A Small Town in Germany

by John le Carré

  ‘Nothing. That’s why I’m qualified to give advice. I just wish you’d stop punishing us all for not being perfect.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Lumley examined him like an old magistrate who had not many cases left.

  ‘Christ, you’re quick to despise,’ he said at last. ‘You frighten me, I’ll tell you that for nothing. You’re going to have to start liking people soon, or it’ll be too late. You’ll need us, you know, before you die. Even if we are a second best.’ He thrust a file into Turner’s hand. ‘Go on then. Find him. But don’t think you’re off the leash. I should take the midnight train if I were you. Get in at lunchtime.’ His hooded yellow eyes flickered towards the sunlit park. ‘Bonn’s a foggy bloody place.’

  ‘I’ll fly if it’s all the same.’

  Lumley slowly shook his head.

  ‘You can’t wait, can you. You can’t wait to get your hands on him. Pawing the bloody earth, aren’t you? Christ, I wish I had your enthusiasm.’

  ‘You had once.’

  ‘And get yourself a suit or something. Try and look as though you belong.’

  ‘I don’t though, do I?’

  ‘All right,’ said Lumley, not caring any more. ‘Wear the cloth cap. Christ,’ he added, ‘I’d have thought your class was suffering from too much recognition already.’

  ‘There’s something you haven’t told me. Which do they want most: the man or the files?’

  ‘Ask Bradfield,’ Lumley replied, avoiding his eye.

  Turner went to his room and dialled his wife’s number. Her sister answered.

  ‘She’s out,’ she said.

  ‘You mean they’re still in bed.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Tell her I’m leaving the country.’

  As he rang off he was again distracted by the sound of the porter’s wireless. He had turned it on full and tuned it to the European network. A well-bred lady was giving a summary of the news. The Movement’s next rally would be held in Bonn, she said; on Friday, five days from today.

  Turner grinned. It was a little like an invitation to tea. Picking up his bag, he set off for Fulham, an area well known for boarding houses and married men in exile from their wives.

  4

  Decembers of Renewal

  De Lisle picked him up from the airport. He had a sports car that was a little too young for him and it rattled wildly on the wet cobbles of the villages. Though it was quite a new car, the paintwork was already dulled by the chestnut gum of Godesberg’s wooded avenues. The time was nine in the morning but the street lights still burned. To either side, on flat fields, farm-houses and new building estates lay upon the strips of mist like hulks left over by the sea. Drops of rain prickled on the small windscreen.

  ‘We’ve booked you in at the Adler; I suppose that’s all right. We didn’t know quite what sort of subsistence you people get.’

  ‘What are the posters saying?’

  ‘Oh, we hardly read them any more. Reunification … alliance with Moscow … Anti-America … Anti-Britain.’

  ‘Nice to know we’re still in the big league.’

  ‘You’ve hit a real Bonn day, I’m afraid. Sometimes the fog is a little colder,’ de Lisle continued cheerfully, ‘then we call it winter. Sometimes it’s warmer, and that’s summer. You know what they say about Bonn: either it rains or the level crossings are down. In fact, of course, both things happen at the same time. An island cut off by fog, that’s us. It’s a very metaphysical spot; the dreams have quite replaced reality. We live somewhere between the recent future and the not so recent past. Not personally, if you know what I mean. Most of us feel we’ve been here for ever.’

  ‘Do you always get an escort?’

  The black Opel lay thirty yards behind them. It was neither gaining nor losing ground. Two pale men sat in the front and the headlights were on.

  ‘They’re protecting us. That’s the theory. Perhaps you heard of our meeting with Siebkron?’ They turned right and the Opel followed them. ‘The Ambassador is quite furious. And now, of course, they can say it’s all vindicated by Hanover: no Englishman is safe without a bodyguard. It’s not our view at all. Still, perhaps after Friday we’ll lose them again. How are things in London? I hear Steed-Asprey’s got Lima.’

  ‘Yes, we’re all thrilled about it.’

  A yellow road sign said six kilometres to Bonn.

