"Yes, sir."

"And so tell me about her, Charlie. Tell me about this Mata Hari."

"Well, sir, I hardly know what else to add ... I think she's connected, and I'd simply like the opportunity to probe—"

"With five thousand pounds of my money, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

There were new maps on the wall: the North Atlantic, the Rhine valley, a series of photographs of the River Somme.

"Essentially I'm only asking for a little administrative lattitude . . . and a small staff."

Cummings smiled, moving from the mantle to his desk. "You know, I may have my limitations, Charles, but I know when someone is trying to twist my tail."

"Sir?"

"I'm referring to your little dance with the Frogs."

"Truly, sir, I was only attempting to—"

"Fan the fire a bit? Turn her into a real issue of the day?"

"I assure you that—"

"And next I suppose you'll be waltzing over to the navy with your Mata Hari campaign, right?" He moved to the window, brooding at the neighboring roofs. "I do not like this, Charles. I do not like it one bit. If you wanted to investigate her, then why didn't you simply ask—instead of trying to build a damn powerbase?"

"Really, sir, that wasn't my intention."

"No, of course not. You were merely trying to save me some time." Then sagging into the chair: "Look, if you want the woman that badly I certainly won't stand in your way. Only do try and maintain some degree of restraint. There's enough hysteria around here as it is."

Although he continued to keep her very close, he was obliged to share her with others. The next four weeks were a period of gestation—a gradual widening of Dunbar's influence as his Mata Hari became a recognized, and appreciated, issue. He met twice with the Admiralty, then again with Georges Ladoux in Paris. He also became rather popular with Special Branch, and others who had traditionally distrusted Cummings.

Yet it was not until the seventh week and a meeting with Martin Southerland that Dunbar once more became operational. By this time he had achieved no small degree of authority, and so there was an element of strain to his meeting with Southerland.

It took place along the Chelsea Embankment where Southerland had been conducting another of his unproductive surveillances. It was about one o'clock in the morning, and chilly to the bone.

"I suppose you've come to consult my technical brilliance," Southerland said.

He had been drinking whisky, and his eyes were very dark.

"Actually it's about Zelle."

"Of course it's about Zelle. Everything is about Zelle these days. You've made her the bloody talk of the town." He took another sip from his flask, and they began to walk, following a path past loading docks and vacant lots. Eventually they reached a footbridge and a view of shabby dwelling along the water.

"Nothing has really changed," Dunbar said. "I've only been given the authority to look into the matter."