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He reached into his breast pocket for the envelope and then unconsciously held it in front of him, reluctant to let it go.

“What’s the matter? Think I’m going to run off and give it to the Russians or something?”

He handed her the envelope and watched her slip it into her bag.

“None of this seems real, does it?” he said. “I’ve just committed a crime and we’re making jokes.”

“Sorry,” she said coolly. “It’s just nerves.”

“No, not you-everything.”

“What’s it supposed to be like?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Trenchcoats and fog, I guess. Anyway, not a nice, ordinary day in the park.”

“You sound disappointed,” she said, then looked up at the sky. “You might get your rain, though. Would that help?”

“It might.”

“Your trouble is, you’re stuck in some Boy’s Own story. Secret drawers and lemon-juice ink and all the rest of it. But maybe it’s always like this, really. Out here in the sun. Feed the birds, exchange a little information, and go about your business. Maybe they’re all up to something.” She nodded toward the people on the other benches.

“They don’t look it.”

“Well, neither do we. Neither did Professor Eisler. I still can’t quite believe it.”

“He didn’t feel he was doing anything wrong. He was just an altar boy.”

“You always feel something,” she said, looking out at the park. Her voice was darker, as if a cloud had passed over it, and he was quiet for a moment, not sure how to change the subject.

“What about the woman over there, in the straw hat?” he said, a parlor game. “What’s she up to?”

“Her?”

“She doesn’t look like an agent.”

“Perhaps she’s cheating on her husband.”

“Not the same thing.”

“It feels like it,” Emma said. “It’s exciting, all the pretending. And then always something awful underneath.”

He turned to face her. “I won’t cheat.”

“No, don’t,” she said, smiling a little. “I’d know.” She looked down at her watch. “You’d better push off now. I think I’d like a few minutes alone. Get myself in the mood. You know. I can’t concentrate with you around, mooning and getting into a state. What’s it like anyway, the restaurant? Gloomy?”

“Noisy. It’s a news hangout.”

“So much for your atmosphere,” she said, laughing. “No, don’t-you’ll smudge.”

“Okay,” he said, getting up. “You remember where it is?”

“Yes, yes. Come on. Push off.”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?”

She looked up at him. “I’ll be fine. I’ve had lots of practice.”

“You’re not going to get me in any trouble with that, are you?” Tony said, watching Connolly string the wire between the booths.

“Would I do that to you?” He sat in the corner of his booth, cupping the earpiece in his hand so that he appeared to be merely leaning his head against the wall. “Can you see anything?”

“Trouble. That’s all I see.”

“How about a beer?”

“Sure. You want something to eat? You got a whole booth.”

“What’s cold?”

“Fried clams.”

Connolly grinned. “Fried when? Just bring me a tuna sandwich.”

“Tuna sandwich,” Tony said, moving away. “For a whole booth.”

The bar in front was beginning to fill up, but Connolly still had the dining room to himself. He hid the earpiece behind a sugar canister and pretended to read the paper, everything in him alert. The Thurber murals, the pride of the house, were the color of adobe, oversized women and wary men chasing each other around the room in a plaster frieze while no one, except the dogs, paid the slightest attention. There was a burst of laughter in the bar. Connolly had forgotten the sheer energy of New York. He thought of the polite academic murmurs of meals on the Hill. Here everyone seemed to be slapping everyone else on the back.

He had begun the crossword puzzle when Emma appeared, pointed in by Tony, who gave him a look when he saw her go past to the next booth. Connolly lowered his head to the paper, so that all he saw was the streak of red nails at eye level. Her perfume stayed behind her in the thick air. He was tempted to turn around-a last reassuring look-but instead he imagined her sitting in the booth, composed, winning Tony with a smile as he brought her iced tea. She was right, there was excitement in pretending. Absurdly, he thought of her shoes being tight and the fact that no one else knew.

He glanced up as each new arrival entered the room, then walked past to the back tables. Tony brought the sandwich, but Connolly let it sit there; too anxious to eat. How could Lawson be late? But they had been early.

When he did appear, five minutes later, Connolly knew it at once. He was tall, his bony frame covered in rumpled clothes that seemed just thrown on-dark cotton shirt damp at the armpits, plain tie knotted tightly, yanked down from the unbuttoned collar, jacket held by two fingers over his shoulder, a Village look. His pale hair, receding but still full on top, glistened with sweat; his face, the boyish soft face of a perennial teenager, was red, as if he had been running in the heat. He looked around nervously, then broke into a broad smile when he saw her.