“Where do you find people like him?” I asked with immense curiosity. “I mean, is he salaried? Is this his job?”

“There is a network of people, Americans and émigrés. The Bund and other organizations are a helpful nursery. You might be surprised to see the list of people across the country—travel agents, financiers, photographers, doctors, all walks of life, really—who can be helpful to know.”

“And you’re at the top of that list?”

Gail warned me, “You’re asking too many questions, Ray.”

Martha assured Gail with a small laugh, “It’s all right, Gail. The more Ray knows, the better he can assist us. He’s not going to let you down.” She replied to my question, “No, Ray, I’m not on that list at all. I’m here in a professional, military capacity. This is my work, my life’s work. Not, as it is for Gunther, an avocation.”

“You’re a spy,” I said. I’d never met one before.

“Oh, please, such a ridiculous term. Think of me as the advance guard of a new ruling class.”

“Aw, I liked you much better as a spy.”

Gail gave me a warning glance and beseeched Martha, “Ray doesn’t know anything. Let him go.”

“Not until I know we don’t need him,” her mother responded firmly.

Gail looked straight into my eyes. “Ray, you like me, don’t you? In the beginning, I thought you liked me an awful lot. I thought, well . . . I thought lots of things. But once we started work, you seemed to like me less, and that hurt, but listen: you still like me enough that you wouldn’t tell anyone anything that would destroy my life, would you? Right?”

There seemed no point in lying. “Right.”

“Well, Ray, if anything bad were to happen to”—she looked at Martha—“were to happen to my mother, I assure you, my life would be ruined.” She pleaded my case to Martha. “You said it yourself. He won’t tell anyone anything if he thinks it might harm me. You can let him go.”

She was making the best argument for not killing me. I doubted it was good enough to save me, but I appreciated the effort.

Martha made a few impatient circles in the air with the barrel of her pistol. “Enough. We’re going inside.”

Gail went to pick up my raincoat from where Gunther had left it. “What are you doing?” Martha asked.

“I’m . . . getting his coat. He’ll be needing it later, won’t he?”

Martha didn’t immediately reply.

“Won’t he?” Gail repeated.

“Yes, sure,” said Martha. “Come on.”

We walked to the bungalow, where I expected to learn a great deal. Including whether or not there’s life after death.

Chapter 51

51

A Bungalow on The Bay