  ‘I think we’ll go round the city if you don’t mind; there’s liable to be rather a hold-up getting in and out. They’re checking passes and things.’

  ‘I thought you said Karfeld didn’t bother you.’

  ‘We all say that. It’s part of our local religion. We’re trained to regard Karfeld as an irritant, not an epidemic. You’ll have to get used to that. I have a message for you from Bradfield, by the way. He’s sorry not to have collected you himself, but he’s been rather under pressure.’

  They swung sharply off the main road, bumped over a tramline and sped along a narrow open lane. Occasionally a poster or photograph rose before them and darted away into the mist.

  ‘Was that the whole of Bradfield’s message?’

  ‘There was the question of who knows what. He imagined you’d like to have that clear at once. Cover, is that what you’d call it?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Our friend’s disappearance has been noticed in a general way,’ de Lisle continued in the same amiable tone. ‘That was inevitable. But fortunately Hanover intervened, and we’ve been able to mend a few fences. Officially, Rawley has sent him on compassionate leave. He’s published no details; merely hinted at personal problems and left it at that. The Junior Staff can think what they like: nervous breakdown; family troubles; they can make up their own rumours. Bradfield mentioned the matter at this morning’s meeting: we’re all backing him up. As for yourself …’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A general security check in view of the crisis? How would that sound to you? It seemed quite convincing to us.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Harting?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you know him?’

  ‘I think perhaps,’ de Lisle said, pulling up at a traffic light, ‘we ought to leave the first bite to Rawley, don’t you? Tell me, what news of our little Lords of York?’

  ‘Who the hell are they?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ de Lisle said in genuine discomfort. ‘It’s our local expression for the Cabinet. It was silly of me.’

  They were approaching the Embassy. As they filtered left to cross the carriageway, the black Opel slid slowly past like an old nanny who had seen her children safely over the road. The lobby was in turmoil. Despatch riders mingled with journalists and police. An iron grille, painted a protective orange, sealed off the basement staircase. De Lisle led him quickly to the first floor. Someone must have telephoned from the desk because Bradfield was already standing as they entered.

  ‘Rawley, this is Turner,’ de Lisle said, as if there were not much he could do about it, and prudently closed the door on them.

  Bradfield was a hard-built, self-denying man, thin-boned and well preserved, of that age and generation which can do with very little sleep. Yet the strains of the last twenty-four hours were already showing in the small, uncommon bruises at the corners of his eyes, and the unnatural pallor of his complexion. He studied Turner without comment: the canvas bag clutched in the heavy fist, the battered fawn suit, the unyielding, classless features; and it seemed for a moment as if an impulse of involuntary anger would threaten his customary composure; of aesthetic objection that anything so offensively incongruous should have been set before him at such a time. Outside in the corridor Turner heard the hushed murmur of busy voices, the clip of feet, the faster chatter of the typewriters and the phantom throb of code machines from the cypher room.

  ‘It was good of you to come at such an awkward time. You’d better let me have that.’ He took the canvas bag and dumped it behind the chair.

  ‘Christ, it
’s hot,’ said Turner. Walking to the window, he rested his elbows on the sill and gazed out. Away to his right in the far distance, the Seven Hills of Königswinter, chalked over by fine cloud, rose like Gothic dreams against the colourless sky. At their feet he could make out the dull glint of water and the shadows of motionless vessels.

  ‘He lived out that way, didn’t he? Königswinter?’

  ‘We have a couple of hirings on the other bank. They are never much in demand. The ferry is a great inconvenience.’

  On the trampled lawn, workmen were dismantling the marquee under the watchful eye of two German policemen.

  ‘I imagine you have a routine in such cases,’ Bradfield continued, addressing Turner’s back. ‘You must tell us what you want and we shall do our best to provide it.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘The cypher clerks have a dayroom where you’ll be undisturbed. They are instructed to send your telegrams without reference to anyone else. I’ve had a desk and a telephone put in there for you. I have also asked Registry to prepare a list of the missing files. If there’s anything more you want, I am sure de Lisle will do his best to provide it. And on the social side’ – Bradfield hesitated – ‘I am to invite you to dine with us tomorrow night. We would be very pleased. It’s the usual Bonn evening. De Lisle will lend you a dinner jacket, I am sure.’

