"Embassy in Berlin. And we only want your impressions. Your assessment of Spangler's professional status, your observations about the nature of the relationship, the emotional state and so forth. I suppose I should also add that we're prepared to pay . . . pretty much whatever you want."

What he wanted was a breath of fresh air, and a view of something other than drunks at a zinc bar. So they left and started walking—just as Dunbar would say—they walked through the numbed crowds with the wind at their backs. For a long while they didn't speak, just continued walking along the concrete embankment, where sounds were more substantial than shapes in the darkness: a blown bottle across the pavement, a distant barge, a smoker's cough.

"Before you give me an answer one way or another I think there's a personal side to this story you should hear," Dunbar said at last. "A very personal side."

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, we can't ignore the fact that Margaretha is in danger, real danger. I mean, at best Spangler will keep her in his power until hell freezes over. At worst she'll become an expendable pawn in a very nasty game. Now I'm not suggesting that the department is concerned, but you and I have certain responsibilities to the woman, don't we? . . . Well, don't we?"

Nor was Dunbar's description of the aftermath particularly accurate, for although they ended up in some waterfront bistro, the place was hardly charming. Nor was the conversation especially involving. Dunbar merely talked about himself while Gray quietly drank himself sick. There was, however, one point that Dunbar got quite right. Gray's ultimate reason for accepting the job—compulsion born of obsession.

It began, as before, in an isolated country home a few miles out of the city. Gray arrived on an afternoon train and found Dunbar waiting for him at the station. Beneath the dusty poplars stood a dark chauffeur, a wiry, muscular boy with a pockmarked face and the dull eyes of a boxer. Dunbar introduced him as Sykes, and for some reason seemed proud of him.

They drove for about an hour before they reached the farmhouse. It lay in a shallow ravine. There were apple orchards on the rise, fallow land below. As they left the car a slamming door sent waves of blackbirds rising from the bracken. It was the first time Gray saw Sykes smile.

The farmhouse was small—upper and lower floors—with a thatched roof. The floor was bare stone, dry rot had attacked the walls, the furniture was deteriorating from insects and neglect. Gray's bedroom, though, was acceptable, with a long view of cypress groves and what may have been a ruined chapel. After about two hours Sykes appeared with tea, which they drank in the conservatory, another damp room that smelled of cats.