"How do we know he's not a BINWI spy himself?" asked a small man with piercing black eyes. "He seems to know a lot about 'em!"
"I'm convinced he's not, Ferris. We covered Brownell's trail too well for that. Let's have the vote."
The "ayes" were unanimous and suddenly these men were friendly, smiling, as they stepped forward to shake Mark's hand. They were good handshakes, firm and calloused. Only Ferris' was reluctant.
"There's one thing more," Janus said quietly. "We'll need your picture for our—shall we say—rogue's gallery? I insist on that. Perhaps I can take it now—with your camera." He reached to the black box on his desk, lifted it carelessly up.
Mark found himself staring full into the stub-nosed lenses. Sudden sweat broke on his brow. His gaze lifted and met Janus' gray eyes, straight and steady upon him.
"Wait!"
"What? Not camera shy, are you?" Janus' fingers seemed to fumble, but his gaze never left Mark's face.
"The lens isn't set! It—it's special, you know." Mark stepped forward. His limbs seemed wooden. He took the box from Janus' hands, and pretending to adjust the lens, his thumb found the hidden stud and released it. The hum of the inner coils descended the scale again, became audible for a split second but only to Mark's ears; then they were dead.
He let out a slow breath, handed the box back. "Okay now. Shoot."