There was a housekeeper named Lilly, but Faust had found her annoying and sent her away. There was a fire in the grate but the walls seemed to absorb the heat. Faust was sitting at a table in the shadows when Dunbar entered.

There were none of the usual amenities between an agent and his case officer: no offers of a drink (although a bottle of Scotch lay on the sideboard), no inquiries about mutual acquaintances. Faust clearly resented Dunbar's intrusion and wanted him gone as quickly as possible.

He began by saying that Southerland had already explained what was needed, then launched into a general description of the German intelligence effort in Amsterdam. He was the perfect observer, putting nothing of himself into it, only describing what he had seen or heard. Although his voice never varied he could not help smiling when describing the heart attack of the German military attaché.

But for the most part, Faust talked about Cramer and the subordinate Dutch apparatus. He said that there were seventeen men and women attached to Cramer's staff with an operating budget for twenty-five agents. Cramer, however, had barely succeeded in recruiting half that number: pensioners paid a few guilders a month to watch the coast, the night clerk at L'Europe Hotel, one or two acquaintances from cabarets around the Thorbeckeplein. Apart from the maintenance of this rather paltry network Cramer's concern was his standing in Berlin. He was also continually pressing Faust to supply him with women.

When Faust had finished, he moved to the sideboard and the bottle of Scotch. He drank his first glass quickly, as if to kill a bad taste, then poured another and returned to the table.

"I wonder if you might tell me a little about Cramer's women?" Dunbar said. "I mean to say, is there any particular type he seems attracted to?"

"He'll take anything he can get."

"Prostitutes?"

"Anything."

"And are these relationships ever professionally based?"

"Do you mean, does he place them on the books? Occasionally."

"But primarily the interest is personal, is that it?"

Faust lit a cigarette. "Listen, Dunbar, there are no mysteries here. Karl Cramer is not a genius. You understand?"

Dunbar got up from his chair and moved to the window. A passing storm had swept the sky clean, and he could not recall ever having seen such a sky . . . except possibly with Zelle.

"I wonder if we might go over the recruitment process?" he said. "That is, how exactly does Cramer choose an agent?"

"Mostly with two left hands."

"Are you ever involved in the process?"

"Sometimes."

"In the actual selection?"

"Sometimes."

"So that if you were to recommend someone of potential value, Cramer would pursue it, proceed with an interview and so forth?"