It was about half past ten when she finally left Griebel, almost eleven before she found a vacant cab. There were mobs blocking traffic all along the arteries, and an overturned lorry on the Unter den Linden. Closer to the Reichstag, the crowds seemed somewhat more disciplined, assembling in ranks for Deutschland uber Alles.

She suspected that Gray had tried to warn her about this side of Germany, or at least she had glimpsed it in his drawings of shaved heads and hard jaws. She should have seen it in Spangler's eyes, particularly after one of their more intense nights together. And his words: "If you are to understand the German mind, then you must understand our passion for logic." But what seemed to pass for logic was more an adherence to strict discipline. She had also learned to hate the food.

It was nearly midnight when she finally reached the Bendlerstrasse, long past this city's usual bedtime. Soldiers attached to the ministry were milling on the steps. Students from the academy had gathered in the forecourt. There were one or two faces that she recognized, but no one she could trust on a night like this. So she telephoned from below, then waited another hour before Rudy appeared.

They met in the garden court where Schlieffen had supposedly convinced the chancellor that Belgium could not remain neutral. There were still voices from the streets, but increasingly distant. Spangler entered from a service door, then descended the staircase without looking at her: "I told you never to come here," he said.

She didn't answer. The pretending was over.

"It's about Nicky. I want you to let him go."

He turned away, cupping his hands to light a cigarette. "Not now."

"I saw Griebel. I saw that idiot at your office. They told me everything, and now I want you to let him go."

"Margaretha, this is not something that one can—"

"Tomorrow, Rudy. I want you to let him go tomorrow."

He pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes—an intentionally exaggerated gesture. "And if I fail to do this, you will leave me?"

"I'm leaving you anyway, but you're still going to let him go. It's only logical"

He was looking closely at her. "You know, I'm very fond of you, Margaretha. I really am."

"You used me, Rudolph. You used me from the very start."

"No, only since Madrid. And even then there were feelings, strong feelings."

"Then let him go. You don't need him. He can't possibly make a difference now, so let him go."

He drifted back to the staircase as a swell of voices rose from the Steinplatz again, thousands of them.

"Did I tell you that there's going to be a war, Margaretha? Very soon, perhaps even tonight."

He couldn't have looked leaner in the half light, like something cut from soap with a razor.

"Your war is a joke."

"I don't think you'll say that once it actually begins."