Somewhere in Europe a shot would be squeezed off, and a high official would fall to an assassin's bullet. Out of the ensuing charges of treachery and deceit would evolve an equation that spelled out atomic war...

The man who would order that shot fired came across the room and put a gun to Sam Durrell's head. The muzzle grated painfully against Durrell's scalp, just above the ear. He smelled oil on the gun barrel and shaving lotion and the heat in the summer fabric of the man's suit. Mission completed, Sam Durrell thought.

He had found the traitor - in the complex brain of the CIA - wearing a known and trusted face. "Are you afraid now, Sam?" the traitor asked.