Southerland was actually smiling for the first time that evening. "Christ, she really took you for a ride, didn't she?"

"What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, I think you know."

Dunbar kept her very close to him after that, a secret in locked drawers and cabinets, a clandestine affair conducted at odd hours of the night. He began by reviewing past notes for something missed or forgotten. Then he submitted her name—merely one of a dozen others—to the foreign residencies. Finally (and a copy of the communique still exists in British archives) he discreetly altered the French, requesting surveillance should she happen to appear.

At first the response was disappointing, but if nothing else, as an observer-voyeur he was patient. Very patient. To help pass the nights he returned to the original files, scanning entries as if in an old photograph album. And indeed there were a few old photographs: a profile stolen from a distance, a close-up stirring memories, warring emotions. Eventually the strain began to show in a trace of red around the eyes, an occasionally dull and exhausted gaze. But given the season everyone was working pretty hard—if only to justify their existence, and keep themselves out of the bloody trenches.

It was toward the end of January when Dunbar's vigilance was rewarded, and this communique, too, may still be found in British archives. It bears the signature of Captain George Ladoux of the Deuxieme Bureau, and so effectively marks his entrance into the story. The document comprises a chronicle of Zelle's mid-December stay in Paris, with annotated comments and a summary. Gray is mentioned; so are the Marquis de Beaufort and a nameless lieutenant she met on a train. There is nothing obviously compromising, but Dunbar was sure he would find his connections . . . one way or another.

Dunbar spent the better of part of two days drafting his proposal to the fourth floor, then spent another day waiting for an audience with Mansfield Cummings. By this time it was the first week in February, a dreary period for those attached to the British secret service. More than a dozen agents had already been lost between Zurich and the Balkans, while the Alsatian networks had been virtually blown to nothing. To a degree this was also a period of internal strife involving a particularly bitter feud with the Admiralty teams.

In any case, such was the climate in which Dunbar laid his first specific proposal concerning Mata Hari. It was a bleak day, and Cummings looked poorly. The windows were shut tight against drafts, the office was unbearably warm. When Dunbar entered he found Cummings bent over the grate, wearing a cardigan under his jacket, a shabby brown one that might have been knitted by his sister.

"I can offer you tea," he said, "but it's foul. Mandy's on leave and the new girl is hopeless." Then standing up from the grate with his milk-and-water smile: "I have, however, read your petition."