Circle of Scorpions

Fifteen

At precisely noon, Ronald W. Hatfield, vice chairman of the American legation in Casablanca, Morocco, sat down in a well-padded chair in an outer office of the legation of the U.S.S.R. in Casablanca.

He waited fifteen minutes before a stocky blond woman in a skirt and blouse that somehow looked like a uniform emerged from behind two tall teakwood doors.

"Chairman Hatfield?"

"Yes."

"Comrade Chairman Zalenkov will see you now."

"Thank you."

Hatfield moved easily through the doors and was warmly greeted by Igor Zalenkov.

"Ronald, it's been two weeks since tennis. How about Saturday?"

"Marvelous, Iggy. Lunch first?"

"I am sure I can make it. The Foreign Club?"

"That would be fine, Iggy."

The two men had known each other for three years. They often played tennis together and, with their wives, dined in the finer restaurants of Casablanca and Rabat.

"Well, Ronald, what can I do for you?"

"I'm afraid this one is distressing. Comrade Chairman. »

"Ahh, real business," the Russian said, accepting the sheaf of papers being passed across the desk.

He perused them for five minutes, and when he looked up again, clouds covered his face.

"I assume there are several copies?"

"There are," Hatfield said. "A full set should be in Washington within the hour. We could, if necessary, have them at the U.N. by morning, New York time."

"I see. Will you excuse me?"

"Of course."

Ronald W. Hatfield smoked a small cigar while he waited. It didn't burn far down before Zalenkov was back in the office.

"I presume you have demands?"

Hatfield handed him a typed list.

"I have to say these are impossible," the Russian replied after a quick perusal.

"Of course you do. But, Igor, I do suggest that you get back on your code machine while I'm here."

Zalenkov nodded and exited the office again.

Hatfield was just extinguishing the cigar when he returned.

"Yes?"

"Agreement."

"Complete?"

"In every detail."

Hatfield snapped his briefcase shut, shook hands, and moved to the door.

"Ah, Chairman Hatfield…?"

"Yes, Chairman Zalenkov?"

"I probably won't make tennis on Saturday."

Hatfield nodded. "That's to be expected, Iggy. Perhaps another time."

"Yes, perhaps… let's hope so."

Zalenkov had scribbled on a pad. He passed it to Hatfield.

Hatfield wielded his own pen.

Thirty-three men and women of foreign nationalities, all with forged passports, were detained at various border stations.

One of these was Petro Amani, just as he was about to board an Air Maroc flight to Vienna.

He didn't resist, but walked silently between the two uniformed officers. They exited the terminal and entered the parking lot. They were halfway to a police van when a young, attractive blond woman disengaged herself from a clump of people and moved in behind them.

When she was two steps from the prisoner, she pulled a Mouser from beneath the trench coat she wore and held it in front of her face.

"Amani the Pig!" she screamed.

Amani and both officers whirled at the same time.

"Sophia…"

The Mouser held a twelve-round clip. She managed to put eight of the large-caliber slugs into Amani's body before she died herself from the officers' returning fire.

Jason Henry deftly guided the powerful little launch through the breakwater.

Six miles south of Casablanca, he docked at a private pier. Two long tiers of wooden steps led up the side of a hill to a charming villa.

Henry jumped ashore and held the launch as Carter stepped to the pier.

"My God, it's beautiful."

"You've got it for a full two weeks."

"Where do I send the rent check."

"You don't." Henry said, back in the launch, already revving the engine, "It's called Villa Rombouard!"

Before Carter could reply, Henry was gone, heading out into the bay.

She was waiting in the center of a large living-dining area. Behind her, a table was set with fine china and candles.

"Welcome home."

"For two weeks, I'm told," Carter replied, moving toward her.

"I've already prepared dinner… for later. We will begin with saumon fumé and proceed to truite à la hussarde and délices de sole d'Antin. From there it will be a romp through ris de veau and étuve de boeuf maconnaise, all complete with various side dishes, and served with vintage wines of the Rhine, of Burgundy, and finally, champagne."

"It sounds delicious," Carter said. "And in the meantime?"

He was directly before her, his lips almost touching hers.

"In the meantime, I am bathed, and perfumed, and" — Carlotta shrugged her shoulders, and the wispy robe slithered down her body — "and naked."