  ‘There’s lots of routines,’ Turner replied at last. He was leaning against the radiator, looking round the room. ‘In a country like this it should be dead simple. Call in the police. Check hospitals, nursing homes, prisons, Salvation Army hostels. Circulate his photograph and personal description and square the local press. Then I’d look for him myself.’

  ‘Look for him? Where?’

  ‘In other people. In his background. Motive, political associations, boy friends, girl friends, contacts. Who else was involved; who knew; who half-knew; who quarter-knew; who ran him; who did he meet and where; how did he communicate; safe houses, pick-up points; how long’s it been going on. Who’s protected him, maybe. That’s what I call looking. Then I’d write a report: point the blame, make new enemies.’ He continued to examine the room, and it seemed that nothing was innocent under his clear, inscrutable eye. ‘That’s one routine. That’s for a friendly country, of course.’

  ‘Most of what you suggest is quite unacceptable here.’

  ‘Oh sure. I’ve had all that from Lumley.’

  ‘Perhaps before we go any further, you had better have it from me as well.’

  ‘Please yourself,’ said Turner, in a manner which might have been deliberately chosen to annoy.

  ‘I imagine that in your world, secrets are an absolute standard. They matter more than anything. Those who preserve them are your allies; those who betray them are your quarry. Here that is simply not the case. As of now, the local political considerations far exceed those of security.’

  Suddenly, Turner was grinning. ‘They always do,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Here in Bonn we have at present one contribution to make: to maintain at all costs the trust and good will of the Federal Government. To stiffen their resolve against mounting criticism from their own electorate. The Coalition is sick; the most casual virus could kill it. Our job is to pamper the invalid. To console, encourage and occasionally threaten him, and pray to God he survives long enough to see us into the Common Market.’

  ‘What a lovely picture.’ He was looking out of the window again. ‘The only ally we’ve got, and he’s on crutches. The two sick men of Europe propping one another up.’

  ‘Like it or not, it happens to be the truth. We are playing a poker game here. With open cards and nothing in our hand. Our credit is exhausted, our resources are nil. Yet in return for no more than a smile, our partners bid and play. That smile is all we have. The whole relationship between HMG and the Federal Coalition rests upon that smile. Our situation is as delicate as that; and as mysterious. And as critical. Our whole future with Europe could be decided in ten days from now.’ He paused, apparently expecting Turner to speak. ‘It is no coincidence that Karfeld has chosen next Friday for his rally in Bonn. By Friday, our friends in the German Cabinet will be forced to decide whether to bow to French pressure or honour their promises to ourselves and their partners in the Six. Karfeld detests the Market and favours an opening to the East. In the short term he inclines to Paris; in the long term, to Moscow. By marching on Bonn and increasing the tempo of his campaign, he is deliberately placing pressure on the Coalition at the most critical moment. Do you follow me?’

  ‘I can manage the little words,’ Turner said. A Kodachrome portrait of the Queen hung directly behind Bradfield’s head. Her crest was everywhere: on the blue leather chairs, the silver cigarette box, even the jotting pads set out on the long conference table. It was as if the monarchy had flown here first class and left its free gifts behind.

  ‘That is why I am asking you to move with the greatest possible circumspection. Bonn is a village,’ Bradfield continued. ‘It has the manners, vision and dimensions of the parish pump, and yet it is a State within a village. Nothing matters for us more than the confidence of our hosts. There are already indications that we have caused them offence. I do not even know how we have done that. Their manner, even in the last forty-eight hours, has become noticeably cool. We are under surveillance; our telephone calls are interrupted; and we have the greatest difficulty in reaching even our official ministerial contacts.’

  ‘All right,’ Turner said. He had had enough. ‘I’ve got the message. I’m warned off. We’re on tender ground. Now what?’

