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scarves, so Ferrar, in no hurry to reach his silent apartment, crossed the Seine on the Pont Neuf, then stopped at a café and had a coffee, in time reached the Place Saint-Sulpice, and, reluctantly, went home.
    Ferrar arrived at the embassy just before nine, gave his name to the receptionist, and the diplomat Molina appeared a moment later. Appeared from the nineteenth century: he wore a high collar, pince-nez, a beautifully trimmed Vandyke beard, and held himself a certain way, his head at an upward angle, as though he were looking down on the world. Molina seemed highly pleased, perhaps relieved, to meet Ferrar, who suspected they’d met before but couldn’t remember where. When they’d shaken hands, Molina said, “Shall we go and have a coffee?” As he said it he raised an interrogatoryeyebrow, then held his open hand behind Ferrar’s back and pointed his other hand toward the door. At the courteous end of assertive, the gesture meant they were going to have coffee.
    Once Ferrar was out on the street, the bad feeling returned—what was it that couldn’t be said at the embassy? They walked to the luxurious Hotel George V—named for the English king, the George Cinq to a Frenchman—and Molina led him to the tea salon called La Galerie. A gallery it was; a long narrow room with tables against the windowed wall and a glossy black piano with top up at the far end. For the rest it was all glowing marble in low light, glittering chandeliers, wall sconces, and tapestries—under foot and on the wall. Aubussons? Ferrar wondered. He wouldn’t put it past the George V.
    Molina ordered coffee, which came with a basket of small brioches. The waiter placed the basket just to the right of Ferrar’s hand; he could feel the warmth and the aroma was inspiring. Ferrar wanted one, but waited to see if his appetite survived what Molina was going to say. As the diplomat cleared his throat and polished his pince-nez, Ferrar looked around the room, which was almost deserted. There were two men with briefcases whispering at one table, perhaps Jews, Ferrar thought, of the hard-faced variety; and in the corner, a young, overdressed couple, maybe on honeymoon.
    Molina took a sip of coffee, then said, “Did you ever meet a man called Castillo?”
    It took a moment. “The museum curator?”
    “Yes. Did you know him?”
    Past tense . “We were, I believe, at émigré functions now and then, but I didn’t really know him.”
    “He has met with a great misfortune, I fear. I’m not entirely sure, he could show up tomorrow, but I have to accept the fact that he won’t.”
    “What happened?”
    “Castillo was a good man, too good, really, and he went to Madridon a kind of private mission, and we have heard he was executed as a spy.”
    “And was he? A spy?”
    “No. Not really. Perhaps, technically, he was on that sort of business when he was in Madrid, but his work at the embassy was far from espionage. As best we know, this execution was a random event, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, was arrested, and immediately shot. There was no investigation, it all happened very quickly.”
    “You did say he was in Madrid …” Ferrar was puzzled. “So then, executed by the Republic ?”
    “No, no,” Molina said emphatically, putting down his coffee cup and dabbing at his lips with a vast, white linen napkin. “This was an accident. Castillo would never have worked for the fascists. Never. No, it was just … in war, you know, these things happen.”
    “I am sorry,” Ferrar said. What does this have to do with me? “Did he have family?”
    “No, he was a bachelor.”
    Ferrar shook his head in sorrow. He’d heard so many of these stories as Spain tore itself to pieces, so he did what everyone did: reacted, felt sympathy, and waited to hear the next.
    “A terrible thing,” Molina said. “And a grave loss for us, for the embassy here in Paris. Castillo worked in what we call the Oficina Técnica, which tries to buy