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cruises in their waters, and they’re surprised if people build bomb shelters.”
    The end of one of his shoelaces was hanging loose and he started retying it. While he was concentrating on his shoe he said, without looking up, “Got any plans?”
    Unterberg became wary. “I’ve got thirty days leave, if that’s what you mean. Starting on Monday.”
    “No, you haven’t,” said the man. “Sorry, Clyde.”
    “The company’s suddenly short of staff?” Unterberg said sarcastically.
    “Very.” The man was not smiling.
    Unterberg knew the signals. “Let me guess. Turkey. No, some real asshole of a place. Libya. Iran? No, thanks.”
    “England,” said the man.
    Unterberg was surprised. That’s where I was going. London.”
    “Good,” said the man. “Any particular reason?”
    “She’s none of your business.”
    A briefcase leaned against the man’s armchair. He picked it up, opened it, and took out an envelope.
    Unterberg took the sealed envelope. “Exactly where?”
    “Laconbury,” said the man. He indicated the envelope. “It’s all in there. Keep the travel orders. Burn the rest.”
    “Now, wait a moment.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t like that. I don’t like off-the-record assignments. The last
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    guy who was told to burn his documentation was Brooke. And he never came back.”
    “Well,” said the man, “you’d just better make surenothing unpleasant like that happens to you, don’t you thinks”
    The man’s smile was famous. If piranha smiled, thought Unterberg, they’d look just like that.
    Wednesday, June 21,1961

London
    IT was one of those paragraphs The Times publishes as if it was trying to hide it because it was trivial and hardly worth the record.
    But the six lines had a big effect on Daventry.
    “What’s the matter)” asked his wife, across the breakfast table.
    Alex Daventry was an attractive woman, even first thing in the morning. She was also very ambitious for her husband, practical and deeply loyal. Her life revolved around Daventry, and she showed this in her thinking, her helpfulness, and her total consideration of hirn.
    Without a word Daventry passed the paper over to her, indicating the story, tucked away insignificantly.
    PADDINGTON MURDER read the tiny heading.
    Miss Mary Donovan, aged 26, received fatal stab
    wounds when she was attacked by an unknown assail
    ant outside her basement flat in St. Stephens Gardens,
    W. She was recently a witness at an Old Bailey trial
    Alex gave the paper back to him. “One of yours?” she asked.
    “She gave evidence for the prosecution in the Connors case.” His mind’s eye replayed the sight of the girl after the verdict had come in, fearstruck, terrified of what lay in store for her. “She turned informer.”
    “Well, couldn’t the police look after her?” demanded Alex.
    “Apparently not.” He read the story again.
    “You’re not blaming yourself, are you?”
    “Of course not,” said Daventry.
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    “Well, then …”
    “But if those bastards hadn’t got off, she might still be around. They couldn’t wait to pay her back once they had the chance.”
    “You can’t help that,” said Alex firmly.
    “I put them back in circulation.”
    She was getting annoyed. “For God’s sake, don’t talk rubbish. It’s your job, isn’t it? You’ve always said you’d rather get people off than send them to prison. And hsten….”
    He looked up at her.
    “I’d rather be married to a man who wants to help people no matter what they’ve done than some sort of avenging prig.”
    The grandfather clock in the entrance hall struck nine, its sonorous tones echoing.
    “I’d better get going,” said Daventry. He took a hasty sip of tea and got up.
    Alex rose too and went over to his side of the table.
    “Promise me?” she said.
    “What?”
    “Promise you’re not going to go around blaming yourself for what happened to that girl?”
    “I’ll try,” he said.
    She kissed him lightly. “What would your