"Meaning what? They also want to put her head on the pike?"

Dunbar tossed the spoon away, his first frustrated gesture. "Despite what you think, Nicholas, I'm actually conducting this investigation with, well, a tilt in her favor. Indeed, there are those in the department who feel I'm completely off my trunk for even suggesting that the woman can be turned around . . . much less trusted."

Gray shook his head. "I'm sure she'll be eternally grateful for all you've done, Charles."

"Very well, Nicky, see it as you like. The fact remains, however, that I'm probably saving her life . . . and yours . . ."

Gray stood up, tapped one finger to his temple. "Oh, I get it. This is the little game we play to keep ourselves out of the trenches."

"Please sit down, Nicholas."

"Of course. Catch a spy and save our bloody necks."

"Sit down."

"And the funny part is she never even loved you, Charlie. She just felt sorry for you, because she thought you were stupid. But she underestimated you, Charlie. We all did. Who would believe just how vindictive you could be . . ."

Dunbar merely waved him off, as one might dismiss the ravings of a soldier too long at the front.

There was a lavish meal that evening, presumably, despite earlier heat, in the interest of fellowship. Then, retiring to a drawing room with Southerland, Gray was presented with a typewritten copy of the case notes ... another display of trust. The papers were loosely bound in cardboard and secured with string. But even without touching the notes, he could see that there were more photographs.

"You needn't study everything," Southerland told him. "Merely familiarize yourself with the basic pattern of her involvement."

Gray picked the thing up. "Her involvement?"

"With the Germans, of course."

Next, there was the money, two hundred pounds in a pale blue envelope with his majesty's crest.

"Obviously this is just to see you through the slack period," Southerland said. “I’ll see that you get more once the operation starts."

"And when is that supposed to occur?"

Southerland crossed the room to pour a second brandy. "We've received word that she's on board a ship en route from Vigo to Amsterdam. We have tentative plans to pull her in at Falmouth and hold her for a few days for questioning at Scotland Yard."

"On what charge?"

"Suspicion of one sort or another, mistaken identity ... The point is to get her off that ship, detain her until it sails again, then slip you into the scheme of things."

"And then?"

"Send her back to the continent and watch."

"And if I don't see anything?"

There were books along the wall, superbly bound in lambskin. Southerland withdrew one at random, glanced at the flyleaf, and put it aside.