He talked about the case of an alleged German spy recently shot while attempting to escape from arresting officers. The suspect had been a woman and very young, but it was the waste that most disturbed Southerland—the waste of a tactical asset. He was also upset with Special Branch, calling their performance idiotic.

"Have you thought of taking the matter up with Cummings?" Dunbar asked.

Southerland shook his head. "You still don't get it, do you? We're not running an intelligence service. We're spy smashers. We're to provide the headlines to appease the home front. Let mum and dad know that it wasn't the general's fault that their kid was blown to bits ... it was all because of a bloody spy."

"What about the Minister?"

"The Minister is a fool. Look, I don't know what they've told you, but it's not going at all well at the front. At best we're simply holding the line, and even then the casualties are atrocious. Meanwhile Walter Nicolai's people are running circles around us and no one's doing a damn thing about it."

"And that girl?"

Southerland shrugged. "Oh, the girl was a very small fish."

"Then what's the point?"

"The point is we could have used her. She could have told us something. Look, you've got to try and envision an octopus, one of those enormous tropical things. The brain is in Berlin. The tentacles extend everywhere, and the agents are those suction things. If we're to have any chance at all, we've got to follow one of those tentacles back. As it is now we've nothing, nothing at all."

The rain had stopped by this time and Southerland wanted to walk a bit, so they crossed Queensway to Bayswater and entered the gardens. "The fact of the matter," Southerland said, "is I don't think the Fourth Floor wholly trusts me anymore . . . not after Berlin and your bloody Mata Hari."

"Don't you think that's a bit harsh? I mean, there were indications—you know it as well as I."

"I only know what the Fourth Floor tells me, and they don't want to hear about Margaretha Zelle."

"What about Spangler?"

"He's in Madrid, not our province."

"That's absurd—"

"That's policy, Charles. Besides, we can't afford to waste the resources."

They had reached the broad lawns again, and a view of the pond, that same reassuring view from their first evening together when Zelle had also been discussed in these terms.

"She's connected, Martin. I'm certain she's connected to Berlin."

Southerland looked at him. "Then tell it to Special Branch. They'll be delighted to shoot her for you."

"Martin, I'm serious. The woman is a German resource."

"She's in Holland, Charles. Haven't you heard? She's living in Holland."

"Yes, but for how long? That's my point, don't you see? How long before they launch her again? Anyway, it shouldn't cost us much."

"To do what?"

". . . Watch her."