Next he was given only a passing glimpse of the room, eventually just a brief reflection in the mirror.

"You must never assume a cover, you must live it. You must react to situations as you would normally react. You must let them accept you gradually."

"What about the dancer?"

"It's all the same."

There were subtler games, involving the knack of directing a conversation to a critical topic, or phrasing a question so as to appear disinterested in the answer. "A gentleman has spent a weekend abroad," he was told. "You are to find out where and with whom . . . but casually, as if you were merely asking the time of day."

On the third morning a nameless instructor appeared with two Webley revolvers and an 8-mm St. Etienne. Targets were tacked against bales of wet newspapers. The bullets were laid in a dish. At first he was told just to hold the empty gun, feel the weight of it, toy with the breech. The Webley broke from the top, automatically ejecting the spent shells. The St. Etienne featured a loading gate that swung to the rear. After he practiced aiming for a while they gave him the cartridges in two handfulls of six.

He fired slowly, timidly, sighting along the barrel with both eyes open just as they had told him. The recoil was much worse than he had expected, and the noise was deafening. Still worse, he couldn't hit anything, except perhaps a recurring vision of the colonel.

When it was over Gray stood at the far end of the garden, a neglected corner of weeds and ivy. "Was all that really necessary?"

“Everything is necessary,” Craven said.

"Yes, but what's the point?" His ears were still ringing, hands still trembling.

"It builds confidence."

They walked in the evening, Craven gently leading Gray by the arm. It seemed that the man was always touching an arm or a shoulder, as if to strengthen the bond. Past a rusting gate lay a paddock, a windblown stretch. There were two wicker chairs beneath an oak, and Gray suddenly imagined that the chairs had always been waiting for him, suspended in time.

"I suppose I might as well tell you about the last twist of the knife," Craven said. "The German."

"What German?"

"The one who controls Michard."

The field around them also seemed static, slowly filling with red leaves.

"You see, Michard is really only a means to an end," Craven continued. "The real target is the German I mentioned earlier. Spangler, Rudolph Heinrich Spangler. He originally surfaced in London about two years ago. He seems to run his agents on the move. And he's a killer, which is something you musn't forget."

"How will I recognize him?"

"You won't, another key point. He may appear as anyone: a postal clerk, a servant, young, old, anyone. He speaks both French and English flawlessly and he's highly adaptable—the worst sort of illusionist."