  ‘Now this,’ Bradfield snapped. ‘We both know what Harting may be, or may have been. God knows, there are precedents. The greater his treachery here, the greater the potential embarrassment, the greater the shock to German confidence. Let us take the worst contingency. If it were possible to prove – I am not yet saying that it is, but there are indications – if it were possible to prove that by virtue of Harting’s activities in this Embassy, our inmost secrets had been betrayed to the Russians over many years – secrets which to a great extent we share with the Germans – then that shock, trivial as it may be in the long term, could sever the last thread by which our credit here hangs. Wait.’ He was sitting very straight at his desk, with an expression of controlled distaste upon his handsome face. ‘Hear me out. There is something here that does not exist in England. It is called the anti-Soviet alliance. The Germans take it very seriously, and we deride it at our peril: it is still our ticket to Brussels. For twenty years or more, we have dressed ourselves in the shining armour of the defender. We may be bankrupt, we may beg for loans, currency and trade; we may occasionally … reinterpret … our Nato commitments; when the guns sound, we may even bury our heads under the blankets; our leaders may be as futile as theirs.’

  What was it Turner discerned in Bradfield’s voice at that moment? Self-disgust? A ruthless sense of his own decline? He spoke like a man who had tried all remedies, and would have no more of doctors. For a moment the gap between them had closed, and Turner heard his own voice speaking through the Bonn mist.

  ‘For all that, in terms of popular psychology, it is the one great unspoken strength we have: that when the Barbarians come from the East, the Germans may count on our support. That Rhine Army will hastily gather on the Kentish hills and the British independent nuclear deterrent will be hustled into service. Now do you see what Harting could mean in the hands of a man like Karfeld?’

  Turner had taken the black notebook from his inside pocket. It crackled sharply as he opened it. ‘No. I don’t. Not yet. You don’t want him found, you want him lost. If you had your way you wouldn’t have sent for me.’ He nodded his large head in reluctant admiration. ‘Well, I’ll say this for you: no one’s ever warned me off this early. Christ, I’ve hardly sat down. I hardly know his full names. We’ve not heard of him in London, did you know that? He’s not even had any access, not in our book. Not even one bloody military manual. He may have been abduc
ted. He may have gone under a bus, run off with a bird for all we know. But you; Christ! You’ve really gone the bank, haven’t you? He’s all the spies we’ve ever had rolled into one. So what has he pinched? What do you know that I don’t?’ Bradfield tried to interrupt but Turner rode him down implacably. ‘Or maybe I shouldn’t ask? I mean I don’t want to upset anyone.’

  They were glaring at one another across centuries of suspicion: Turner clever, predatory and vulgar, with the hard eye of the upstart; Bradfield disadvantaged but not put down, drawn in upon himself, picking his language as if it had been made for him.

  ‘Our most secret file has disappeared. It vanished on the same day that Harting left. It covers the whole spectrum of our most delicate conversations with the Germans, formal and informal, over the last six months. For reasons which do not concern you, its publication would ruin us in Brussels.’

  He thought at first that it was the roar of the aeroplane engines still ringing in his ears, but the traffic in Bonn is as constant as the mist. Gazing out of the window he was suddenly assailed by the feeling that from now on he would neither see nor hear with clarity; that his senses were being embraced and submerged by the cloying heat and the disembodied sound.

  ‘Listen.’ He indicated his canvas bag. ‘I’m the abortionist. You don’t want me but you’ve got to have me. A neat job with no aftermath, that’s what you’re paying for. All right; I’ll do my best. But before we all go over the wall, let’s do a bit of counting on our fingers, shall we?’

  The catechism began.

  ‘He was unmarried?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always has been?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lived alone?’

  ‘So far as I know.’

  ‘Last seen?’

  ‘On Friday morning, at the Chancery meeting. In here.’

  ‘Not afterwards?’

  ‘I happen to know the pay clerk saw him, but I’m limited in whom I can ask.’

  ‘Anyone else missing at all?’