"It is," said Connor. "The most secret one of all. We don't give out interviews, and have addresses, like the CIA and FBI." He nodded toward the gray-faced man. "You'll understand why I sent Paley for you this way, why I couldn't write or phone you."
"But I thought you'd retired, after the war!" Birrel said. "The newspapers—"
John Connor said disgustedly, "The hell and all of an OSS man you must have been, if you believe everything you read in newspapers."
Birrel thought he understood now. One of the secret counter-espionage agencies by which America defended itself—so secret that probably few government-officials even knew about it. But—
Connor's rough voice answered his thought. "We need a man, Birrel. For a job. And it must be a man we can trust absolutely. That's why we looked through the OSS files—and found you."
"Oh, now, listen," protested Birrel, rising. "My service was years ago, I've got a profession, and this isn't war-time now. You can find better agents than me—"
Connor said brutally, "I could find five hundred agents better than you. I'd rather have anyone of them than you. Unfortunately, you've got something they haven't."
"What?"
"The right face, Birrel."
Birrel didn't get it, he didn't get it at all. But Connor gave him no time to think. He demanded,