Kirkus: Another case for Her Majesty's Secret Service operative Craig (cf. The Man Who Sold Death-1965) all raw nerve and scar tissue. It takes him from London through the Greek islands, Venice, and on, and involves him with an autonomous republic, Zaarb, which has an oil well and some cobalt the English are anxious to protect, the Communists are determined to secure. Daimlors streak, Berettas sputter in what is essentially a Bonded formula of sudden death and instant sex. OPENING:Philip Grierson drove to Queen Anne's Gate, and all the way from Chelsea his mind was doing sums about petrol. The Lagonda did fifteen to the gallon, and at her age that wasn't too bad. Even so, it meant five and sixpence just to go to the office and back. Garage, three pounds a week. Insurance, two pounds a week. Maintenance another thirty bob. Odds and ends another pound. Altogether his transport cost him at least six-fifty a year, and he couldn't fiddle half of it back on expenses. He would have to ask for a rise. He parked in the mews behind the house then went in by the front door, past the row of brass plates: Dr. H. B. Cunnington-Low, Lady Brett, Major Fuller, the Right Reverend Hugh Bean. None of the bells below the nameplates worked. Grierson pressed the bell marked "Caretaker," and the door opened at once. The man who opened it wore overalls, and a caretaker's air of grudging politeness. He was short, muscular, and fast-moving, an ex-Commando sergeant who, to Grierson's certain knowledge, had killed three men. Beneath the overalls he carried a Smith and Wesson and a Commando knife. From time to time, Grierson was obliged to practice unarmed combat with him. He found the sessions invigorating but painful. "Morning, guv," said the caretaker

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