his accusers.

“What I did, I did for the good of the Party,” he said.

His words were met by stony silence. He remembered his father reading something from the Bible when he was a child. Something about wheat sown on stony ground. Strange, he hadn’t thought of that in so many years.

As they led him from the room he heard Svetlov’s voice cut through the silence. It was for his benefit, too. Svetlov wanted him to hear it, Fyedorenko thought.

“And now, comrades, the next item of business is to order a worldwide effort to terminate the enemy agent known as ‘the Scorpion,’” Svetlov said.

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

The old man was dying at last. Frankly, Captain Mayakovsky was surprised he had lasted so long. But these Pathan tribesmen were tough. They had been torturing the old buzzard for six hours straight and he hadn’t told them a thing about the Scorpion.