Declare

he seemed to be wearing a decrepit Oriental smoking jacket, he retrieved his bottle and emerged from the door-way and strode purposefully across the street to the stone arch. He took a deep breath and stepped through.
    The arch led into an old walled cemetery, and Hale walked forward out of the shadow of the wall into a patch of still sunlight. For a moment he smelled the grass and the tulips, but then he caught the familiar whiff of rancid oil. His eyes were watering in the sun glare.
    He was suddenly dizzy, and after only a few more steps along the gravel walk he gripped a bronze double-barred cross on the nearest gravestone to keep from falling. A thought that was not his own echoed in his head: What brings thee in to me?
    Hale glanced around for Philby—and he saw only the two KGB men, who were striding between the upright stones in evident alarm.
    Philby had evaded them—but where was he? Hale took a deep breath and stepped away from the gravestone.
    And he noticed with a sort of ringing tunnel vision that he was casting two shadows across the gravel—or, rather, that he stood between two shadows, with no evidence that his own body was stopping the sunlight at all. He raised his arm, and so did the shadow a foot away to his right. He looked up to his left, where the person casting the other shadow should be standing, and for a moment he saw the back of his own head, with the hair still standing up in spikes, and saw below it the shoulders of the crazy-looking quilted pink-satin coat.
    A moment later the vision was gone, and aside from his two shadows he seemed to be alone on the gravel path.
    His left leg flexed forward into an involuntary step, and in his left ear he heard a whisper: “Walk back out. Drink your vodka as you go.”
    In his disorientation Hale would have gone along with almost any proposal, and he obediently lurched back toward the arch, tipping the bottle up for a slug of vodka.
    He saw bubbles wobble up through the clear liquor, and heard them gurgling, but no liquid reached his mouth. Then his arm was pulled back down, and the whispering voice in his ear said, “Ahh,” and Hale could smell vodka fumes over the metallic oil reek. “Straight ahead, across the street,” the voice went on, “there’s a park where drunks sun themselves, two blocks away, just alleys to get there.”
    Hale stumbled out through the arch and swayed and shuffled across the street like a man with a concussion. When he had stumbled up onto the far sidewalk his left leg flexed again, and he wobbled away in that direction. If the KGB men had observed him at all, they must have dismissed him as an unsignifying drunk.
    Within a few steps Hale had turned right, off the Spiridonovka; and when he had walked one block down an alley that led away to the north, past windowsill flower boxes and the back doors of old wooden houses, he regained his balance. Out of the corner of his left eye he could see Philby walking along beside him now, and he could hear Philby’s boots crunching on the pavement; but Hale didn’t look directly at him for fear of overlapping him again. Hale did notice with relief that his own shadow stretched ahead properly from his own feet now, and that Philby’s was moving normally beside it, not alarmingly close to it.
    As if this ordinary sight were a signal, Hale’s heartbeat was suddenly very fast in his chest, and he was panting. “What—” he said hoarsely, “—happened?”
    “I often duck in there, or into any cemetery,” said Philby quietly, his own voice sounding a little strained, “when I want to lose my escorts. The guardian angel is present in such places, and when she is focusing on me, other people seem to have difficulty doing it.” He took a deep breath and sighed gustily. “I guess you’re my other half, right enough, my ten-years-delayed twin—today she obviously mistook you and I, authoritatively, for one person.” Hale saw the shadow of Philby’s head lift and turn in profile toward him. “Not very flattering to me, I must say,” Philby added. “What is that garment?”
    “Overcoat,” said Hale shortly. “Inside-out.”
    Neither of them said anything more until they had reached the park Philby had mentioned, a narrow grassy square with wooden benches around the periphery. And several of the old men on the benches were holding bottles.
    Hale and Philby found an unoccupied bench in the far corner, and sat down heavily enough to creak the boards.
    Philby was