"Now, then, Mister Disbrough," one of the FBI men said, leaning his hands on the edge of the table at which the Insurgent was sitting, "we know who sent you."
Good. Why bother me, then?
"We know where you got your passport, we know who met you at the dock, we know your contacts. We have photographs of everyone you've met and talked to, we have tapes of every telephone call you've made or received. We also know that you are the top man in your organization here."
And? They were chrysalids, every one of them. Perhaps there was no Watcher behind them—perhaps. But he'd been picked up a little too quickly. The net had folded itself around him too soon. No—there had to be a Watcher. He wished they'd stop this talking and bring him out.
"Now, I'd simply like to point out to you that this is an airtight case. No lawyer in the world will be able to break it down. You'll retain counsel, of course. But, I'd simply like to point out to you that there'll be no point to any denial you may make to us. We know what you've been doing. I'd suggest you save your defense for the trial."
He looked up at him and smiled ruefully. "If you've got a list of charges," he said, "I'll be glad to confess to all of them—provided, of course, that it is a complete list."
I'm sure it doesn't list me as a werewolf, he thought. I wonder what the sentence would be—death by firing squad equipped with silver bullets?
But, then, he wasn't going to confess to that, anyway.
"Um!" The FBI man looked suspicious. Obviously, he'd expected nothing of the kind.
"No strings," the Insurgent reassured him. "The job's over, and it's time to punch the clock."