So who was he working for, this young German he once thought of as a simple, ordinary fisherman—the Americans, English, or Nazis? Who had planted him next door with his fishing tackle and flies to angle his way into the general’s warm regard and into the heart of his son? Konrad could, of course, reel in Captain Allard to question him, but he’d allow him to be for now.

Konrad picked up his desk phone and dialed a private number. In case someone in his department traced the call, the number would be found to belong to a legitimate recipient, one the Abwehr chief would have reason to contact from time to time, despite the enmity between their organizations. “Good morning!” Konrad said heartily to the person on the other end of the line. “I have that report for you. I’ll send it through the usual channels.”

Two hours later, dressed in civilian clothes and having driven himself in his personal car to a wooded park in a quiet neighborhood of Paris, deserted this time of day in the week, Konrad sat down to await the person he had arranged by code to meet. Shortly he saw him emerge from the canopy of bare-limbed trees that stood like sentinels along the path. A painting Konrad had seen recently popped into his mind. The reach of the gray, naked arms of the trees toward the overcast skies and the man walking under them in his black SS uniform with its red armband, reminded him of the artist’s rendering of nude Jews lifting their arms in anguished appeal toward heaven against a background of blazing ovens. Konrad quelled a threat of nausea and stood, removing his glove.

“Derrick,” he said, smiling, and extended his hand. “So good of you to meet me.”

Colonel Derrick Albrecht drew off his glove as well and accepted his hand. “My pleasure, Konrad. What has happened?”

The men sat down on the bench, and Konrad poured two cups of steaming coffee from a thermos he had brought. “I’ve discovered that my next-door neighbor is a spy,” he said.

“Good heavens! Madame Chastain?”

“No, thank God. Her tenant living in the apartment above her garage. He works as a fishing guide for a company whose business is conducting river fishing tours. He and I share in common an obsession for fly-fishing, and he and my son share a passion for kickball. They play a game together most afternoons. My son is silly about him. I am fond of him, too.”

“Ah,” said Derrick, his tone understanding. “A sad situation.”

Konrad asked calmly, “Is he one of yours?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“The Waffen SS?”

“I would know of it.”

“The Gestapo?”

“They would not dare intrude on my territory.”