Outside, the Scorpion could hear voices. Someone cried “Police!” and the sounds came closer. The only way out was through that small window, he thought. He seemed to remember that it was open when he came in. There was no time left for anything else. They were at the door.

The Scorpion leaped up, grabbing at the top of the partition. He pulled himself up and balanced for a second on top like a tightrope walker. The window was near the ceiling and about five feet away. It was going to be a very tight fit. Just then, the door burst open.

The Scorpion leaped headlong at the opening. A shot spattered the plaster just below him as he grabbed hold of the sill and squirmed through the window, propelling himself forward with the thrust of the jump. He looked down at a garbage-strewn alley about ten feet below. He felt something catch his trouser leg. A splinter or a bullet, he thought, jerking his leg away as if stung and diving headlong into the alleyway. As he fell, he went into a tuck position. He landed with an incredible jar at the base of his spine, rolling head over heels in the dirty trash.

He didn’t know whether he was hurt or not. All he knew was that he had to get the data to Washington. He had caught a glimpse of the enemy.

Prince Abdul Sa’ad was so dangerous, men would rather kill themselves than betray him. And he had the girl.

Somehow he got to his feet and began to run.

Washington

Washington

THE CRITIC FROM MACREADY arrived in the Situation Room in the basement of the East-Wing of the White House at two in the morning. The message was handed to William Page, the Director of Central Intelligence, by Linda Hunnicut, a spectacular redhead whose most prominent assets, Vice-President Larkin once declared, “jutted out like the front of a ’59 Pontiac.” She was the object of a universal lust and normally one of the men seated around the table, cluttered with coffee cups and a box of doughnuts, would have bantered with her. But this night, the five men sat silently until she closed the door behind her. The tension in the room was so palpable it could have been packaged and sold in drug stores as a diet pill.

“It’s a CRITIC from the Qatar station,” Page muttered, the light from the illuminated wall map of the Middle East making a harlequin pattern on his bald head, as if he were suffering from a splotchy skin disease. The others glanced anxiously at Page. A CRITIC was a crisis COMINT message, relayed via satellite by the Communication Intelligence radio system operated by the NSA. According to the rules, a CRITIC must be relayed directly to the White House within five minutes of transmission.