'Brought to an end...' That was an odd way of putting it.

     'We can-' he began.

     The payment will reflect the difficulty of the task.

     'Our scale of fees-'

     The payment will be three million dollars.

     Downey sat back. That was  four times higher than any fee yet earned by any member  of the Guild, and that had been a special family rate, including overnight guests.

     'No questions asked, I assume?' he said, buying time.

     No questions answered.

     'But  does the  suggested fee  represent the difficulty  involved?  The client is heavily guarded?'

     Not  guarded at all. But almost  certainly impossible  to  delete  with conventional weapons.

     Downey nodded.  This  was not  necessarily  a big problem, he  said  to himself. The  Guild had amassed quite a  few unconventional weapons over the years. Delete? An unusual way of putting it ...

     'We like to know for whom we are working, he said.

     We are sure you do.

     'I  mean that we  need to know your  name.  Or names. In  strict client confidentiality, of course. We have to write something down in our files.'

     You may think of us as ... the Auditors.

     'Really? What is it you audit?'

     Everything.

     'I think we need to know something about you.'

     We are the people with three million dollars.

     Downey  took the point,  although  he  didn't  like  it. Three  million dollars could buy a lot of no questions.

     'Really?' he said. 'In the circumstances, since you are a new client, I think we would like payment in advance.'

     As you wish. The gold is now in your vaults.

     'You mean that it will shortly be in our vaults,' said Downey.

     No. It has always  been in your  vaults. We know  this because we  have just put it there.

     Downey watched the empty  hood for a  moment, and then without shifting his gaze he reached out and picked up the speaking tube.

     'Mr Winvoe?' he said, after whistling  into it. 'Ah. Good. Tell me, how much do  we have  in our  vaults at  the  moment? Oh, approximately. To  the nearest million, say.'  He held the tube away from his ear for a moment, and then spoke into it again. 'Well, be a good chap and check anyway, will you?'

     He hung up the tube and placed his hands flat  on the desk in front  of him.

     'Can I offer you a drink while we wait?' he said.

     Yes. We believe so.

     Downey stood up with some relief and walked  over to  his  large drinks cabinet. His  hand  hovered over  the Guild's  ardent and valuable tantalus, with its labelled decanters of Mur, Nig, Trop and Yksihw.[3]

     'And what  would  you like  to  drink?'  he  said, wondering  where the Auditor kept its mouth. His hand hovered for just a moment over the smallest decanter, marked Nosiop.

     We do not drink.

     'But you did just say I could offer you a drink ... '

     Indeed. We judge you fully capable of performing that action.

     'Ah.'Downey's  hand hesitated over the  whisky  decanter, and  then  he thought better of it. At that point, the speaking tube whistled.

     'Yes, Mr  Winvoe? Really? Indeed? I myself  have frequently found loose change under  sofa  cushions, it's amazing how it mou ... No,  no,  I wasn't being ... Yes, I did have some reason to ... No, no blame attaches to you in any ... No, I could hardly  see  how it ... Yes, go and have a rest, what  a good idea. Thank you.'

     He hung up the tube again. The cowl hadn't moved.

     'We will need  to know where, when and, of course, who,' he said, after a moment.

     The cowl nodded. The location is not on any map. We would like the task to be completed within the week. This is essential. As for the who...

     A drawing appeared on Downey's desk and  in his head arrived the words: Let us call him the Fat Man.

     'Is this a joke?' said Downey.

     We do not joke.

     No, you don't, do you, Downey thought. He drummed his fingers.

     'There are many who would say this... person does not exist,' he said.

     He must exist. How else could you so readily recognize his picture? And many are in correspondence with him.

     'Well, yes, of course, in a sense he exists:

     In  a  sense  everything  exists. It  is cessation  of  existence  that concerns us here.

     'Finding him would be a little difficult.'

     You will find  persons  on any street who can tell you his  approximate address.

     'Yes,  of course,' said  Downey, wondering why anyone would  call  them 'persons'. It was an  odd usage. 'But, as you say,  I  doubt that they could give a map reference.  And even  then,  how could the  . . . the Fat  Man be inhumed? A glass of poisoned sherry, perhaps?'

     The cowl had no face to crack a smile.

     You misunderstand the nature of employment, it said in Downey's head.

     He bridled at this. Assassins were never employed. They were engaged or retained or commissioned, but never employed. Only servants were employed.

     'What is it that I misunderstand, exactly?' he said.

     We pay. You find the ways and means.

     The cowl began to fade.

     'How can I contact you?' said Downey.

     We will contact you. We know where you are. We know where everyone is.

     The  figure  vanished. At the  same moment the  door  was flung open to reveal the distraught figure of Mr Winvoe, the Guild Treasurer.

     'Excuse me, my lord, but I really  had to come up!' He flung some discs on the desk. 'Look at them!'

     Downey carefully  picked up  a  golden circle. It  looked like a  small coin, but -

     'No denomination!' said Winvoe. 'No  heads, no tails, no  milling! It's just a blank disc! They're all just blank discs!'

     Downey  opened his mouth to say,  'Valueless?' He realized that  he was half hoping that this was  the case. If they, whoever they were, had paid in worthless metal then there wasn't even  the glimmering of a contract. But he could see this wasn't the  case. Assassins learned  to recognize money early in their careers.

     'Blank discs,' he said, 'of pure gold.'

     Winvoe nodded mutely.

     'That,' said Downey, 'will do nicely.'

     'It must be magical!' said Winvoe. 'And we never accept magical money!'

     Downey  bounced  the coin on  the desk a  couple of times.  It  made  a satisfyingly  rich thunking noise.  It wasn't magical. Magical  money  would look real, because its whole purpose was to deceive. But this didn't need to ape something as human  and adulterated as  mere currency.  This is gold, it told his fingers. Take it or leave it.

     Downey sat and thought, while Winvoe stood and worried.

     'We'll take it,' he said.

     'But...'

     'Thank you,  Mr  Winvoe. That is  my decision,' said Downey.  He stared into  space for a while, and then smiled.  'Is  Mister Teatime still in  the building?'

     Winvoe  stood  back. 'I thought the council had agreed to dismiss him,' he said stiffly. 'After that business with...'

     'Mister Teatime does not  see the world in  quite the same way as other people,' said Downey, picking up the picture from his desk and looking at it thoughtfully.

     'Well, indeed, I think that is certainly true.'

     'Please send him up.'

     The  Guild attracted  all  sorts of people, Downey  reflected. He found himself wondering  how it had come to attract Winvoe, for one thing. It  was hard to imagine him stabbing anyone in the heart in case he got blood on the victim's wallet. Whereas Mister Teatime...

     The problem was that the Guild took young boys and gave them a splendid education  and   incidentally  taught   them  how  to   kill,  cleanly and dispassionately, for money  and for the good  of  society, or at  least that part of society that had money, and what other kind of society was there?