Still unwell. Ugh. John M Ford, man-about-literature, wrote a spy novel, and it is a clever, elliptical tale of game-playing and historical secrets and a plot that, quite properly, reveals a contempt and hate and fear of the world that gives us spy novels. Ford can be downright obscure in his writing, but I thought it all worked to his advantage here in the murky world of secrets and betrayals and double meanings and triple agents. I do now wish he'd written a novel about Christopher Marlowe. The brief historical bits made me want to go reread The Dragon Waiting (or Waldrop's Heart of Whitenesse.)