From the foyer they went to her room, an oblong suite done in soft pastels against cream gilded walls. There was a lovely view of the river through a mesh of elms along the grassy embankment. Beside the bed lay two or three novels she would never read, and that dog-eared copy of the Mahabharata. On a tiny lacquered chest were a bottle of sherry and a bottle of gin that she had purchased en route from the prison.

Order champagne. Let her know that your reunion is a wholly celebratory event.

Their first moments together were strained, even awkward—she had for example, poured three glasses of sherry, and did not know what to do with the third. At the window she pulled at the curtains, and bits of lace came off in her hand. And then she began to cry, but silently, and still facing the window.

Remember, it's to be a party. Let her know that this is only the start of very good times to come.

". . . What can I do for you, Margaretha?"

"Nothing."

"Would you rather be alone?"

"What? Oh ... no ... no . . ."

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No."

"Does it make any difference that I still love you?"

She fell into his arms then, still crying.

He had thought she was asleep when she finally whispered his name. "Nicky?" Then again, so softly that it might have come from another room: "Nicky? We have to talk."

He kissed her on the forehead—a regression. "No, we don't—"

"But you don't understand."

He kissed her again, properly this time, catching a scent of falling perfume. "Yes, I do."

She drew away from him, becoming a silhouette. "Nicky, listen to me. I've been involved in things, dangerous things ... in fact, that's part of the reason I was going to Amsterdam ... to become a spy. It sounds ridiculous, but—"

"I know."

"You know? How? Who told you?"

He continued to watch her for at least another minute, suddenly conscious of that same perfect calm that one felt before lying down beside her, picking up a paintbrush, or squeezing a trigger.

"Nicky, who told you?"

And if she starts getting close to the truth, then for Godsakes change the subject.

"Nicky, I want to know who told you."

"The same people who sent you to Ladoux in the first place also sent me."

He had expected her to cry, and somehow felt proud when she didn't. She drank, however—first another glass of sherry, then gin. The light had now faded from gray to blue. The corridors were filled with sounds of carefree guests descending to the dining room for supper.

"How long have you been waiting for me?" she asked.

"A few weeks."

"And what did they tell you to do? Did they want you to spy on me?"

"More or less."

"To sleep with me?"

"If necessary."

"To marry me?"