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him. “A Plus List? Men who are not dangerous?”
    “More than that. People who help him and get well paid for it. They are hooked and they don’t know it. Too busy counting up the dollars deposited for them in numbered bank accounts— the Bahamas, Switzerland, any place where they can dodge the tax man. They’ve got influence, can persuade a supplier to sell what shouldn’t be sold, can introduce Brimmer around, vouch for him.”
    “So he has a list of them, too?” And that’s something I want to see, thought Renwick. “Everything is recorded? An exact accounting?”
    “A page to each man. Brimmer needs to know how much he has paid out, when and where. It’s kept damn secret, you can bet your life on that!”
    A page to each man... “It’s in book form, then. A small ledger or a diary?”
    Moore’s face went blank. “I didn’t say that.”
    “Just a lot of loose leaves clipped together?” Renwick asked, openly disbelieving; but he got no rise from Moore. “If Lorna has a copy...” Renwick left the suggestion floating. No doubt she had, for Moore’s strange small smile seemed to confirm it.
    “That’s not for you,” Moore said. “That’s for Lorna and me to deal with.” He rose, started over to the bottle of Scotch. “The Minus List is yours. You can nail Brimmer with that.”
    So that’s my function, thought Renwick: nail Brimmer and let clever Lorna and her devoted Alvin deal with corruption in high places. With Brimmer out of circulation, they’d feel safe to start a new life—new names, new country—financed, of course, by some of the dirty money now in numbered bank accounts: blackmail barefaced and simple, no matter how they justified it, and they would. Brimmer’s friends had been overpaid, could well afford to transfer some of their hidden assets to those who had done the hard work. And if anyone ignored that suggestion? He’d lose more than twenty percent (or was Lorna aiming at thirty?) if Internal Revenue were to receive a copy of his page in Brimmer’s little account book. Renwick shook his head. Al, he told the big man’s back, you may have survived battles and bullets, but I doubt if you’ll survive this.
    Moore, coming back with a drink in his hand and a quick one inside him, noticed that head shake. “You’re the man to deal with it. But you’ve got to move soon. And fast.”
    “Well need real evidence. Nine names listed for what?”
    “Real evidence?” Moore swallowed a gulp of Scotch as he sat down again. “Real? It’s in Brimmer’s own writing. Just jotted down the names at his last meeting with Klingfeld’s men in Mexico—two weeks ago, Lorna said. He wouldn’t even allow it out of his hands to be typed.”
    “Nine names listed for what?” Renwick repeated. Careers ruined, possibly, with the help of Brimmer’s powerful friends.
    “Assassination.”
    For a long moment, there was no sound or movement in the room. Then Renwick’s eyes narrowed.
    “It’s true, believe me! You know what he wanted me to do? Pick out ten men I could trust—two squads of five men each— train them to co-ordinate, plan, and execute.”
    “And how did you handle that suggestion?” A refusal, and Moore would never have reached London with all that money in his pocket. In spite of his protestations— I’m no assassin — could I be facing one right now? He’s nervous, on edge, increasingly worried. Why?
    “I stalled. Told him the job of searching for the right men would take a couple of months, perhaps more. Training and planning needed double that time at least—if he wanted the deaths to look like accidents or suicides.”
    Renwick put out his hand. “The assassination list. Come on, Al. Give!”
    Moore emptied his glass and dropped it on the bed. Reaching for his jacket, his eyes never leaving Renwick, he fumbled with a zipper in an inside pocket. “You’ll deal with Brimmer?”
    “Yes.”
    Moore relaxed, pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “Just making sure