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pictures of me. Why?”
    The two men exchanged a questioning glance:
One of yours?
Each shook his head slightly.
    “We wouldn’t know anything about that,” said Borkland.
    Stilwell put the point another way: “If he’d been working for us, you’d never have seen him. Probably just likes photos of pretty girls.”
    “He followed me again on Saturday—”
    “Well, he couldn’t have been much good at it if you spotted him. And now, if you’re done with the trivialities, let’s get back to the questions.”
    She continued to focus on Truman’s thoughtful mien. She supposed that there was nothing they could do if she stood up and marched out of the office, but her curiosity was aroused, as no doubt they intended. And of course there was also the matter of her not wanting to disappoint Professor Niemeyer, who had evidently singled her out for—well, for something. And if Niemeyer decided to push her career …
    “By all means,” she said.
    Stilwell wrote a couple of lines in his notebook. “Good. Back to your parents, then. Your father died in action, did he?”
    “An accident in the war. His truck crashed.” She kept her voice even. “I was ten months old. I never met him.”
    “And your mother ten years ago?”
    Squeezing harder still. “Closer to twelve. Cancer.”
    Stilwell tapped his pencil on the table, the sound very loud in her state of tautened attention. “Siblings?”
    “An older brother. Corbin. He’s married and lives in Ohio.”
    “The two of you raised by your father’s mother, is that right? Charlotte Jensen?”
    “Claudia.”
    “Quite the battle-axe, I’m told.” He turned a page. “She graduated Smith, I see. Why didn’t you follow in her footsteps, Miss Jensen? Wait. Let me guess. You’re following the footsteps of the father younever met. How dutiful.” He chuckled at her blush. “Or maybe it’s just that Smith doesn’t have boys. You’re seeing a young man now, aren’t you? This Tom Jellinek? He’s physics, you’re government. So how did you meet, if I might ask?”
    He had lost all capacity to surprise her. “Freshman English was seated alphabetically,” she explained. “We were next to each other.”
    “So you’re blaming coincidence. Well, why not? You gals have to blame something, I’d imagine.” Evidently satisfied, he sat back and glanced at Borkland:
Your witness.
    Borkland was the diplomat, his smile well practiced and smooth. “Please forgive Agent Stilwell. His job in this thing is to make sure you’re who you say you are.”
    The smoke, she decided: the clouds of pipe smoke were making her punchy. Surely she hadn’t heard him right. “I beg your pardon.”
    “You’d be surprised what the Soviets get up to. No, you wouldn’t. Professor Niemeyer seems to think you’re rather bright. Congratulations. He praises men rarely, and women not at all. Like traveling?”
    “I haven’t done much.”
    “Ever been to Varna?”
    Margo was taken aback. Varna was a dying country town due east of the campus. A couple of bars served everybody without checking driver’s licenses, and although Nana would have had a heart attack on the spot, Margo had visited each a time or two.
    “Yes,” she said.
    “Recently?”
    This time she did drop her eyes. It seemed absurdly unlikely that these two had come from Washington to give her a citation for underage drinking, but one never knew. “Two weeks ago,” she said.
    Borkland had a wide, mellow face, and comically thick glasses, but Stilwell’s countenance, like his voice, was ugly and twisted and disapproving. “Did you get down to the docks? Notice any of the ships? That sort of information is always helpful to your government.”
    Margo’s confusion grew. Perhaps they were testing her. “I don’t think any shipping goes through Varna.”
    The men looked at each other. “The Soviet Black Sea fleet is headquartered there,” said Stilwell. “I thought you were supposed to be smart.”
    Borkland touched his