In these late October mornings, conversation tended to remain subdued. For the most part Michard would talk about his childhood, recalling early memories of winters in Zurich and summers along some forgotten Baltic shore. Once he even produced a photograph of himself as a husky boy against a limitless European plain.

Another time he talked about Zelle. He called her his Circe, his ultimate temptation. He described her as a spoiled child, but also very much a woman. He said that as a Frenchman he had always been attracted to beauty, but as a soldier he had always been fascinated by destruction. No wonder his obsession with Zelle.

On a rainy Friday the conversation finally centered on politics. At first Michard's observations were academic. He discussed the Prussian victory at Sedan and said the French had still not recovered psychologically. Next he talked about the Kaiser's commitment to a naval program, and suggested that the British must also come to terms with German aggression. He talked vaguely about his own future, but mostly Gray held the visual image—Michard against the window, glaring at thrashing leaves.

"Let me tell you a little story," Craven said. "About three years ago Michard fell in love with an actress. Beautiful girl, very expensive. She took him for nearly fifteen thousand francs—birth of a spy."

By now the room actually seemed hospitable, with a cot, a wash basin, and a few books. It was still cold, however.

"He wants me to help him select a birthday gift for Zelle," Gray said.

"Excellent," Craven smiled.

"And he's asked me to lunch on Sunday—just the two of us."

"Really? What's the occasion?"

Gray glanced up to the ceiling. An imperfection in the plaster looked a little like a naked girl. "Margaretha will be out, and I imagine that he simply doesn't want to spend the day alone."

"So he asked you over for veal and pickled cucumbers. How bloody charming."

There were night sounds again, cries of whores and the garbled voices of drunks. Yet for days now every distant sound had slightly haunting overtones, like the fragments of conversations overheard in cheap hotels.

"It seems that the French are also playing with us now," Craven said abruptly. "A certain Ladoux from the Fourth Bureau. Know him?"

"No."

"Well, he's done a rather nice job of filling in the larger view. For example, we're now quite convinced that Spangler is after our naval strategy, and as a General Staff adjutant Michard has probably been in a position to supply him with a good deal of it."

Gray pressed his hand to his head. A fever? A chill? "He's never mentioned the navy except in passing."

"Perhaps not, but he's thinking about it. I can assure you of that."

Gray moved to the chair, slumped down, and shut his eyes. Another symptom of the secret life: always exhausted, never able to sleep.