"And how do you propose to recruit him? Gray, I mean. That is, assuming we approve, what exactly would you say to the painter?"

Dunbar hesitated a moment, because a beat of silence was also part of the form at such times. "I shall simply tell him that it concerns Mata Hari."

"And you think he'll respond, agree and so forth?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

"Even after the Michard affair?"

"I told you, Martin, he's very fond of her."

"Obsessively fond?"

"Fond."

Then there was nothing but the wall and a staircase, odors of paraffin and coffee, sounds of those clattering typewriters again.

"I shall be seeing the Director at three," Southerland was saying, "although I don't imagine we'll have a firm answer much before this evening." Pausing at the foot of the staircase, his eyes on a drainpipe, he added, "It's not just sexual, is it?"

Dunbar had also fixed his eyes on the drainpipe—into which, it occured him, one could crawl. "I'm sorry?"

"Our dancer's—how shall I put it—allure? Surely it's more than just sexual. I mean, all these affairs, all these situations with various types of men. Surely ..."

Dunbar shook his head without the trace of a smile. "I'm afraid I really wouldn't know."

Or care to remember?

Dunbar's transition from passive observer to active case officer took three and a half weeks. On paper his plan to place an agent next to Rudolph Spangler (and Zelle) was in tune with the standard operating procedure of the time: a slow play based upon sincerity and deceit. The operational budget was modest. The groundwork was intricate, and those involved in these planning stages tended to work impossible hours. As operational director, Dunbar virtually slept in his office.

These preparatory weeks came to be seen as Dunbar's rite of passage. Within the space of a month he had grown from a rather diffident amateur to a slow-burning professional. His memos and dispatches clearly indicated a new maturity, as did his capable handling of his juniors, particularly the younger women.

But if this was the public man, the private one was a very different creature. He slept very little. Even when the work load permitted he couldn't seem to sleep. So he walked at night, sometimes for hours, from Paddington to Charing Cross. He also drank and, inevitably, he thought about Zelle.

He tended to remember the occasional moments best: a kiss on a staircase in Dresden, cocktails on a roof in Budapest, and especially a conversation in Vienna not long after that dinner with Spangler . . .

The setting was one more steel-blue evening in one more cluttered suite. They had made love, but badly. They had tried to sleep, but couldn't. A porter had been called to bring them a drink, but no one had responded.

"You hate me tonight, don't you? she said.

"Of course not."

"Yes, you do. I can see it in your eyes." "Don't be silly."