"You proceeded to spy on von Kalle because Martial Cazeaux had told you that that was the way to clear your name, correct?"

She took a deep breath, tasting more blood in her mouth. I need citrus, she thought, I must have citrus . . .

"You proceeded to spy on von Kalle because Martial Cazeaux had told you that—"

"Yes."

He returned to the chair, leaning forward across the desk. The egg man.

"Well, listen to this, madame. I have received a complete report from Martial Cazeaux, and he does not so much as recall seeing you in Vigo. In fact he recalls only meeting you once, and that was in Paris a long, long time ago."

Shortly after this interrogation she wrote a letter in pencil, addressed to Bouchardon:

My suffering is too terrible. My head cannot bear it any longer. Let me go back to my country. I know nothing about your war, and have never known anything more than was written in the newspapers. I have asked no one and gone nowhere for information. What more do you want me to say?

The letter was signed, "Respectfully yours, M. Zelle", and included her prisoner's identification number: 721 44625. It was routed by hand to Bouchardon and routinely placed in her file.

She heard nothing for two days. Then, on a Thursday, she was awakened at dawn and led to a courtyard behind the rear entrance. Although she had heard that executions were occasionally held here, she had also heard that prisoners were sometimes released from this point. The walls were twenty feet high, but one could clearly see a portion of the back street through the bars of the gate: the ranks of blackened tenements, the balconies and fire escapes.

She had been escorted from her cell by one of the younger guards, a quiet fellow who was said to have lost part of his stomach at Verdun. Although he hadn't spoken to her, she was almost certain that she had seen the suggestion of a smile on his lips. She had also heard voices from beyond the wall, then footsteps on the outer staircase. Finally she even thought she caught a glimpse of freedom . . . with Nicky and a car to take her far away.

But it was not Nicky. It was Tommy Merrick, and he had obviously come on foot.

He faced her through the bars of the gate, a small brown parcel under his arm, a little paler than she remembered. The guard approached first, but only to accept a bribe, not to unlock the gate. Then he stepped back and motioned her forward. Merrick had extended his arm through the bars, presumably to take her hand. Somehow she couldn't bring herself to touch him.

"I can only stay a few minutes," he said.

"Then why did you take the trouble at all?"

All his weight was on his left leg, presumably because they had failed with that right knee.