In politics as in so many affairs of men, success breeds success, but failure also generates further failure. As the criticism of Komarov increased, so did the paranoia dormant in all tyrants. Nigel Irvine’s final gambit was to play upon that paranoia and hope against hope that the somewhat inadequate vessel of Father Maxim would not let him down.
When the Patriarch returned from Zagorsk, he never went near the acting president. Four days before the New Year, the organs of the Russian state had not a shred of intent to fall upon the Black Guard on New Year’s Day and arrest Komarov.
Through Father Maxim, Irvine used the old precept of persuading the enemy that his opponents are far more numerous, powerful, and determined than they really are. Convinced by this second “sting,” Komarov decided to strike first. Forewarned by Monk, the Russian state defended itself.
Though not much of a churchgoer, Sir Nigel Irvine had long been an assiduous reader of the Bible, and of all its characters his favorite was the Hebrew warrior Gideon.
As he explained it to Jason Monk in the Highlands of Scotland, Gideon was the first commander of special forces and the first proponent of surprise night attack.
Presented with ten thousand volunteers, Gideon chose only three hundred, the toughest and the best. In his night attack on the Midianites camped in the Valley of Jezreel he used the triple tactics of violent awakening, bright lights, and shattering noise to disorient and panic the larger force.
“What he did, m’dear chap, was to persuade the half-awake Midianites that they were up against an enormous and very dangerous attack. So they lost their nerve and ran.”
Not only did they run, but in the darkness they began hacking at each other. By another kind of disinformation, Grishin was persuaded to arrest his own entire high command.
Lady Irvine came in and switched off the TV.
“Come along, Nigel, it’s a lovely day and we have to dig in the early potatoes.”
The spymaster pulled himself to his feet.
“Of course,” he said, “the spring earlies. I’ll get my boots.”
He hated digging, but he did love Penny Irvine very much.
¯
IT was just after midday in the Caribbean when the Foxy Lady came out of Turtle Cove and headed for the Cut.
Halfway to the reef Arthur Dean swept up alongside in the Silver Deep. He had two tourist divers in the stern.
“Hey, Jason, you been away?”
“Yep. Went over to Europe for a spell.”
“How was it?”
Monk thought that one over.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Good to see you back.” Dean glanced into the afterdeck of the Foxy Lady. “You don’t have a charter?”
“Nope. There are wahoo running ten miles off the Point. I’m going to take some just for me.”
Arthur Dean grinned, recognizing the feeling.
“Tight lines, man.”
The Silver Deep opened her throttle and sped away. The Foxy Lady moved through the Cut and Monk felt the thump and surge of the open sea beneath his feet and the sweet-smelling salted wind on his face.
Pushing on the power he turned the Foxy Lady away from the islands and out toward the lonely sea and the sky.
THE END.