"I'm also sure that I want to get out of here " Hammond sighed, shaking his head and making a tsking sound with his tongue.

"Lawyers'" he muttered with earnest dismay.

"Always asking the impossible. Never considering how things really work in the flesh-and-blood, kill-and-be-killed real world. Well, if you won't join me . . ."

His voice trailed off. He poured a tin saucepan's worth of lukewarm water into a cup where he'd already piled three teaspoons of instant coffee. He added saccharine, then a powdered reamer.

He sipped, he winced.

Leslie looked away, gagging and almost able to taste it herself.

"I've been a coffee drinker all my life," announced Hammond.

"And I can't understand why."

Thomas didn't completely understand, either, but it had nothing to do with the coffee. They had made him 'disappear," but had given only a sketchy explanation why. He was well treated, but a prisoner. Not under arrest exactly, but sequestered. For the time being, as Hammond put it. William Ward Daniels's son was being "protected He was owed an explanation; the debit remained outstanding.

"Protected from what? From whom?" Thomas had asked repeatedly during his first day in captivity.

"Give me specifics. Facts. And tell me how long you're keeping me here."

"For as long as necessary," was Hammond's unyielding reply, as if the answer were obvious. Two armed guards in the next room, which served as a living room, enforced Hammond's case. And once he'd uttered in disgust, while pointing, to Leslie,

"Look. How many times does she have to save your life? There are people out there who don't like you. They want to hurt you. Hurt you so badly that you pa.s.s away. Get it now?" Hammond appeared tired, drawn, and badly unnerved. A career man experienced in sensitive situations, he was now driving himself all the harder, trying to compensate for his age and the inner fear that he was slipping.

Thomas had to look at Leslie, who appeared bored, then back to Hammond.

"So how long is that? "he persisted.

"Until" said Hammond confidently, "the trash is completely collected "Grover?" Thomas c.o.c.ked his head.

Hammond scoffed.

"That wop is past history," he said.

"Retired."

Retired like I'd like to be, the Treasury agent thought idly.

That's what you think, Thomas reasoned silently. But he said nothing.

Hammond continued.

"New men. Able men. They're getting rid of the garbage. I'll let you know when it's safe " Toward evening, Hammond had been willing to expand slightly.

"It's a counterfeiting ring" he'd said.

"Run by foreigners. Their a.s.sa.s.sins tried to kill you and sliced up some other poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d instead. They tried again in an art gallery-"

"And again on the steamship from Nantucket" Leslie reminded him.

"How's your throat feel?"

"A little dry," Thomas conceded.

"Then . . " Expansively and with a midwestern smile, Hammond motioned toward the jar of instant coffee. Thomas winced.

Hammond lost his smile.

"Lucky you have a throat left at all," Hammond mumbled. If it weren't for us, you wouldn't' ' "You're using me for your own reasons,"

retorted Thomas.

"We all know that."

A telephone rang and Hammond conducted a brief conversation which culminated in his smiling. Something about the trash having been picked up completely. Couldn't be the city sanitation men, Thomas thought. And then Hammond repeated something further about dropping the last bag of it under the Williamsburg Bridge.

And letting it float. The call ended.

Hammond turned back to Thomas.

"You want to know why?" he asked.

"Yes "Good. I'm ready to educate you And with Leslie's help, he did.

It had begun as many things do with money, Hammond intoned. Not his money, not the Treasury's money, not anybody's money. Counterfeit money.

"Printed in Germany during the war.

n.a.z.i counterfeits'" he elucidated, p.r.o.nouncing it Nat-Z, 'of British pounds."

So far, so familiar, thought Thomas. But as Daniels listened intently, the story swerved resolutely into darker regions.

"It was our man who was helping with the printing' said Hammond.

"A man who was an agent for us. You know the name.

Sandler."

"Of course" said Thomas.

"Recruited by-" "My father."

Hammond glanced to Leslie, whose eyes told him to skip ahead, far ahead. Thomas knew the basics.

"After the war, in the late forties," Hammond said, 'the counterfeits of the pounds picked up again. It was a crackerjack effort. The counterfeiter was bleaching one-pound notes, turning the paper back into pulp, re-cutting it and then re engraving higher denominations on the same G.o.dd.a.m.ned paper. Soon it had increased from a brief flurry to an avalanche. The British were pretty sore about it "Can you blame them?" asked Thomas, trying to weigh the story at its face value.

"No," said Hammond. He raised his head, sipped the bitter coffee, and shook his head.

"Don't forget, I wasn't in this case till recently. Don't blame me for past history."