“Please, sit down, sir. Please.” Thankfully, the man did, though he kept glaring. “You can call me anything you like. Now, I’ll call you numbers, all right? You, sir, you’re One—sir, you’re Two—ma’am, you’re Three—Four—and Five.

“Why’s he One?” the woman asked immediately. The African-American man—One—turned to her and said amiably, “Shut up.”

“Ms. Three, the numbers don’t mean anything at all. Each of you represent organizations that seek to purchase my new breakthrough process. No names of organizations should be mentioned here. No causes. Your religious or political affiliations do not matter. You are just—numbers.”

She subsided. Ed looked around at each of them in turn, fixing their identities in his head. IRA, the blond. The Patriot Brotherhood, the other Caucasian. The black man was shopping for a corporate client. The Arab was a broker, not a player. The woman—

He gave her a nervous smile.

“You all received the list of names I sent you via Federal Express ten days ago?” he asked. The heads nodded in various degrees of enthusiasm. “I believe Kevin Baird Tannery was one of them.”

Rustles of paper as lists were removed from pockets and examined. Everyone agreed that Tannery was on the list.

Ed pulled a newspaper from the coffee table. Chicago Tribune. The below-the-fold story was of a man burned to death in his apartment, apparently by a disgruntled girlfriend.

Kevin Baird Tannery.

The paper passed silently from hand to hand. Each of them noted the date, the circumstances, the time.

“Also on your list, I believe was Jerry Lintz of El Paso, Texas. Yes?”

He passed the second newspaper, watched their expressions change.

“And, of course, Burt Everard Marshall, Dallas, Texas,” he continued. The third paper made the rounds.

“How do we know you didn’t hire someone to torch these people and say it was some new chemical process?” Mr. Two asked sensibly. Ed checked his watch.

“Well, as a matter of fact, you can’t. I’m not here to sell you snake oil, Mr. Two. I’m a very successful, very busy man. Do you seriously think that I’d take the chance of bilking people in your particular lines of work?”

“You’d have to be insane,” Mr. Four agreed unblinkingly. “But that don’t change the fact that you could be crazy. We’re gonna need a little more proof.”

“And you’ll get it. In the next ten days, the rest of the names on this list should go up in flames. I’m sure you’ll know how to find out the facts of the cases. Believe me or not—” Ed paused to pick some lint from his gray wool pants. His fingers were ever so slightly shaking. “As you like.”

“I think we’re going to need a little more dramatic proof,” said Mr. Five, the Arab. He was still smiling. Ed smiled back, feeling the strain in his facial muscles.

“Of course you are. Could I ask your help in a little demonstration?” Ed stood up. Mr. Five shrugged and stood, hands folded before him. Close to a gun, Ed suspected, and felt a dizzy wave of nervousness. No time for that. He’d come so far—