Faust had finished his second whisky, but something stopped him from pouring a third. "I think we should clear a small misunderstanding right now. Just so we are both in full agreement. I don't smoke in bed, and I don't pave the way for agents I don't know. You follow me? I don't take those kind of chances, especially for you."

"But I'm not talking about one of my people, Emile. I'm talking about an actual asset of potential value, someone with clearcut German sympathies."

"What is this game we are playing now, Dunbar?"

"No game, Emile. I simply want you to whisper a name in Karl Cramer's ear, the name of someone who may be of use to him as a foreign representative."

"And who is this person? Who is this person with clearcut German sympathies?"

Dunbar turned from the window with his hands in his pockets. "Actually it's that dancer, Mata Hari."

There were sea shells on the mantle and an ivory cat, and especially a porcelain ballerina, lips slightly parted, body curved like a bow. Faust seemed to be studying her. "You know, Martin told me about you and that woman, Dunbar. He told me all about it."

"This isn't what you think—"

"And what do I think? That you are worried about her financial condition and want to arrange employment for her with the German secret service? Or perhaps you are concerned about my good friend and colleague Karl Cramer and are dying to help him fulfill his obligations to Berlin?"

Dunbar glanced at the clock above the mantle: half past midnight and still no end in sight. "Obviously I can't go into the details, but the operation is much bigger than you imagine."

"Oh, I don't think so. I think I can imagine it very easily. Having failed to discover firm evidence of that woman's complicity with Berlin, you are now about to manufacture this evidence. You are about to pass her in front of Karl's very sensitive nose, knowing full well from what I've told you that a man of his appetite will certainly take a bite. No, this isn't at all difficult for me to imagine."

Dunbar stood there, eyes fixed on the garish carpet, hands still jammed into the pockets of his trousers.

"I won't lie to you, Emile. I won't pretend that there's evidence when there isn't. The fact remains, however, that there are indications concerning that woman's link with Berlin, profound indications that simply can't be ignored—please, let me finish. All I'm proposing is that we give her the opportunity to renew old acquaintances. That's it. I merely want to give her that opportunity."

Faust was silent a moment, still examining that porcelain ballerina. "What would I say to him?"

"Tell him that she's just returned from Paris. I'm sure that will pique his interest. And show him a photograph of her."

"What about Martin?"