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way so many in high places would rather stick their heads in the sand than admit error, or even admit a failure in their own omniscience.
    Looking at her, feeling both her emotional support for him personally, and her shared concern for their country, Jim regretted more than ever embassy policy on liaisons between staffers. He and Betty would be seeing a lot of each other as soon as they both were out of this place, and it was very damned irritating that in public they had to settle for a friendly bonhomie, while aside from a couple of carefully coordinated vacations their "private" times were limited to working over intelligence files. Once, on a Berlin street, while Jim and Willi were setting up a meet, Betty had happened upon them. Impulsively they had ducked into a shop for a cup of tea—and were asked about it the next day, with a strong hint that a repetition, even a repetition without Willi, would be frowned on very darkly indeed. As if it wouldn't be better for staffers to spend some lonely hours together rather than to be constantly subjected to temptation by the local talent, some of which was quite gorgeous. Not that the locals weren't equally forbidden, but still, the —
    "Jim, could I see you for a minute?"
    Jim's musings flash-evaporated as he looked over his shoulder at Steve Acres, the head of military intelligence. Supposedly Steve was a mid-level State Department functionary and came complete with the usual (though in his case phony) Yale credentials. In fact, in other times and places he would again wear the single star of a brigadier general of the US Army.
    Something was wrong. Before Jim could respond to his request, Acres had turned away from him and was walking back to his office. As he followed Acres through the double doors into the heart of the embassy, Jim felt his hackles begin to rise. When (crossing the small reception area that held Betty's desk to do so) they had entered Acres s office and Jim saw that there were two others in the room, they rose even more.
    One of them, Harriman, his name was, Jim vaguely recognized as an intelligence agent with the OSS. He wasn't around much, and didn't mingle when he was. The other was a complete stranger, though he seemed to recognize Martel—and looked at him as if he were a piece of rancid meat.
    Without benefit of introductory niceties the stranger stated baldly, "You met with von Metz this afternoon." As he made this announcement he pointed peremptorily to a chair set in the middle of the room.
    Jim looked over at Steve.
    "Jim, this is Mr. Grierson. He's here to ask you some questions."
    Jim sat, but otherwise ignored Grierson. "Steve, what the hell is going on here?"
    "Lieutenant Commander Martel, I asked you a question," Grierson said grimly. "You would be well advised to answer it."
    Still ignoring his interrogator, Jim continued to gaze levelly at his boss.
    "Jim, you are to answer Mr. Grierson's question without hesitation."
    Jim turned in his chair to face Grierson. "Sure. I met with von Metz. If you check the contact report that I turned in yesterday you'll see that I already had the meeting arranged."
    "What did you discuss with him?"
    Jim looked back at Acres.
    "Sir, is there a problem here?"
    "Martel, I'm asking you a question," Grierson snarled, "so stop looking to General Acres for help like you're Charlie McCarthy sitting on his knee."
    Jim swung around and stood up. "Listen buddy, back off."
    "Jim!"
    Jim turned and looked back at Acres.
    "You've been accused of a breach in security," Acres said. "Grierson came in this morning from the States to check it out. Just answer the questions."
    Stunned, Jim looked back at Grierson, who now pointedly ignored him as he spoke to Harriman. "You followed Martel today?" Grierson asked.
    Harriman nodded.
    "After the parade he met von Metz. The two suddenly took off through the crowd and I fell behind. They talked for several minutes and then parted company."
    "So? We should stand motionless, talking