Scorpia

project, working in alphabetical order.
    The project they were discussing this afternoon had been given a code name: Invisible Sword. Julia Rothman was in command.
    “I would like to report to the board that everything is progressing on schedule,” she announced.
    There was a trace of a Welsh accent in her voice. She had been born in Aberystwyth. Her parents had been Welsh nationalists, burning down the cottages of English holidaymakers who had bought them as second homes. Unfortunately they had torched one of these cottages with the English family still inside it, and when Julia was six she found herself in an institution while her parents began a life sentence in jail. This was, in a way, the start of her own criminal career.
    “It is now three months,” she went on, “since we were approached by our client, a gentleman in the Middle East. To call him rich would be an understatement. He is a multi-billionaire. This man has looked at the world, at the balance of power, and he has decided that something has gone seriously wrong. He has asked us to remedy it.
    “In a nutshell, our client believes that the West has become too powerful. He looks at Great Britain and America. It was the friendship between them that won the Second World War. And it is this same friendship that now allows the West to invade any country that it pleases and to take anything it wants. Our client has asked us to end the British-American alliance once and for all.
    “What can I tell you about our client?” Mrs Rothman smiled sweetly. “Perhaps he is a visionary, interested only in world peace; perhaps he is completely insane. Either way, it makes no difference to us. He has offered us an enormous sum of money—one hundred million pounds to be exact—to do what he wants. To humble Britain and America and to ensure they cease to work together as a world power. And I am happy to be able to tell you that twenty million pounds, the first installment of that money, arrived in our Swiss bank account yesterday. We are now ready to move into phase two.”
    There was silence in the room. As the men waited for Mrs Rothman to speak again, the faint hum of an air conditioner could be heard. But no sound came from outside.
    “Phase two—the final phase—will take place in under three weeks from now. I can promise you that very soon the British and the Americans will be at one another’s throats. More than that: by the end of the month both countries will be on their knees. America will be hated throughout the entire world; the British will have witnessed a horror beyond anything they could ever have imagined. We will all be a great deal richer. And our friend from the Middle East will consider his money well spent.”

    “Excuse me, Mrs Rothman. I have a question…”
    Dr Three bowed his head politely. His face seemed to be made of wax and his hair—jet black—looked twenty years younger than the rest of him. It had to be dyed. He was very small and might have been a retired teacher.
    He might have been many things, but he was, in fact, the world expert on torture and pain. He had written several books on the subject.
    “How many people do you intend to kill?” he asked.
    Julia Rothman considered. “It’s still difficult to be precise, Dr Three,” she replied. “But it will certainly be thousands. Many thousands.”
    “And they will all be children?”
    “Yes. They will mainly be twelve and thirteen years old.” She sighed. “It is, it goes without saying, very unfortunate. I adore children, even though I’m glad I never had any of my own. But that’s the plan. And I have to say, the psychological effect of so many young people dying will, I think, be useful. Does it concern you?”
    “Not at all, Mrs Rothman.” Dr Three shook his head.
    “Does anyone have any objections?”
    Nobody spoke, but out of the corner of her eye, Mrs Rothman noticed Max Grendel shift uncomfortably on his chair at the far end of the table. At seventy-three, he was the oldest man there, with sagging skin and liver spots on his forehead. He suffered from an eye disease that made him weep constantly. He was dabbing at his eyes now with a tissue. It was hard to believe that he had been a commander in the German secret police and had once personally strangled a foreign spy during a performance of Beethoven’s Fifth.
    “Are preparations complete in London?” the Australian asked.
    “Construction in the church finished a week ago. The platform, the gas