Birrel suddenly decided that the man was crazy. New York was full of nuts these days, people flipping their lids and doing daffy things. This was one of them—and there was only one thing to do.
"All right, but you'll regret this," he said. He started to turn his back on the gray man. "When you find out you're wrong—"
Birrel, turning, whirled with sudden speed, his arm snaking out to catch the gray man's neck with the edge of his hand, the old trick they'd taught him in the OSS in war-time.
It didn't work.
The gray man ducked and chopped expertly with his left hand. A numbing pain hit Birrel's extended arm.
For the first time, the gray man smiled. "Sorry. But I was in the OSS too, you see."
Birrel, holding his aching arm, stared. This wasn't a nut after all. But what—?
"Look, Mr. Birrel. I have no sinister designs against you, in any way. We merely have a proposition to put to you. You can accept or refuse it. But unfortunately, I have to do this secretly. That's why I couldn't phone or write or approach you in public."
Birrel thought rapidly. Not a nut, no. But what kind of official business would have to be done this secretly? He didn't like it, not at all.
"Shall we go?"