"Short and fat," Pashkov said, and switched off.

Most countries wanted to break his neck, and his own Motherland did not always trust him. But he enjoyed his work—enjoyed it as much as his closest professional rival, Colonel James, U.S.A.

Pashkov landed on the roof of Intelligence in the northeast corner of the Kremlin, hitched up his pants and rode down.

In his office, Petchareff removed the cigar from his mouth as Pashkov came in. "Medvedev get my orders?"

"He's preparing a new super-patriotic writer to replace Boris Knackenpast," Pashkov reported. "When you give the word, he will call Izvestia and tell them Boris is dead."

Petchareff glanced at his calendar. "We have two other state funerals this week. You made it plain, I hope, we want no repetition of Knackenpast's peace nonsense?"

"No more Gandhi or Schweitzer influences. T. . . Read More