Declare

now as white as salt.
    Moscow doesn’t look kindly on Communists who have been too long in the West…
    But here she was, vividly not killed after all, and not more than a hundred yards west of the Soviet Sector line. Was she still working as a Communist agent?
    Cassagnac was holding a smoldering cigarette in his left hand and looking up at Hale with polite inquiry, but he had pushed his chair back and his right hand hung loose by his side. Elena had darted her hand into her purse and then given Hale a blank look— which an instant later tensed into narrowed eyes and flexed jaw muscles.
    “Elena,” Hale gasped, “I—”
    “You have mistaken the lady for someone else, my friend,” said Cassagnac coldly in French. He took a drag on the cigarette and then said through exhaled smoke, “This woman is my wife, not your—Elena? Go away now.” Without looking at her, Cassagnac clearly conveyed that it was her turn to say the same.
    But she said, “Marcel!” in a wondering tone, and Cassagnac shrugged and rolled his eyes as he waved toward the bench on the other side of the table.
    “I meant to say,” he sighed, “do sit down, my friend.”
    Hale yanked back the bench and collapsed onto it, never taking his eyes off of Elena. “I,” he said helplessly in French, “have thought about you—I’ve tried to find you—”
    “Bon Dieu,” said Cassagnac softly, “it is the English boy, Lot.” At least he pronounced the t this time. “Listen to me, boy—she and I are in Berlin with the French forces. We assume—”
    “Ahh!” exclaimed Hale. “Good, good.” He hoped Cassagnac was telling the truth and that Elena had freed herself from Moscow.
    Cassagnac lifted an eyebrow. “We’re pleased that you approve. And we assume that you are here with the British. We do not need to have this assumption confirmed, and I’m confident that none of us would be so gauche as to discuss our histories or present tasks with one another. The past is past. You will have one drink with us, and then you will go away we know not where. You have seen that the lady is well; surely that has been your main concern, and now you can be relieved on that score.” Cassagnac waved toward the brighter-lit arch from which the aromatic smoke was billowing. “What will you have to drink?” When Hale didn’t answer, Cassagnac said to the aproned old waiter who shambled up to the table, “ Eine Berliner Weisse mit Schuss, bitte .”
    Hale realized that he could not ask Elena any of the questions that were clamoring in his head, nor explain anything to her, and so he just smiled at her and took hold of her free hand in both of his. Her hand was cold.
    “No, Marcel,” she said firmly, pulling her hand free. “Now is now.”
    Hale closed his hands in loose fists. “You are married to him?”
    “Oui,” she said, and to Hale the unconsonanted syllable had the finality of an echoing gunshot.
    Hale’s drink was clanked down on the table then, and he glanced at the glass mug, then looked at it for several seconds. It appeared to contain pink beer. He sighed, and then turned to Cassagnac and made the effort to lift his eyebrows.
    “Weak beer with raspberry syrup,” Cassagnac explained.
    Hale nodded, comprehending that he had been given a child’s drink. For a moment he was tempted to speak the old code phrase, “Bless me!”— Things are not what they seem—trust me —just to let Elena know that he was in Berlin on covert SIS business; but a moment later he felt himself blushing, for he recognized this impulse as just a vindication of the spirit in which he’d been given the drink.
    On the table in front of Elena stood a smaller glass of some brown liquor, and he humbly reached across and picked it up. “I want to drink to your—happiness,” he said, “and not with weak beer. May you—be always contented and often joyful— bueno año, multos buenos años —and may you never forget one who has loved you.”
    He took a sip of what proved to be brandy and set the glass back down softly. Then he picked up his mug and swallowed a mouthful of the pink beer—and it was not bad.
    “Thank you,” said Elena in a level voice, but Hale saw her blink several times. From the tinny radio speakers on the other side of the room skirled a serpentine violin melody from Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade .
    And Hale remembered the night in Paris when their radio had roared with inorganic chanting, and the garret floor had been scorched by