"Well, by God I hate him. I think I have for years. My excuse, I suppose, is that one isn't supposed to hate one's colleagues . . . particularly in time of war. That's what's so bloody upsetting about this Mata Hari business. She's turned everything upside down. You're meeting with Spangler for cocktails, and I'm pulling the rug out from under the Paris liaison—upside down."

"I wouldn't let it bother you, Martin. Dunbar started this game, not us."

"Yes ... so it seems . . . Look, if you still insist on seeing the woman, we should probably get a move on."

It was not until five in the afternoon that Southerland succeeded in arranging a meeting between Gray and Mata Hari—and then they were only given fifteen minutes. It took place in the same disused courtyard where Zelle had met with Merrick. It was the cooling end of an unusually warm day, and the pavement was cleanly divided into sections of blue and black shadows.

There were four flights of stairs from the street, then another narrow staircase to the courtyard gate. Zelle was standing in the last patch of sunlight between the walls. A guard was smoking behind her in the shadow. She wore a plain cotton dress and wool stockings, and was holding a blanket tight around her. Her hair had been tied with a bit of string, but several stray locks still fell free.

The gate remained locked. There was nothing anyone could do about the gate, but by reaching through the bars he was still able to embrace her.

"How are you?"

She forced a smile. "I got your drawing."

"What about the letter?"

She shook her head. "They just gave me the drawing of the cat." Then, reaching through the bars again, and brushing away her tears, "Well, the cat was all that mattered anyway."

She let her head fall against the bars, and he caught the scent from her hair, smelling of that cheap disinfectant they used to inhibit lice.

"Nicky, I want you to know that I'm sorry for what happened between us in Madrid. I'm sorry for what I said, and I want you to know that—"

He cut her off with a finger to her lips. "Don't even think about it now. Besides, you were right."

A gust of wind rose, tugging at her hair. There was also a rattle of blown paper, and something snapping back and forth on the rooftop.

"I'm going to get you out of here," he whispered. And when she did not respond: "Margaretha, do you understand? I'm going to get you out of here."

She let her eyes close. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Nicky, but I think maybe you should stay away from it. I think maybe there's no point in letting them shoot us both."