Karpov could not see or hear what happened on the other side of the laboratory door, but as the head of the KGB’s Scientific and Technical Directorate, he knew how Noxin nerve gas worked. The moment he closed the door he found himself picturing the scene. It was as though he were still in the room. A part of his soul always would be.

He pictured the six scientists and engineers shaking hands and patting backs, congratulating each other on the successful completion and flawless presentation of the Peitho Pill. It was a feel-good moment, and they were justifiably proud, having dedicated eighteen months of their lives to secretly developing their general’s audacious invention.

Then a whiff of gas turned their euphoria to hysteria, flooding their bodies with adrenaline as their limbic minds registered the alkaloid scent. But no act or agent could reverse the crushing hyperconstriction of their diaphragms. Their emptied lungs would never fill again. Noxin could not be denied.

Karpov bowed his head and clenched his eyes, but images of futile gasps and grimaced lips kept coming. He opened his eyes and tried to focus his mind on the cascading numbers of his digital watch. He had known all along that this day would come. Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty—sixty seconds since detonation. No doubt they were frantically pumping each other’s chests—desperate minds grasping at feeble straws. By now Kiril had paired up with Dima, Oleg with Anton, and Vanya with Mark. As professionals, they knew it was pointless, but as family men, what alternative did they have? They would keep at it until splintering ribs punctured starving lungs or exhaustion overtook them . . .

 He kicked the corridor’s stainless baseboard. “No matter. They’re martyrs now, even if only we three will ever know.” Yarik and Stepashin cocked their heads, but Karpov paid them no heed. He had not meant to think aloud.

It was true, he thought. The sacrifice those scientists were making here today gave him the exclusive use of the Peitho pill and with it, the power to heal their ailing nation. The Soviet Union was in desperate need of a viable economic system, and Peitho empowered Karpov to create one. What were half a dozen lives in comparison?

Karpov stopped pacing the corridor and checked his watch again. It would take another ten minutes for the laboratory’s advanced ventilation system to scrub the Noxin from the air. Then the three general officers could reenter, retrieve all the Peitho pill materials, and replace them with ones from the Noxin nerve gas project. The cover-up would be as airtight as the laboratory, and Peitho would be theirs alone.

Stepashin interrupted the silence. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Karpov. You told us it was going to be huge, but the opportunities Peitho presents seem limitless. We’ll be able to control anyone, get anything—”

“And do it secretly,” Yarik interjected. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

Karpov stopped pacing and looked up. If his friends were not distracted by sentiment . . .  He felt the fire re-igniting in his eyes, like the pilot light on a blast furnace. “I have the advantage of seeing a lot of gadget and gizmo proposals in the course of my job. One of them got me thinking. It was a special bomb, a bomb designed to blow up a car at the prompting of a radio signal. It was the size of a pea,” he held up his thumb and index finger in the tiny sign, “small enough to slip into a car’s gas tank. That was the mental trigger, the size of the thing. I reasoned that if you paired up one of its miniature radio receivers with a single drop of the lab’s latest poison, you could then threaten to do the same thing to a person—terminate him at will, I mean.”

A flash of understanding shot across Yarik’s face. He’d always enjoyed an intuitive grasp of the military tatics. “But we won’t use it for that, for termination, will we?”

“No, we won’t. We’re going to get creative . . .”