Dunbar found himself recounting not only his evening with Spangler, but also his affair with Zelle. He was asked how he had met the woman, how she had responded to his initial approach, and how she had later received him alone in her room. Next there were questions concerning Spangler's mannerisms. How, for example, had he held his knife and fork? How quickly had he responded to direct questions? Had his voice been varied or fairly constant. Finally there were questions relating to Margaretha's basic attitude toward men, and specifically how she would respond if the German were to contact her again.

It was close to four in the afternoon when the interview ended. Southerland appeared with a bottle of sherry. The curtains were drawn back to expose a view of blackened roofs and chimney pots. There was also a quality to the light that Dunbar would not forget: an illusion of brickwork slowly decaying as the day began to fade.

Although there were still questions at this point, the tone was more congenial. Yes, Dunbar admitted, there were branches of his family in Germany . . . but really only withering extremities. No, he had never subscribed to the Anglo-German fellowship, but yes he occasionally enjoyed a good lager. In response to a question about his plans for the future, he replied only that he hoped to do what was best. . . while still maintaining "a degree of decency and sobriety.” Naturally it got a laugh.

It was about seven when the party finally adjourned. The twilight was as beautiful as any of the season. There were long shadows across the boulevards, salmon tones along the river. The sky was also faintly pink against white unraveling clouds. Although there appeared to have been no formal arrangement, it seemed that Southerland had been chosen to close the day. First he accompanied Dunbar to the courtyard, then walked with him arm in arm across Saint James's, where docile crowds were waiting for the trams.

“I dare say you made quite an impression,” Southerland told him. “Definitely quite an impression.”

Dunbar glanced away as if hardly surprised, or hardly interested. “I can only hope that I was of some small help.”

"Oh definitely. That is, it's always a matter of bits and pieces, bits and pieces adding to a greater whole."

"And when it's complete?"

Southerland shrugged. "Well, that's the game, isn't it? Intelligence."

They had reached a narrow towpath and a glimpse of floating debris in the water: driftwood, paper, cigarette butts.

"I don't suppose I can ask how long you've been doing this?" Dunbar said.

"Four years."

"And specifically you—?"

"Coordinate."

Past the bridge lay rows of shops, and Southerland paused a moment gazing at all the muddled junk. "Your father was military, wasn't he?"

“Grandfather.”

"Still, it's the same thing."

"I'm sorry?"