Southerland arrived at dusk. Gray first spotted him from a second-story window: a figure in a mackintosh, a tipped cane on the flagstones. They met on the staircase.

"I trust you have everything you need." He smiled.

"Yes, thank you."

"And your room?"

"The room is fine."

"Not too drafty. I mean, these old places—"

"It's fine."

"Well, should you want anything, anything at all."

"Thanks."

At which point the conversation more or less evaporated, and they were left staring at one another.

The formal briefing began that evening. A wing chair had been dragged in from the conservatory, an oil lamp from the hall. Sykes built a fire with stuffing from the sofa as tinder. The log smoldered, but didn't actually catch. Southerland led off the discussion, but said little that hadn't been said before. Spangler was close to ruin —accumulating debts, neglecting his duties, devoting himself to a woman his colleagues considered a slut.

Dunbar added that Spangler had also been seen drinking too much, something that was definitely not done in his circle. And meanwhile there were half a dozen wolves circling, just waiting to appropriate his networks.

"It's always been that way," Southerland said. "Nicolai likes to foster competition among the ranks. His Third Department is a snakepit. Still, don't underestimate Spangler."

As for Zelle, it seemed that she was living quietly in a roomy apartment above the park. Her evenings were full, but she seemed to be wasting her days: riding alone in the mornings, dancing a little in the afternoons. From time to time she had also been seen at the National Gallery, but always alone and usually among the Moderns.

You're to be our eyes, they gold Gray. Also possibly our messenger, but definitely our eyes. He was to pay particular attention to details. How much did Spangler drink on a given night? Did he seem concerned about money? About his work? Did he seem bitter about his colleagues? Did he ever seem afraid?

Much of this information, they said, would no doubt emerge through conversations with Zelle, and so Gray was to spend as much time as possible with her. "She's at least always been candid with you," Dunbar said, "so it's really just a matter of directing the conversation into the proper channels."

They stressed the importance of what he was about to do. They said that regardless of how insignificant the assignment seemed, it was actually the very bedrock of intelligence. They said that the good spy always depended on prosaic social intercourse, collecting small impressions until he had an understanding of the greater whole. They said that the smart spy did not steal; rather he befriended and then observed.

It was almost midnight when they finally finished. Sykes had reappeared with a tray of brandy, then vanished again. The fire had died, and a wind had risen. Periodically there had been tinkling chimes from various clocks throughout the house, all inaccurate. Now, however, it was still.