All was unfolding exactly as she wanted.

“How long will we stay in Denver?” she asked Joe, who had begun opening packages on the bed. “Before we go on up to Cheyenne?”

He did not answer; he had become involved in the contents of his suitcase.

“One day or two?” she asked as she took off her new coat. “Do you think we could stay three?”

Lifting his head Joe answered, “We’re going on tonight.”

At first she did not understand; and when she did, she could not believe him. She stared at him and he stared back with a grim, almost taunting expression, his face constricted with enormous tension, more than she had seen in any human in her life before. He did not move; he seemed paralyzed there, with his hands full of his own clothing from the suitcase, his body bent.

“After we eat,” he added.

She could not think of anything to say.

“So wear that blue dress that cost so much,” he said. “The one you like; the really good one—you understand?” Now he began unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m going to shave and take a good hot shower.” His voice had a mechanical quality as if he were speaking from miles away through some sort of instrument; turning, he walked toward the bathroom with stiff, jerky steps.

With difficulty she managed to say, “It’s too late tonight.”

“No. We’ll be through dinner around five-thirty, six at the latest. We can get up to Cheyenne in two, two and a half hours. That’s only eight-thirty. Say nine at the latest. We can phone from here, tell Abendsen we’re coming; explain the situation. That’ll make an impression, a long-distance call. Say this—we’re flying to the West Coast; we’re in Denver only tonight. But we’re so enthusiastic about his book we’re going to drive up to Cheyenne and drive back again tonight, just for a chance to—”

She broke in, “Why?”

Tears began to surge up into her eyes, and she found herself doubling up her fists, with the thumbs inside, as she had done as a child; she felt her jaw wobble, and when she spoke her voice could hardly be heard. “I don’t want to go and see him tonight; I’m not going. I don’t want to at all, even tomorrow. I just want to see the sights here. Like you promised me.” And as she spoke, the dread once more reappeared and settled on her chest, the peculiar blind panic that had scarcely gone away, even in the brightest of moments with him. It rose to the top and commanded her; she felt it quivering in her face, shining out so that he could easily take note of it.

Joe said, “We’ll buzz up there and then afterward when we come back we’ll take in the sights here.” He spoke reasonably, and yet still with the stark deadness as if he were reciting.

“No,” she said.

“Put on that blue dress.” He rummaged around among the parcels until he found it in the largest box. He carefully removed the cord, got out the dress, laid it on the bed with precision; he did not hurry. “Okay? You’ll be a knockout. Listen, we’ll buy a bottle of high-price Scotch and take it along. That Vat 69.”

Frank, she thought. Help me. I’m in something I don’t understand.

“It’s much farther,” she answered, “than you realize. I looked on the map. It’ll be real late when we get there, more like eleven or past midnight.”

He said, “Put on the dress or I’ll kill you.”

Closing her eyes, she began to giggle. My training, she thought. It was true, after all; now we’ll see. Can he kill me or can’t I pinch a nerve in his back and cripple him for life? But he fought those British commandoes; he’s gone through this already, many years ago.

“I know you maybe can throw me,” Joe said. “Or maybe not.”

“Not throw you,” she said. “Maim you permanently. I actually can. I lived out on the West Coast. The Japs taught me, up in Seattle. You go on to Cheyenne if you want to and leave me here. Don’t try to force me. I’m scared of you and I’ll try.” Her voice broke. “I’ll try to get you so bad, if you come at me.”

“Oh come on—put on the goddam dress! What’s this all about? You must be nuts, talking like that about killing and maiming, just because I want you to hop in the car after dinner and drive up the autobahn with me and see this fellow whose book you—”

A knock at the door.

Joe stalked to it and opened it. A uniformed boy in the corridor said, “Valet service. You inquired at the desk, sir.”

“Oh yes,” Joe said, striding to the bed; he gathered up the new white shirts which he had bought and carried them to the bellboy. “Can you get them back in half an hour?”

“Just ironing out the folds,” the boy said, examining them. “Not cleaning. Yes, I’m sure they can, sir.”

As Joe shut the door, Juliana said, “How did you know a new white shirt can’t be worn until it’s pressed?”

He said nothing; he shrugged.

“I had forgotten,” Juliana said. “And a woman ought to know… when you take them out of the cellophane they’re all wrinkled.”

“When I was younger I used to dress up and go out a lot.”

“How did you know the hotel had valet service? I didn’t know it. Did you really have your hair cut and dyed? I think your hair always was blond, and you were wearing a hairpiece. Isn’t that so?”

Again he shrugged.

“You must be an SD man,” she said. “Posing as a wop truck driver. You never fought in North Africa, did you? You’re supposed to come up here to kill Abendsen; isn’t that so? I know it is. I guess I’m pretty dumb.” She felt dried-up, withered.

After an interval, Joe said, “Sure I fought in North Africa. Maybe not with Pardi’s artillery battery. With the Brandenburgers.” He added, “Wehrmacht kommando. Infiltrated British HQs. I don’t see what difference it makes; we saw plenty of action. And I was at Cairo; I earned the medal and a battlefield citation. Corporal.”

“Is that fountain pen a weapon?”

He did not answer.

“A bomb,” she realized suddenly, saying it aloud. “A booby-trap kind of bomb, that’s wired so it’ll explode when someone touches it.”

“No,” he said. “What you saw is a two-watt transmitter and receiver. So I can keep in radio contact. In case there’s a change of plan, what with the day-by-day political situation in Berlin.”

“You check in with them just before you do it. To be sure.”

He nodded.

“You’re not Italian; you’re a German.”

“Swiss.”

She said, “My husband is a Jew.”

“I don’t care what your husband is. All I want is for you to put on that dress and fix yourself up so we can go to dinner. Fix your hair somehow; I wish you could have gotten to the hairdresser’s. Possibly the hotel beauty salon is still open. You could do that while I wait for my shirts and take my shower.”

“How are you going to kill him?”

Joe said, “Please put on the new dress, Juliana. I’ll phone down and ask about the hairdresser.” He walked over to the room phone.

“Why do you need me along?”

Dialing, Joe said, “We have a folder on Abendsen and it seems he is attracted to a certain type of dark, libidinous girl. A specific Middle-Eastern or Mediterranean type.”

As he talked to the hotel people, Juliana went over to the bed and lay down. She shut her eyes and put her arm across her face.

“They do have a hairdresser,” Joe said when he had hung up the phone. “And she can take care of you right away. You go down to the salon; it’s on the mezzanine.” He handed her something; opening her eyes she saw that it was more Reichsbank notes. “To pay her.”

She said, “Let me lie here. Will you please?”

He regarded her with a look of acute curiosity and concern.

“Seattle is like San Francisco would have been,” she said, “if there had been no Great Fire. Real old wooden buildings and some brick ones, and hilly like S.F. The Japs there go back to a long time before the war. They have a whole business section and houses, stores and everything, very old. It’s a port. This little old Jap who taught me—I had gone up there with a Merchant Marine guy, and while I was there I started taking these lessons. Minoru Ichoyasu; he wore a vest and tie. He was as round as a yo-yo. He taught upstairs in a Jap office building; he had that old-fashioned gold lettering on his door, and a waiting room like a dentist’s office. With National Geographics.”