Declare

been bad. Apparently the meteorite had not been the Seal.
    Still, if bin Jalawi had tipped the Soviets to Hale’s activities then, he had no doubt helped the Russians kill Hale’s men; those men who had been shot, at any rate, if not those who had been pulled screaming up into the sky…
    Before speaking again, Hale carefully smothered the sick, remorseful anger this thought raised in him. You can’t be sure bin Jalawi was doubling then, he told himself; and even if you could be, what would you do differently here?
    “At Wabar,” Hale said lightly, “you and I met a man who had long ago killed half of himself, to hide from the wrath of God. Is that a good way to live?”
    “ Half of you, you think it would be?” said bin Jalawi cheerfully. “Cut your hair, cut your toenails, and you’ll have dispensed with more.”
    Hale knew that his companion—his oldest friend in the Middle East!—was referring to Hale’s patriotism, his sense of duty to the Crown. In fact Hale suspected that it was more than half of himself, but his cover story required him to pretend far otherwise. Again he reminded himself not to get angry at bin Jalawi—the man simply believed the Whitehall-scripted cover story, which presented Hale as having been a crook for years, and which Hale had not denied here.
    “More than that,” Hale said. “A hand.”
    “A finger. A left-hand finger.”
    Hale fumbled a pack of Player’s cigarettes out of his coat pocket. “Ramadan’s fast ended two days ago,” he said hoarsely. He could safely let his agitation show, as it would be interpreted as anxiety at the prospect of doubling, changing sides. “Do you have any old Ikhwan prejudices against your guests smoking?”
    “Allah knows that djinn and ghosts without number clustered around our fires when you and I perfumed the desert with tobacco smoke,” bin Jalawi protested. “Smoke like a refinery, if you like. The Russian we are to go to meet now, he smokes.”
    Hale was aware of his own knocking heartbeat. “You called him right after I called you?”
    “That trouble was not required. His people placed a bug in my hatif last night. It is working as a microphone even now.”
    The Russian’s house was in an old neighborhood in Al-Jahrah, twenty miles west of Al-Kuwait. It was a one-story coral-rock house with a tall square wind tower standing over the roof. The enormous front doors, visible in the headlights of bin Jalawi’s Chevrolet, were of carved teak, studded with big iron nails in serpentine patterns, and a conventional-sized door had been cut and hinged into the right portal. When they had climbed out of the car and walked up to the small door, Salim bin Jalawi turned a wooden key in the wooden lock, and when the door had squeaked open, he stepped back and waved Hale toward the lamplit courtyard dimly visible within.
    A drop of cold sweat rolled down Hale’s ribs under his shirt, and he remembered the cheery greeting of the American OSS men in London during the war: Is anything okay?
    As he trudged toward the flagstone threshold, he was rapidly, uselessly, trying to calculate the cui bono of his position. Who would benefit from having him killed here? Theodora would hardly have bothered to send him to Kuwait just for that; and the Soviet Rabkrin service was supposed to want his seemingly freelance expertise for the new Ararat operation, and even if they had found out that Philby had been doubled back, it was unlikely that they could know that Hale too was a Trojan horse.
    I think this is okay, he told himself with frail confidence as he stepped through the low doorway.
    A voice from a chair under the branches of a pomegranate tree said, in unaccented English, “You can have a drink, if you like, Mr. Hale. Scotch or vodka?”
    I won’t be obsequious, Hale thought. “Scotch, please.” He squinted in the flickering amber lamplight, and saw that it was a lean man in a white Arab robe and head-cloth that sat in the chair. The garden walls appeared to be sheets of tarpaulin, their hanging folds gleaming dully in the muted light.
    “Call me Ishmael,” the man said without a smile. “John Christie is the SIS Head of Station in Kuwait, and the only cable he has got regarding you is an order that you be detained. Christie’s office is of course now aware that you have arrived in Kuwait.”
    Hale just nodded, confident that his tradecraft had been logical and trusting the Russian to see that.
    “Salim,” said Ishmael, “you can