"Where does he keep it?"

Southerland shook his head.

"Where does he keep the file, Martin?"

"In his office . . . and locked up."

"Do you have a key?"

"No."

"Can you get one?"

Southerland was watching with the sympathetic look one might have used to deal with the wounded or dying. "Nicky, I'm telling you the truth. There's nothing anyone can do."

"How can we possibly know that until we've seen Dunbar's files? How can we possibly know anything until we've seen his files and determined what sort of case he's built?"

"Nicky, please—"

"You owe this to me, Martin. You owe this to me for what happened in Berlin."

"Nicky, for Godsakes."

"And if nothing else, I owe it to her for getting me out of Berlin. Out of that damn prison ..." And for more, much more. For being Margaretha . . .

It would all be in Dunbar's files, he told himself. Every myth that would later condemn her, every rumor that she would never outlive: her "insidious" relationship with Spangler, her "treachery" at the Somme and Verdun, her role in the failure of Ypres, her convoluted, "immoral" life as a spy— all methodically noted in the files.

"Charles is quite mad. I never actually realized," Gray said.

It was dawn the following day. Gray had spent nearly six unbroken hours in Dunbar's office, while Southerland had waited in the adjoining room. To avoid the morning security check they had hurried from the Richmond annex and returned to the streets.

"And if I'm not mistaken," Gray went on, "he's still obsessed with her. What's in those files tells his story more than hers."

Southerland remained unmoved, very tired again. "As long as you realize that I can't let you use anything that you saw last night, we shouldn't—"

"No point in using it, Martin. Not in a court. Belongs in a clinic. Dunbar hasn't chronicled a conspiracy. He's chronicled an illness. His illness. In addition to his real grievances against her, he's convinced himself that she's out to destroy him . . . personally destroy him. So what more reasonable, to him, that he get her first . . ."

"Nor can you ever discuss the content of that file with anyone other than—"

"No point in that either. The 'case' is pretty damn thorough. Might even hold up in court."

"Well, I'm certain that given an equally thorough defense—"

"Ah, but that's where Charles has been especially clever. You see, he's already begun cutting off her means of defense. Already begun covering the trail."

They began to walk, moving past another rank of vacant shops. Street cries came up through the cold air: old clothes, apples, a man who wanted chairs to mend.

"Tell me something," Gray said abruptly, "what do you know about the telegraphic intercepts between Berlin and Madrid?"

Southerland had paused to turn up the collar of his overcoat—

"I don't follow."