Declare

steps, he felt the ring of a handcuff close on his wrist and ratchet shut.
    While the policemen were barking questions at him in French— through the ringing in his ears he caught the word ivresse , drunkenness—Hale squinted back up the stairs; but Mammalian had apparently decided not to interfere in a civil arrest. The only person peering down was a tanned woman in big sunglasses and a towel wrapped around her head.
    The Beirut Municipal Jail was in one of the modern buildings at the Place des Martyrs, only seven blocks south off of Weygand Street, and when the police car rocked to a halt in an alley beside the Direction of Police, Hale was pulled out of the back seat and marched in through a side door.
    Briefly he glimpsed a crowded yellow waiting room, with civilians and uniformed officers standing in lines before a row of windows under fluorescent lights, and then he was pushed along a narrow beige-painted corridor and around a corner.
    This stretch of the corridor was momentarily empty except for a brown-haired Caucasian man in a damp white shirt, who stood with his hands open at his sides and stared straight at Hale with something like apprehension; and in the same instant the two sûreté officers let go of Hale’s arms and took hold of the stranger’s, and a door was pulled open at Hale’s right.
    In the dimly lit office beyond the door, a bald man in a jacket and tie beckoned to Hale impatiently. “Here’s a bloody list,” he whispered, “one-two-three-four.”
    Hale heard a scuffle ahead of him and looked up in time to see one of the sûreté officers drive a fist into the face of the brown-haired stranger who was now being led away. Hale took a long step sideways into the office.
    The bald man winced at the sound of the blow as he pulled the door closed behind Hale.
    “They hit him?” the man asked. “Sit down,” he said, waving toward a wooden chair beside a gray metal desk. The smell of hot coffee drew Hale’s attention to a chugging urn on a nearby table even before the man said, “Or help yourself to coffee.”
    Hale nodded and stepped to the table, and he looked around as he held a ceramic cup under the tap—the room, lit by an electric lamp on the desk, had no windows—and he sat down in the chair while the bald man turned a key in the door lock and walked around to the other side of the desk.
    “Yes,” said Hale, setting the steaming cup on the bare desk top. “They hit him.”
    “I am sorry.” The man shrugged and smiled. “Verisimilitude!”
    Hale nodded sourly and touched his own left cheek, wondering when and how he would be given an identical blow. Soon, probably, since bruises change appearance quickly.
    “Somebody will shortly be bringing in a photo of his face,” Hale guessed.
    “I expect so—well, a drawing, probably. To make it match. You gave the Rabkrin all the ’48 math?”
    Hale only became aware that his shoulders were stiff with tension now that his muscles began to relax. “That was the orders,” he said, watching the man carefully. “Yes, I gave them everything.”
    The man nodded. “I’m heartsick,” he seemed to say, and Hale’s face was abruptly cold; but the man quickly added, “I’m sorry, that’s my name, H- A-R -T-S-I- K. Polish. You’re Hale, I know. Pleased to meet you. No, you did the right thing, all that math was bad. And if you gave them some extra stuff too, we can afford it; it’ll just enhance the look of the old math, and with luck Declare is within a week or so of shutting down for good.”
    “They’re going to destroy the Shihab stone,” Hale said. “They may be on the mountain now, to get it. Mammalian said it’s still up in the gorge, on Ararat.”
    “They’re welcome to it, now,” said Hartsik. “Two months ago we sent a team of undercover agents up there to make rubber castings from it. They had to go up with a truck, and winches, to make it seem that their purpose was to retrieve the stone itself. They did get the rubber molds safely down, though several of the men were killed by the Turk oscars.” He raised his eyebrows. “More verisimilitude—the Rabkrin was strongly led to believe that we went up to fetch the stone. It’s been guarded, since.”
    More deaths on my account, thought Hale. “What,” he asked wearily, “did I do wrong? In ’48,” he added, seeing Hartsik’s incomprehension.
    “Oh! Convex versus concave. You mistook the mold for the bullets.” He pulled open a drawer of the desk and