urbane-looking man who smiled often with his mouth but never with his eyes. A guard let him in and he stood quietly in the rear of the room while Stan continued with his briefing session.

There were a dozen new men at the meeting, listening intently to what he had to say.

They were the type whose loyalty was to money, Stan thought, amused. Hard-faced men who had probably fought for a dozen different causes and switched sides as easily as changing a shirt.

Stan had almost finished with the briefing.

"Essentially, it's a simple smuggling operation. Only you're not to know what you're smuggling and under no condition are you to open your packages."

A man up front suddenly interrupted. "Why not?"

Stan smiled bleakly. "The packages are triggered, Piazza, I'm very much afraid if you tried to open it your head would be blown off. Satisfied?"

He turned back to the others. "We pay very well—very well, indeed. A smart man, who isn't too curious, will find it well worth his while. We'll give you the packages and tell you where to leave them. In some cases, it will involve extensive travel on your part. Be cautious, be careful, and be quick on the trigger in case anybody tries to take them away from you."

The man whom Stan had called Piazza stood up and started for the door. Stan watched him quietly until his hand was on the knob.

"What's the matter, Piazza?"

The man turned and spat on the carpet. "I don't like your proposition. I think it stinks. We take all the risks and we don't even know what we're doing!"

Stan shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, Piazza. Really sorry. I had hoped we could use you."

Piazza whitened. "I'm no stoolie, Mr. Martin."

"We can't take the risk," Stan said simply.

In a movement that only one pair of eyes could follow, he reached inside his coat and shot through the cloth of the lapel.

Piazza looked faintly surprised and slumped limply to the floor.

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