“But what if it isn’t limited?” Kishinev put in.

“What are you saying?” Andreyev of the KGB asked.

“I’m saying, comrades, that this plan outlined by Comrade Svetlov is brilliant. In fact it is so brilliant that it leaves the Americans with only one option. Nuclear war, the insanity that we’ve been working all our lives to prevent,” Kishinev said.

“You don’t think they would actually—” Komarovsky muttered nervously.

“Nonsense,” the urbane KGB chief countered. “Given the choice between nuclear holocaust and higher oil prices, the capitalists will make the only sane decision. As a matter of fact, their oil companies will even show larger profits.”

“I disagree. The Americans have never hesitated to use force whenever their interests have been threatened, despite all their pious platitudes about peace,” Kishinev objected, wagging his finger like a schoolteacher.

“My God,” Komarovsky muttered, in his shock actually pronouncing the forbidden word. He looked up at them, his face drawn and bloodless. “We’re on the brink of nuclear war,” he said, his voice confused and stunned.

Fyedorenko could sense them hesitating. Now was the time for him to intervene.

“By the time the West can react, it will be too late. You see, comrades, the coup has already begun. The PLO is crossing Syria into Iraq at this moment. Troops from the People’s Democratic Republic of Yemen have begun to mobilize. The assassination plot is already in motion,” Fyedorenko said with studied nonchalance, conscious that every eye was riveted on him. He expected a murmur of surprise, and got it, but what startled him was Suvarov’s air of indifference. Fyedorenko was instantly on guard.

“You dared—without Politburo approval!” Komarovsky sputtered.

As Fyedorenko rose to crush Komarovsky as he had planned all along, Suvarov gestured to an aide, who came forward and handed Suvarov a message. Suvarov smiled.

“I have some news that pertains to our discussion, comrades,” Suvarov said. The silence was total. Their careers hung by the thread of what he would say next, Fyedorenko thought with a sickening feeling.

“Perhaps the West will have more time than Comrade Fyedorenko anticipates. It seems this Arab conspiracy has been penetrated by a western agent. According to the GRU,” Suvarov said, putting on his bifocals to read the note, “the final meeting was broken up by this agent, who managed a remarkable escape. They call him ‘the Scorpion.’”

Everyone turned towards Fyedorenko, sensing weakness. But Fyedorenko smiled and leaned calmly back in his chair. Years of training masked his inner turmoil. That damned Marshal Orlov had allowed Suvarov GRU access, playing both ends against the middle, the gutless bastard. His turn would come too, Fyedorenko thought. Not even a single bead of sweat broke the perfection of his calm exterior.

“That is old news, comrade. Orders to terminate this Scorpion have already been issued,” Fyedorenko said, looking intently at Svetlov.