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a masterpiece of understated indignation, implying all manner of nefarious motives for Saint-Germain’s actions, all of which were unsupported by any reliable evidence. Still, the Colonel’s animus might reveal something that deserved closer attention. He put the material back in the file and wound the string to close it. Then he took the second file and opened it The uppermost photograph showed Doña Isabel in a lovely formal gown of pale silk under an elaborate lace jacket with a tulip hem; her head was turned slightly away from the camera and showed the elegant line of her forehead, nose, and cheek to advantage. Zapatilla stared at her, struck by her beauty; he could find it in his heart to envy her absent husband: the woman was a prize of the highest order. He moved the photograph aside, placing it where he could look at it. A tap on the door disturbed his concentration, and he stacked the papers on top of the photograph. “Who is it?”
    “Señor Liebre is here,” said Esteban.
    “He’s early,” Zapatilla complained as he squared off the sheets of paper and put the file envelope on top of them. He sighed as an indication of the concession he was making. “But you might as well show him in.” He paused. “And I suppose you should bring in coffee in ten minutes. Ask Señor Liebre what he would like in his.”
    “Yes, sir,” said Esteban, and, after an exchange of barely audible words with the visitor, opened the door, admitting Cornelio Liebre; in his neat business suit, he did not much resemble the parking attendant at the Hotel della Luna Nueva, which was his intention—he seemed older and more solidly built, with a hint of menace in his walk that was entirely lacking when he was at the Hotel. “Señor Liebre,” Esteban announced.
    “Good morning, Señor Zapatilla,” said Liebre, extending his hand as he came up to the desk. “It’s good of you to admit me early. I’m sorry if I intrude.”
    “Nothing of the sort,” said Zapatilla, scowling as they shook hands. “If you will take a seat?”
    Liebre pulled up one of the wing-back chairs and set it directly in front of Zapatilla’s desk. “You have received my reports, I believe?”
    “Yes, I have, and I thank you for providing them.” Zapatilla sounded stiff, but he was unconcerned. “It is your duty to do so.”
    “Of course,” said Liebre.
    Zapatilla tapped the desk with the end of his pencil. “It is my understanding that you have kept special files on this Conde de Saint-Germain?” He inclined his head. “A pretentious name, don’t you think—presumptuous at least?”
    “I couldn’t say,” Liebre replied, uninterested in what the foreigner called himself.
    “Well,” Zapatilla conceded. “And what have you learned about him? I have some information here already, but I am told your records are more complete.”
    “I have kept special files. I was asked to do so,” said Liebre in the same stiff tone as Zapatilla favored. He settled into the chair with a degree of comfort that Zapatilla found insulting. “I am more than willing to share my information with you; it is why I am here, at the behest of the army. I have been assured by my superiors that it is permissible for me to provide you with as much information as you may want from me.” His hauteur was subtle, but enough to annoy Zapatilla.
    “We are all pledged to the same purpose,” he reminded Liebre. “You and I have an obligation to preserve España from her enemies.”
    “When we can be certain who they are,” said Liebre.
    This was more than Zapatilla was willing to tolerate. “If you have any reason to question my loyalty, do so. Otherwise I expect you to remember the position I occupy, and to honor it.” He tapped his finger on the desk next to his telephone. “We are in dangerous times, Señor Liebre. Our fighting has been fairly confined, but it may yet erupt in open warfare. You must keep in mind that if you fail to do what you are sworn to do, many of