Yet for Gray there was only Zelle, who finally appeared in the embassy carriage yard, also like some half-remembered ghost.

She wore a pale-blue dress, last year's fashion and so obviously nothing Spangler had given her. Gray wore a raincoat borrowed from the military attaché. There was a moment's hesitation before she ran into his arms. Then she was on him, whispering his name and something else she should have said before. "Oh God, I'm sorry, Nicky. Oh God ..."

She was shivering, so he draped the raincoat over her shoulders. He lit a cigarette, and she watched him remove a speck of tobacco from his lips. There seemed to be voices everywhere . . . hysterical Englishmen just over the wall, hundreds of Germans gathering in the streets.

She said, "I suppose we don't have much time."

"No, I'm afraid not."

"And there's so much I wanted to tell you, only now I can't remember half of it."

"It doesn't matter."

She was crying, so he drew her closer again and he wished there was someplace they could sit ... a bench, a ledge, anywhere.

"Listen to me, Nicky. I talked to Rudolph, but there wasn't a deal or anything like that. He just let you go."

"For your sake?"

"Maybe."

"And now?"

"Now I leave."

Her lips were suddenly cool against his fingers. Her hair was soft against his chin. "You're a scandal," he whispered. "Everywhere you go, you're a scandal."

She smiled, her eyes half shut. "But why did you do it, Nicky? Why did you get involved with those—those people?"

"Not because I'm a great patriot. And you know the reason." He kissed her forehead.

"And now there's going to be a war?"

"Seems so."

"Then let's run away to India."

"Too hot."

"America?"

"Too far."

She slipped away, clutching the raincoat to her throat, staring past the wrought iron gate to a milling crowd beneath the trees. "Then I'm going home." She'd decided that earlier.

"Home?"

"To The Hague. To be with my daughter ... Well, it's time, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose it is."

"And you? You'll be in London?"

"Yes . . ."

"Good. Then we're both ready."

He couldn't see her face, but he knew she was crying again, still staring at the crowd, still clutching the raincoat, but crying.

He glanced at the sky, the growing blue shadows around them. "Maybe you should go," he said. "I don't imagine that the streets will be safe for long."

She shrugged. "Oh, that doesn't matter. I'm Dutch, remember? They only care about the Russians and the English." Then faintly smirking, "Besides, everyone loves Mata Hari."

He took a step closer and laid his hand on her shoulder. "Margaretha, I think I should tell you—"

"No, don't. Let's just leave it like this. Let's just say that we'll write to one another and always be friends."

He put his other hand on her shoulder and turned her face to his. "Margaretha, I'm not altogether sure I can live without you."