Gray thinking, and you're a bloody pussycat. . . but saying, "I'm sure my friends in London understand that, and I'm sure they're willing to make certain guarantees regarding your safety."

"Then let them come to my house and make them."

"And in exchange?"

"I shall show them a sample of what I can do for them. A written sample from my personal safe."

From the curio cabinet he had drifted to the window, lifted the curtain, and then let it fall again. And Rudolph never misses anything, Zelle had said. He's like a panther in the trees. He can even see in the darkness.

"These friends of yours," Spangler said suddenly. "I imagine that they're fairly confident at this point, aren't they?"

Gray shrugged.

"But you, on the other hand, you still don't quite trust me, do you? You're still concerned about my motives."

"Perhaps."

"Not that I blame you. Motives are so difficult to understand . . . particularly in terms of defection. For example, there are some men who will spend their whole lives in misery without ever contemplating the idea. Then again there are those who have been moved to acts of treason only because some senior officer was unkind to them. As for myself, I think they will eventually blame it on Margaretha. I think they will say that she showed me a life that I had never seen before, a life that I found irresistibly attractive . . . and, of course, they will be right."

"She's not part of the arrangement, Spangler."

"Oh, I know that. It's every man for himself where Mata Hari is concerned. Still, I think she will give me another six months, don't you? And even if she doesn't, I shall always have the money to buy another just like her."

She appeared just before Gray left, returning suddenly, almost mid-sentence. Spangler had moved to the end of the room. Gray had risen from his chair. There had been one or two words regarding time and location, and then they heard her at the door. She entered slowly, toying with a rose she must have picked from someone's garden. When she started to speak Spangler cut her off, explaining that Mr. Gray would not be joining them for dinner after all.

This time Gray met Dunbar in an enormous black limousine waiting in a cul-de-sac. A thin drizzle lay on the air, warm and shifting in clouds around the street lamps. Sykes sat at the steering wheel, Dunbar behind him with a newspaper. Their breath had fogged the glass so that from a distance Gray could imagine he saw a third figure. Slipping into the back, however, he saw that Southerland was absent.

"Under the circumstances John felt that his presence was redundant," Dunbar began. "I hope you don't find that too distressing."

He had changed. There was something new in his voice, a confident slur, and his gestures seemed more expansive.

"Where is he? Gray asked. "London?"