Although he had wired in advance, she had not met him at the station; and when they met she looked tired and drained from a three-day bout with the flu.

They drank cocoa in the bar of the Bristol Hotel, then walked at random through back streets and public gardens. They talked of nothing—regardless of what Dunbar would say later—that really mattered. She asked about mutual friends in Paris, he replied that apart from de Massloff he rarely saw anyone. He asked about her career, her response was vague. They discussed one or two painters she had met at a party. Spangler came up only once—just before she had to leave to meet him for a drink in Kempinski's.

"You don't approve, do you?" she said. "I can see it in your eyes."

His eyes were on the skyline, on the Kaiser's neo-Grecian monstrosities. "Approve of what?"

"Rudolph, this city, everything. You don't even think I should be here, do you?"

"I suppose not."

"But that's because you don't know Rudy, and you certainly don't know Berlin." She paused, pulling him to a stop with her arm linked through his. "Tell me something. What really made you come and see me?"

There were a dozen answers he'd rehearsed on the train, but suddenly, as though the whole of Germany were waiting, what came out was: "Actually, I'm not sure."

They continued to walk, not quite in step, puddles from an earlier rain like bits of a broken looking glass reflecting the trees above. A passing tram briefly drowned her voice, then he heard her laughing. "Paris isn't the only city, you know. Besides, Rudolph gives me everything . . . absolutely everything."

"Where does he get the money?" Since everyone wanted to know.

"Who cares? As long as he gives me everything."

"Ah, well, in that case I guess I should meet him." The least he could do, given his assignment.

"And you will . . . tomorrow for dinner."

Dunbar was going to be thrilled.

"Say about eight o'clock."

And in the meantime he could drink himself into oblivion. "Yes, eight will be fine."

"And, Nicky?"

"What?" Catching a glimpse of something in her eyes he hadn't seen for months.

"I'm terribly glad you came, really I am."

Right then he nearly told her: get away from here, it's dangerous, I'm a spy again. But in the end he simply left her standing on the cold street, the color back in her cheeks, her beauty once more absolute and indisputable.

There was a park not far from the Wilhelm Platz and adjacent to the British embassy. It was a walled park with deep foliage and dark chestnuts. There were also birds that he would always remember from this city: mallards and swans, sparrows and woodthrush. Like so much else, however, one always heard them but actually rarely saw them.