INTERCEPTED on a Thursday, Zelle's letter to Nicholas Gray reached Dunbar by the following Wednesday. It was a glorious day, with a scent of new blossoms in the air: larkspur and crocus, daffodils from Saint James's and the lesser greens. There may also have been a sense of spring in the corridors, what with idle chatter and the windows ajar. The fourth floor, however, remained sealed, particularly in light of Zelle's letter.

It was about ten o'clock when the letter arrived, nearly noon when the Fourth Floor finished with it. Then, predictably, Southerland appeared, quietly asking Dunbar to step out to the garden. New grass had emerged with the rain and the black trees were sprouting buds, while the leaves seemed swollen with moisture.

"Overall the Director was pleased," Southerland began. "Overall everyone was pleased. The question, however, is what does one do with it? Very well, so Rudy is making a rare ass of himself . . . but what does one do about it?"

Dunbar began poking at sodden leaves with a stick he'd found on the path. "Did anyone read my attachment?"

"Oh yes, they read it."

"And?"

"And how well do you know Nicholas Gray?"

They began to walk.

"Placing an agent," Southerland said, "that's the great trick, and too often the fall. Did you know that Gray played with us before?"

"I heard something about it, yes."

"Eight years ago, and it ended in a bloody mess."

"Still, he's very fond of her. You mustn't forget that."

"Not forgetting, Charles, but again, where does it leave us? Yes, Gray makes sense, vis-à-vis Spangler, but in the end . . . well, you see my point. He did not work out well for us."

"Experience must count for something."

Southerland turned to him. "Eight years ago it counted for three deaths, not including Rolland Michard."

They had reached the heart of the garden and the shadow of a moss-bound oak. Mushrooms had shot up overnight.

Dunbar said, "Look, regardless of everything, you ... we are going to need a man inside. I mean, watching from the wings is one thing, playing the scene is quite another."

"Oh, I couldn't agree more. And well put, Charles."

"And Gray was invited, wasn't he? I mean, Zelle does want him in Berlin . . . for whatever reason."

"So it seems."

"Then, really, what's the problem?"

They had left the path, moving cautiously over damp grass and clotted leaves.

"Tell me something," Southerland said. "How completely do you believe in it?"

"Believe in what?"

"Spangler. That he's actually throwing his career away for a woman like Mata Hari."

"Well, first of all I wouldn't quite put it like that."

"Then how would you put it?"

"Well, that the man's relationship with her is putting him in professional jeopardy . . . costing him a great deal of time and money, possibly causing some bad feeling in his department."

"And you're suggesting that we exploit the situation through the use of an agent—specifically Gray. Is that roughly the idea?"

"Roughly, yes."