Taylor was in no mood to verbally spar with a Swiss operative from the Basel office. They remained mute as she ushered him into Dulles’s office. “Ah, Mister Baumann, thank you for coming on such short notice,” said the angular Dulles, rising from a burgundy-colored, padded leather chair. “Have you eaten lunch?” “I had a croissant on the train.” “Well, help yourself to some cheese and fruit if you’re hungry.” Dulles, dressed in a tweed jacket and matching tie, waved his right hand toward a silver platter overflowing with red grapes, ripe peaches, and a rectangular block of Appenzeller cheese. “Maybe I’ll have something before I go.” Though Dieter’s stomach growled, his physical needs weren’t important at the moment. “Very good.” The six-foot, two-inch American spymaster, of medium build and impeccably groomed gray hair parted to his right, stretched his arms as he stepped up to a window overlooking a small courtyard. “Mr. Baumann, our cryptologists in the basement are having a devil of a time cracking intercepts from German operatives inside Switzerland these days.
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