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you’d do the job. Your word on it, that’s all we wanted.”
    “Or else you’d have found someone else?” And I, thought Renwick, would have been the man who had been told too much. Not a happy thought.
    Avoiding Renwick’s eyes, Moore handed over the folded sheet as he rose and headed quickly for the Scotch, empty glass in hand. He spoke over his shoulder. “Your name is there, sir.”
    “What?”
    “Your name is third on the list.”
    Renwick stared at him, then unfolded the closely written page. Yes, there it was: Robert Renwick (Col.)—Interintell—cover of Merriman & Co., Consultant Engineers, 7 Grace Street, London. His private number was given; two restaurants he favoured on occasion were named; so was the Red Lion, with a cryptic note saying “special meetings”. Home telephone was noted as unlisted. Residence changed in April—address to follow.
    Address to follow... Renwick drew a long slow breath, steadied himself.
    “Gave me a bit of a shock,” Moore said. He looked over at Renwick’s grim face, fell silent.
    Renwick scanned the list. He recognised six of the names: two inquiring reporters; a crusading editor; a United States senator who kept a sharp eye on sales of armaments abroad; two Intelligence men, in Paris and Frankfurt, now investigating terrorists’ weapons and their sources of supply. Two names were unknown to him: business-men, heads of chemical firms. “What’s their danger to Brimmer?” he asked, pointing them out on the list as Moore returned, bringing him a drink. This time, he didn’t refuse.
    “Oh, them! Government contractors. They turned him down when he tried to buy some new type of explosive. Offered big money, talked of national security, hinted at connections with the CIA. He uses that line when he’s pressing hard. It has worked. Who’s to know it’s fourteen years since he’s been with the CIA? But these two guys got together: they are making inquiries, stirring things up. It will take time before they get anything out of the CIA. You know these Intelligence boys— never apologise, never explain.” Then he looked quickly at Renwick, gave a brief laugh, and covered his gaffe by pointing to the list. “A bunch of unknowns. You wouldn’t think they’d be important.”
    “Not one head of state among us,” Renwick said drily.
    “Strange how they’ve got Brimmer so damned scared.”
    “We’re flattered. But this list won’t nail Brimmer. It’s useless as evidence.”
    “What?”
    “No heading, no indication what it concerns. Brimmer will talk his way out of it. His handwriting, yes. The names? Just people he wanted to meet or entertain. He gives lavish parties, doesn’t he?” One of his methods of operation, establishing his credentials with a likely prospect by having credible people around him.
    Moore was aghast. The brown eyes hardened, seemed as black as his hair. “You said—”
    “I must have evidence, something to stand up in court. Either Lorna or you can testify: she can verify the purpose of that list; you can bear witness about Brimmer’s death squads. Or— Lorna gets hold of a record of illegal purchases in the States, of false export declarations, of deliveries abroad.”
    The idea of testifying, as Renwick had guessed, was rejected. Moore concentrated, as Renwick had hoped, on the record of illegal sales. “She’d have to wait until Brimmer is in Washington. That’s early July.” He frowned, calculating. “Doesn’t give her much time. She’s leaving—” He halted abruptly, concealed his lapse by adding, “Okay, okay. She’ll get a copy of these records for you. One page enough? Two?”
    “Illegal transactions,” Renwick emphasised. “Three pages. When she has something to give me she can send a signal to Merriman’s and I’ll contact her—”
    “No! She can mail the records. No more contacts.”
    “But if I have to reach you—”
    “You don’t. Nobody does.”
    “Travelling far?”
    “As far as I can