"C-close the tent," rasped Philby. "Where's the arak? The others are all d-dead."
"Dead!" said the Turk, and his suspicious tone made Hale sure that it was Fuad. "Did you kill them?"
"Of course, F-F-Fuad, t-two middle-aged Englishmen k-killed ten spit-spit-fucking-Spetsnaz. The elite so-so-Soviet commandos. You fool."
Hale could blurrily see the bottle in Philby's hand-it appeared to have been uncorked, but Philby was simply holding it.
Hale bit off the mitten and liner glove from his right hand, and then reached out clumsily. "Infirm of purpose," he said hoarsely, "give me the liquor."
Philby tipped the bottle up to his lips first, and Hale heard gurgling; then the bottle was in Hale's hand, and he lifted it and swallowed several mouthfuls of the warm, stinging, licorice liquor.
"A F-French helicopter," said Philby, exhaling, "strafed us, f-fired explosive rah-rah-rockets." Hale could feel his gaze, and then Philby added, "I c-caught some shrapnel, in my b-back. I'll w-want medical attention."
"I'm sure they'll be ready to treat injuries," said Hale, "at the air base in Erivan." You're crossing the border, remember, Hale thought-you're defecting now, not going back to Beirut. "You've got a flare pistol?"
"In the back!" sneered Fuad. "You did not run as fast as the shrapnel, quite, eh?"
Philby was silent for several seconds, and when he spoke it was to answer Hale. "There's a f-flare piss-piss-pistol in the tent, y-yes." Hale heard him shift, and then the bottle was taken out of Hale's hand. "You w-wouldn't care to-c-come along? Hero's w-welcome."
"In the Workers' Paradise," said Hale. The ice was melting off of his eyelids, and he was blinking around to assure himself that he could still see. "No, thank you. I was hired help for this enterprise. This failed enterprise."
"We c-can't fire the fluh-flare yet," said Philby. "Snow-storm. W-wait until they can s-s-see it."
"I need a pair of snow-goggles," Hale said.
"The helicopter w-will l-land right here," said Philby. "Twenty p-paces from the t-tent."
"And I'll be gone by then," said Hale. "If I was to go to Erivan with you, I might not ever get back across. And if I wait here, the Soviet agents might not care to let me just walk away. Which," he added, "I am going to do as soon as I've rested here. Oh, and I'll want the key to one of the trucks."
"No spare goggles," said Fuad with satisfaction.
Philby had pulled back his furred hood and tugged his goggles down below his chin; the top half of his face seemed bone-white in contrast to his blackened mouth and jaw. Now he reached up with both hands and pulled the snow-goggles off over the top of his head; and there was wry humor in his pouchy exhausted eyes as he held the goggles out toward Hale.
"I won't need them," he said. "Umit-give him the keys to the Dodge."
Hale saw Fuad open his mouth to object, then shrug.
Umit crouched by a tin box on the rubber floor and opened it, and when Fuad nodded he tossed a ring to Hale.
"A waste," said Fuad. "You will surely die before you reach the truck, if you leave now." His glittering eyes fixed on Hale. "A waste of the truck key, I meant."
Hale groped for the key, and when he had closed his stinging fingers on it, he carefully dropped it into the pocket with the derringer.
"Let's put it to the test," he said.
Philby was smiling sourly at him. "They'll k-kill you, you know," he said softly. "Don't l-look for g-gratitude."
Fuad and Umit would suppose he referred to the KGB, or the GRU; but Hale knew he meant the SIS, the secret SOE-he meant Jimmie Theodora.
"That had occurred to me," Hale said. He fitted the snow-goggles over his eyes and the bridge of his nose and began pulling his gloves back on. "I suppose we won't meet again," he said to Philby.
"In this world or the next," Philby agreed. "I can't say I'm sorry."
"Certainly not."
Hale struggled to his feet and pulled the parka hood forward over his head. He reached for the white Kalashnikov, but Fuad was suddenly pointing a revolver at him.
"The machine gun stays here," said Fuad. "Do you think I would hesitate killing you?"