Book three in the adventures of ex-Intelligence Service agent, meditative, middle-aged Edmund Trothe (The End of the Rug and But We Didn't Get the Fox, both 1968) and judging by the miserable wheeze-out of Trothe's prospects at the close, it might just be the last. Having isolated the fox--a brace of solid Service types gone to the bad--Joel Cawle and Bernard Lane, Trothe, now prime and controlling shareholder in an Arab consortium to lay an oil pipeline on the Soviet-Turkish border, attempts to keep his company pure within and keep Cawle-Lane without. But in spite of Sleuthing, through Morris (The Banger) and the omniscient Lord Blercgrace (The Blur), and training the drug-ridden former buddy Chamby (The Little Cham), Trothe's holdings are riddled with arms in transit, bullion and spies. After a showdown with Lane, Trothe, in order to save his wife and daughter (he did marry Consuela) is forced to give up his company and finds himself under the efficient thumb of Lane-Cawle. wondering to which controlling hand it belongs. And then he receives word that his family was indeed wiped out. But poor Trothe's deathblows may relieve the reader tired of Llewellyn's multi-national, omnipresent, unwieldy set of double-triple spies. A Blur, a Little Sham, but regrettably--no Banger.