"Well, then, he very well could be our man."

"Our man?"

"Spangler. Look, there's going to be a rather high-level conference next week between some of our people and some of theirs. Now obviously Spangler knows about it, and he's come to prime Michard."

Gray turned his back on the wind to light a cigarette. When he looked again nothing seemed real, not the glowing streetlamps, not the water, not even the slabs of concrete.

"That's why it's particularly critical now," Craven went on. "Michard won't actually be attending the conference, but I intend to make sure he gets enough so that we can pull in Spangler. That's why you've got to stay close. I'll need everything now, every irregularity, every change. Do you understand?"

Gray shut his eyes and nodded—one time more for Zelle.

There was a sense toward the end that meaningless events were at last falling into a pattern. With the advent of cold weather the colonel tended to spend his free time at home with novels that he never finished, conversations that led nowhere. With the arrival of the British staff and the commencement of strategic talks, Gray also noted another change in the colonel's behavior: a greater need for company, particularly Zelle's.

"Rolland's terribly upset about the Kaiser," she confided. "He fears for all of us . . ."

Yet from the stillness of his room above the brewery, Craven saw an entirely different obsession.

"We've fixed it so that your lovely colonel has access to the minutes—or at least a reasonable selection. We've also let him see a few Admiralty briefs, so it should only be a matter of time now . . ."

But there were no references to strangers from abroad, no indications of a clandestine meeting. Except that one evening, after a modest meal with Michard, Gray was casually invited to spend a week in the country.

It was a beautiful night with soft rain. Following supper Michard had asked Gray to step into the sitting room. The curtains were drawn. The lamplight was low, two yellow cones on the ceiling. Gray had picked up a candlestick, admiring the face of a girl cut into the silver. Michard had laid out two glasses on the occasional table, but there did not seem to be anything except champagne.

Then suddenly he said, "Tell me, Nicky. Do you shoot?"

The question caught Gray by surprise. "No, not really."

"Then I shall have the honor of teaching you."

"Teaching me?"

"Yes. Come with us to Fontainebleau and I shall teach you to shoot."

When Gray found Craven waiting in that room again there were bits of paper scattered everywhere: handwritten notes on the floor, diagrams of border installations, photographs of Michard's country chateau. And for Gray, an extremely dry sherry.