Southerland signaled the waiter for another glass. "Look, it's not my show. In fact I only just heard about the arrest myself, and frankly I'm as disgusted with the whole affair as you. That may be hard for you to believe, but—"

Gray waved him off. This was their first real conversation since Gray's return from Madrid: this Tuesday afternoon, this London bar along the riverfront, this last movement of Margaretha's story.

"You must try to understand the situation," Southerland went on. "She's precisely the sort of woman that the public wants to see as a German spy. She's beautiful in a too obvious way. She spends a lot of time in bed with various men. She takes off her clothing in public and receives a lot of money for it. She thumbs her nose at society and calls herself an artist. That sort of behavior might have been acceptable before the war, but not now. People are too serious now . . ."

"So what exactly are the charges?" Gray wasn't interested in what he considered Southerland's self-serving exegesis.

Southerland shrugged. "Sinking ships, poisoning wells . . . it's really immaterial. The fact is we took a terrible beating at the Somme, the command look like blundering fools. They need a head for the pike."

"Whose idea was it to send her to von Kalle?"

"Ladoux's."

"And who fixed her up with Cramer?"

"Dunbar."

"Then if it was all set up from the start, why the bloody hell did you even bother sending me to Spain with her?"

"Because I was bloody stupid." Then, signaling to the waiter again, "Look, in the beginning I actually thought it was a legitimate investigation. Dunbar, however, had a different viewpoint, Ladoux still another, though for both she was the target."

"And now?"

"Now it seems they've managed to coordinate their plans, and I'm afraid there's nothing you and I can do . . ."

They paid the bill and began to walk. "For whatever it's worth," Southerland said, "I believe the evidence is still only circumstantial. They have her taking money from people with the wrong bankers, and they have her meeting with von Kalle. They don't actually have anything concrete, not so far as I can tell—"

"Does it make a difference?"

"I think so. After all, one still must convince a judge."

"When does she go to trial?"

"I'm not sure. Two or three months, perhaps four."

"Then we still have time."

"Time for what?"

"To prove she's innocent, of course.

They had come to a window display of ornamental dolls, some porcelain, some wooden. One was armless, another had lost the glass eyes.

"Honestly, Nicky, it's out of our hands now. I don't even think you could get in to see her—"

"I don't want to see her, Martin. I want to prove her innocence."

"Well, I'm afraid that you're not in a position to do that."

"No? What sort of files does Dunbar have on her? His Mata Hari file. What's it like?"

"Massive."