There were chimes of an unreliable clock, then silence. Southerland seemed entranced with the red knight knocking at the queen's door. "It's a dream of mine, actually ... to lead Herr Spangler by a rope through the streets of London." Then, renewing the attack with a bishop, "Did you know that Anthony Craven was a friend of mine?"

Gray shook his head.

"He was my sponsor, my tutor."

"I'm sorry."

"Not that I'm a vindictive man, but God knows I'd like to get Spangler." His hands clenched two fallen pawns. "Incidentally, you won't be alone out there. Sykes will be watching your back, and as you know, Charles and I shall be only an hour away. So you mustn't worry."

Gray reached for the brandy again. "What if Spangler plays dirty, as he's been known to?"

"I told you, Sykes will be there. He's actually an extremely capable young man."

"What if Spangler remembers me from that night with Michard?"

"Oh I don't think he'll make the connection. I mean, eight years . . ."

They did not say goodnight. Gray finished his brandy and moved back to the staircase. He had nearly reached the landing when Southerland quietly called out his name.

"Incidentally, you are doing it for the woman, aren't you?"

Gray turned and looked at him. "Does it matter?"

Southerland shrugged. "You know, Charles has the same fixation. It's manifested rather differently, but essentially the fixation is the same. I'm afraid I don't quite understand it myself . . . but then I've only seen her photographs."

Later that night he heard Southerland again, prowling through the corridors, perhaps looking for another insomniac to face across the chessboard? Toward dawn, however, it was quiet again, and Gray actually managed to dream about her.

They left in the morning under dark skies. En route to the station Dunbar discussed contact procedures, then retired to a waiting room to catch a later train. Gray would remember the journey for its orchards in varying shades of green, pepperpot turrets on the cliffs of the Rhine, open meadows. He would also recall it altogether in terms of Zelle—a slow return to the heart of the matter through a changing landscape and dying light. There were soldiers from Berlin, merchants from Paris, women returning from holidays. But really all other pieces had been swept from the board—so that in the end it might have been described as a solitary duel between two pawns, irresistibly moving into no-man's-land.

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

NATURALLY there were Gray's drawings of Berlin, pen-and-ink sketches of forgotten skylines, nightscapes of since-ruined boulevards: Bendlerstrasse, Anhalterstrasse, the Unter den Linden. For the most part these drawings were only mediocre: listless experiments with angular shadows and odd perspectives. There were, however, two or three rather interesting portraits of soldiers, and a truly stunning profile of Zelle.