"I suppose we should turn in,” Dunbar said. "The first train leaves quite early."

Gray looked at him. "Train?"

"To Berlin."

Southerland added, "Yes, that's right, Nicky. It's actually on for tomorrow."

Gray shrugged. "Very well, tomorrow."

He went up the staircase without turning back. The corridor was lined with tapestries of biblical quotations and an old print of Chantilly. There was also a crucifix tacked to the door of his room, another above the bed . . . Zelle had said that Christ the redeemer was not nearly as interesting as Siva the destroyer. Was she just trying to be outrageous?

He bolted the door, snuffed out the candle, and lay down without undressing. There were footsteps in the corridor, Southerland or Dunbar. Then only the sounds of rodents in the walls. He got up and drew the curtains shut, lay back down, and closed his eyes. But it was no use . . . she was already too close.

The corridor was dark, although there was still a light below. As he descended the staircase he saw Southerland sitting in a wing chair. At the moment he might have been a wax effigy, draped in an overcoat, motionless in front of a chessboard, the ivory pieces only marginally paler than his hands.

"Can't sleep?"

Gray's reply was an equivocal shrug. He reached for the decanter of brandy. "Where's Dunbar?"

Southerland nodded toward the staircase and bedrooms. "Charles, it seems, is more fortunate than you and I tonight."

There were sounds of rodents here too, mice in the rafters or possibly rats. The odors were distinctly human: burnt meat, sour cabbage, perspiration.

“Actually,” Southerland said, "I'm glad you came down. I wanted an opportunity to speak to you alone."

"What about?"

"Berlin." He picked up a rook, slowly turning it over in his hands. "The fact of the matter is we may require somewhat more than was previously mentioned."

Gray lit a cigarette, one of Dunbar's Russian blends he'd taken earlier. "Such as?"

"Oh, I don't know. Pinch a letter, maybe. Plant a notion, help young Charles negotiate Spangler's defection."

"You're serious?"

"Well, if Spangler really is burning his bridges in Berlin, then perhaps we ought to show him the route to London."

"And if he doesn't take it?"

Southerland smiled, though his eyes remained unchanged, fixed on a red knight hopelessly exposed to the rook. "Well, we shall cross that particular bridge when we come to it."

"What about Zelle?"

"What about her?"

"How does she figure in it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I thought I'd leave her to you."

Gray shook his head. "I can't control her. I don't know what Dunbar told you, but I can't control her."

Southerland seemed to be considering pawn to king's three. "I understand. Still, there is always something one can do."