"No. We can sit there."
They found the office unoccupied. "Don't turn the light on," Hall said. "The window faces the street."
Rafael locked the door, pulled two seats close to the big desk in the corner. "We can sit here and talk quietly," he said.
"It's wonderful to see you, Rafael. I'd heard you were captured in a hospital during the Ebro retreat."
"Mierda! That's what the fascists boasted. No. I came out of the retreat in good order. I started with thirty men, but, instead of taking to the roads like the Lincolns, I started to cross the mountains. I went up with thirty men, and I came down on the other side with a battalion. Most of them got through alive after that."
"Good boy! Where have you been since then?"
"In hell!" Rafael spat, angrily. "Rotting in a French concentration camp, mostly. I organized an escape. We killed six guards, and more than twenty prisoners got away. I got to Casablanca through the underground, and they put me on a Chilean ship. Two weeks ago we reached Havana. I'm to eat and rest for a month. Then I go back to Spain for more fighting. With the guerrillas. When did you get here?"
"An hour ago. Listen, I want to talk to you. But it is important that we find Santiago. Is he in town?"
"Yes. He is supposed to be at our meeting. He'll be here."
"Can you go back and leave word for him to join you in here the minute he comes? It's very important."