interest in the voice now.

"No. I just want to know if you've heard anything new anti-my-side, from
the other side. Or if you know of any fresh personnel recently from
there."

"Frankly, I haven't. If you could give me a hint."

"I can't," Larry said. "Look, Hans, like you say, you owe me a favor or
two. If something comes up, let me know. Then I'll owe you one."

The voice was jovial again. "It's a bargain, my friend."

After Woolford had hung up, he scowled at the phone. He wondered if Hans
Distelmayer was lying. The German commanded the largest professional spy
ring in the world. It was possible, but difficult, for anything in
espionage to develop without his having an inkling.

The phone rang back. It was Steve Hackett of Secret Service on the screen.

Hackett said, "Woolford, you coming over? I understand you've been
assigned to get in our hair on this job."

"Huh," Larry grunted. "The way I hear it, your whole department has given
up, so I'm assigned to help you out of your usual fumble-fingered
confusion."

Hackett snorted. "At any rate, can you drop over? I'm to work in liaison
with you."

"Coming," Larry said. He hung up, got to his feet and headed for the door.
If they could crack this thing the first day, he'd take up that vacation
where it'd been interrupted and possibly be able to wangle a few more days
out of the Boss to boot.

At this time of day, parking would have been a problem, in spite of
automation of the streets. He left his car in the departmental lot and
took a cab.

-------------------------------------

The Counterfeit Division of the Secret Service occupied an impressive
section of an impressive governmental building. Larry Woolford flashed his
credentials here and there, explained to guards and receptionists here and
there, and finally wound up in Steve Hackett's office which was all but a
duplicate of his own in size and decor.

Steve Hackett himself was a fairly accurate carbon copy of Woolford,
barring facial resemblance alone. The fact was, Steve was almost
Lincolnesque in his ugliness. Career man, about thirty, good university,
crew cut, six foot, one hundred and seventy, earnest of eye. He wore
Harris tweed. Larry Woolford made a note of that; possibly herringbone was
coming back in. He winced at the thought of a major change in his
wardrobe; it'd cost a fortune.

They'd worked on a few cases together before when Steve Hackett had been
assigned to