REVOLUTIONPaul Koslov nodded briefly once or twice as he made his way through the forest of desks. Behind him he caught snatches of tittering voices in whisper.
“… That’s him…The Chief’s hatchetman…Know what they call him in Central America, a pistola, that means…About Iraq…And that time in Egypt…Did you notice his eyes…How would you like to date him…That’s him. I was at a cocktail party once when he was there. Shivery…cold-blooded—”
Paul Koslov grinned inwardly. He hadn’t asked for the reputation but it isn’t everyone who is a legend before thirty-five. What was it Newsweek had called him? “The T. E. Lawrence of the Cold War.” The trouble was it wasn’t something you could turn off. It had its shortcomings when you found time for some personal life.
He reached the Chief’s office, rapped
