She came, just as he had always known she would come ... a friend in the worst hour, entering his cell like blown silk. Her voice was clear and soft, her hands were very cool. Although she explained that she could only stay a minute, she finally spent the entire night. . . .

After two or three days of brackish water, bread, and some sort of rat broth, they brought him back to the empty room. The seating arrangement was the same: the girl with her stenographer's pad against the wall, Spangler opposite the prisoner's chair. Although they had left Gray's ankles and wrists free, there was something new in the corner, something like a low bench with leather manacles.

"I want you to know that I'm not happy with this arrangement," Spangler began. "I'm not at all happy with it."

The girl looked beatific in a beige summer skirt and blouse.

"Nor can there be any change until you cooperate with us. So, again, I'm asking you, Nicholas. I'm sincerely asking you."

. . . But just last night Zelle had said that Spangler's sincerity cut both ways, left festering wounds . . .

"Look, don't you realize that there's going to be a war soon? Everything points to it. Your people are in bed with the Russians. The French are in bed with both of you. And when it happens I won't be able to keep them from executing you." He got up, crossed the room and peered out the blinds again. "Anyway, you can't go on like this much longer. You look like hell."

. . . Which wasn't at all what Zelle had said last night, in spite of his bleeding shins, cracked lips and empty eyes . . .

"Damn it, Nicky, please listen to me. This lovely child sitting here and her boyfriend are not ordinary people. They're Hansel and Gretel gone mad. They'll tear you apart unless you start talking to me.

He couldn't help glancing at her, noting her brief smile, apparently reserved for her special victims. He shook his head, heard the words "I'm sorry" come from his mouth. And he was sorry ... he had no desire to be torn apart . . .

"Nicky, just answer two small questions about the arrangements at Richmond and we shall call it a day—"

“I'm sorry.”

Spangler knelt beside Gray's chair. "Anyway, Margaretha very much wants to see you. In fact she won't even speak to me until I let her see you . . . and that makes thing extremely difficult, as you can well imagine."

Once again the boy must have been waiting just outside the door. This time he entered with two uniformed guards—silent men with shaved heads. The guards escorted Gray to the low bench, then forced him to kneel facing the wall. When they had secured his wrists, they stepped back, watching with detachment until ordered to leave.