Declare

swirling the coffee that was left in the cup. Hale restrained himself from stretching out his leg and kicking the cup up into the man’s face.
    “An artist should know when to walk away,” said Hartsik tightly. “Go.”
    After Farid had bobbed back out into the hall and pulled the door closed, Hartsik did not sit down again. “I’ll tell you the rest briefly, before those sûreté decide to break that poor man’s legs. If your threat to Philby is effective, and he agrees to continue with the Rabkrin operation to Ararat, you will keep your wristwatch set to the correct local time; if Philby refuses, or if three days go by without a clear decision from him, you will set your watch six hours off—and then Kim Philby will find that his next glass of gin has been flavored with a poison that will get past any magical protections, birthday or no birthday. Holy water and—well, you’re Catholic, aren’t you?—you don’t want to know. At any rate, the old Rabkrin recognition phrase is: ‘O Fish, are you constant to the old covenant?’” and the answer is—”
    “ ‘Return, and we return,’ ” said Hale. “ ‘Keep faith, and so will we.’ ” He stared bleakly up at Hartsik. “Philby must have known that since he was a child—because I have.”
    Hale was hurriedly shown photographs of the room in which his double was being interrogated, and then photographs of the officers who were asking the questions—a cup had been drawn in over the hand of the one who had thrown coffee on the prisoner. After that Hale was given a scrawled transcript of the questioning session and was made to read it several times. He had to admire the way “Andrew Hale” had stuck to his cover story—and the script was good, with the sûreté gradually becoming convinced that this really was just some British journalist named Charles Garner. To judge from the transcript, the sûreté officers had even been gruffly apologetic at the end.
    At last Farid led into Hartsik’s office the man who had pretended to be Hale. Hale stood up, wondering who this unlucky Declare operative was. Looking at the man’s face was like looking into the forty-five-degree intersection of a pair of mirrors—Hale winced to see a duplicate of the jagged cut in his own left cheek, and the extent of the silvery bruise under his eye. He was even disoriented for a moment when he licked his lips and the other face didn’t do it too.
    “I owe you a drink, when all this is over,” Hale said to the man.
    “Not arak,” said his double.
    “Right.” Hale was aware of being drunk, though the hour could not yet be noon, and he bit his tongue against the urge to ask the man if he had heard from Elena.
    “This mistreated gentleman,” said Hartsik, waving at Hale’s double, “will stay here in my office until nightfall, and then leave in Arab dress, with his face concealed. In the meantime, one of the Rabkrin team has come to the station here to take you back to your hotel.” He stared at Hale. “It’s the one called Kim Philby.”
    Hale nodded. “I know what to say to him.”
    Hartsik unlocked the door and swung it open. “We won’t speak again,” he said quietly as Hale stepped out into the hall; “if you get into unmapped territory, improvise.”
    Hale nodded, as much to the two sûreté officers who stood in the hall as in acknowledgment of Hartsik’s remark; and then he was escorted back down the hall to the yellow-painted waiting room. The police did not hold his arms now—Charles Garner had officially proven to be a harmless drunk.
    Kim Philby was leaning against the wall by the alley door. He was wearing a sport coat and a tie, but his pouchy face was spotted and pale, and he was frowning.
    My half-brother, thought Hale as he walked away from the police, toward the door.
    “I was t-told it was you,” Philby said. He peered at Hale’s face. “They d-did m-mess you up, rather, didn’t they? There’s no bail to be p-paid—apparently they feel that your mistreatment here has been pa-pa-payment enough. I’d have said you rated another biff or two, but the sûreté and I d-don’t always see eye to eye.” He waved toward the wire-mesh glass door. “We’ll walk. I was also t-told you’re likely to be d-drunk. You can walk, can’t you?”
    “I can walk.”
    When they had stepped down to the alley pavement and crossed to the far sidewalk, Philby began talking in a low voice that barely reached Hale’s ringing ears. “Your