"Well, perhaps she wired in advance from Vigo."

" 'Agent H-21 has arrived . . . ’ ”

"Then perhaps von Kalle simply got the dates wrong."

"Martin, it was fixed, manufactured, and you know it. They couldn't build a legitimate case against her, so they forged the evidence. Only they mucked up the dates. They mucked it up by forty-eight hours."

They began to walk now—without even discussing it. They simply started following one of those shadowy paths that Gray could never disassociate from Zelle. She was also part of the shuttered stillness, and of the breeze that rose up suddenly from nowhere.

"Why do you suppose that none of this occurred to her when she was questioned by Bouchardon?" Southerland asked him.

"Do you recall how you spent last December thirteenth?"

They had entered one of the floral groves filled with tulips and spidery ferns. She also might have been waiting here, peering out of the ivy or sculptured hedgerows.

"If you're right," Southerland said, "and I'm not saying you are or aren't . . . but if you are, how would you . . . we . . . proceed?"

"Look, I know it's still equivocal at this point. We've got enough to raise questions, but a biased court still might not believe us. We need more proof—irrefutable proof."

"A witness?"

"If possible. Where is Dunbar holding court these days?"

"They've given him a suite of rooms on the Saint-Germain, but he also works out of his hotel room at the Continental."

"And what exactly does he do?"

"Technical liaison."

"With Ladoux?"

"For the most part, yes."

"Who processes the intercepts?"

"It's a joint effort. Ladoux's people handle the practical end. Dunbar's people do the decoding."

"Roughly how many people are we talking about? I mean on Dunbar's end."

"Ten, maybe twelve."

"Anyone you can trust?"

"I'm not sure."

They had reached a second grove, darker than the first. There were toadstools among the shadows and long fingers of fresh moss.

"There have to be others who know,” Gray said. "Someone in the coding room, a translator, even a bloody typist... If Dunbar forged a cable then there must be someone else who knows about it."

Southerland sighed. "I suppose I could check the duty roster. Might give us a clue as to who was manning the desk. I also imagine there must be some sort of record, even if only to keep the sequence straight."

"And see if you can't find out about Bouchardon. He's obviously lying too."

Now they had drawn up to the edge of a lily-clotted pond where tadpoles were breaking the surface.

"You've really come to hate him, haven't you?" Southerland said.

"Dunbar? It's not as simple as hate."