“And the anonymous letter?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who wrote it. Someone who knew Samuel, I suppose, someone from the office who watched him and knew. Or from Oxford, from the Party. I don’t know. Samuel didn’t know either.”
“But the suicide letter—”
She looked at him, and her face crumpled. She was almost weeping again. She bowed her head:
“I wrote it. Freitag brought the paper, and I wrote it. The signature was already there. Samuel’s signature.”
Smiley went over to her, sat beside her on the sofa and took her hand. She turned on him in a fury and began screaming at him:
“Take your hands off me! Do you think I’m yours because I don’t belong to them? Go away! Go away and kill Freitag and Dieter, keep the game alive, Mr Smiley. But don’t think I’m on your side, d’you hear? Because I’m the wandering Jewess, the no-man’s land, the battlefield for your toy soldiers. You can kick me and trample on me, see, but never, never touch me, never tell me you’re sorry, d’you hear? Now get out! Go away and kill.”
She sat there, shivering as if from cold. As he reached the door he looked back. There were no tears in her eyes.
Mendel was waiting for him in the car.
13
THE INEFFICIENCY OF SAMUEL FENNAN
They arrived at Mitcham at lunch-time. Peter Guillam was waiting for them patiently in his car.
“Well, children; what’s the news?”
Smiley handed him the piece of paper from his wallet. “There was an emergency number, too—Primrose 9747. You’d better check it but I’m not hopeful of that either.”
Peter disappeared into the hall and began telephoning. Mendel busied himself in the kitchen and returned ten minutes later with beer, bread and cheese on a tray. Guillam came back and sat down without saying anything. He looked worried. “Well,” he said at last, “what did she say, George?”
Mendel cleared away as Smiley finished the account of his interview that morning.
“I see,” said Guillam. “How very worrying. Well, that’s it, George, I shall have to put this on paper today, and I’ll have to go to Maston at once. Catching dead spies is a poor game really—and causes a lot of unhappiness.”
“What access did he have at the FO?” asked Smiley.
“Recently a lot. That’s why they felt he should be interviewed, as you know.”
“What kind of stuff, mainly?”
“I don’t know yet. He was on an Asian desk until a few months ago but his new job was different.”
“American, I seem to remember,” said Smiley. “Peter?”
“Yes.”
“Peter, have you thought at all why they wanted to kill Fennan so much? I mean, supposing he had betrayed them, as they thought, why kill him? They had nothing to gain.”
“No; no, I suppose they hadn’t. That does need some explaining, come to think of it … or does it? Suppose Fuchs or Maclean had betrayed them, I wonder what would have happened. Suppose they had reason to fear a chain reaction—not just here but in America— all over the world? Wouldn’t they kill him to prevent that? There’s so much we shall just never know.”
“Like the 8.30 call?” said Smiley.
“Cheerio. Hang on here till I ring you, will you? Maston’s bound to want to see you. They’ll be running down the corridors when I tell them the glad news. I shall have to wear the special grin I reserve for bearing really disastrous tidings.”
Mendel saw him out and then returned to the drawing-room. “Best thing you can do is put your feet up,” he said. “You look a ruddy mess, you do.”
“Either Mundt’s here or he’s not,” thought Smiley as he lay on the bed in his waistcoat, his hands linked under his head. “If he’s not, we’re finished. It will be for Maston to decide what to do with Elsa Fennan, and my guess is he’ll do nothing.
“If Mundt is here, it’s for one of three reasons: A, because Dieter told him to stay and watch the dust settle; B, because he’s in bad odour and afraid to go back; C, because he has unfinished business.
“A is improbable because it’s not like Dieter to take needless risks. Anyway, it’s a woolly idea.
“B is unlikely because, while Mundt may be afraid of Dieter, he must also, presumably, be frightened of a murder charge here. His wisest plan would be to go to another country.
“C is more likely. If I was in Dieter’s shoes I’d be worried sick about Elsa Fennan. The Pidgeon girl is immaterial—without Elsa to fill in the gaps she presents no serious danger. She was not a conspirator and there is no reason why she should particularly remember Elsa’s friend at the theatre. No, Elsa constitutes the real danger.”
There was, of course, a final possibility, which Smiley was quite unable to judge: the possibility that Dieter had other agents to control here through Mundt. On the whole he was inclined to discount this, but the thought had no doubt crossed Peter’s mind.
No … it still didn’t make sense—it wasn’t tidy. He decided to begin again.
What do we know? He sat up to look for pencil and paper and at once his head began throbbing. Obstinately he got off the bed and took a pencil from the inside pocket of his jacket. There was a writing pad in his suitcase. He returned to the bed, shaped the pillows to his satisfaction, took four aspirin from the bottle on the table and propped himself against the pillows, his short legs stretched before him. He began writing. First he wrote the heading in a neat, scholarly hand, and underlined it.
What do we know?
Then he began, stage by stage, to recount as dispassionately as possible the sequence of events hitherto:
“On Monday, 2 January, Dieter Frey saw me in the park talking to his agent and concluded …” Yes, what did Dieter conclude? That Fennan had confessed, was going to confess? That Fennan was my agent? “… and concluded that Fennan was dangerous, for reasons still unknown. The following evening, the first Tuesday in the month, Elsa Fennan took her husband’s reports in a music case to the Weybridge Repertory Theatre, in the agreed way, and left the case in the cloakroom in exchange for a ticket. Mundt was to bring his own music case and do the same thing. Elsa and Mundt would then exchange tickets during the performance. Mundt did not appear. Accordingly she followed the emergency procedure and posted the ticket to a prearranged address, having left the theatre early to catch the last post from Weybridge. She then drove home to be met by Mundt, who had, by then, murdered Fennan, probably on Dieter’s orders. He had shot him at point blank range as soon as he met him in the hall. Knowing Dieter, I suspect that he had long ago taken the precaution of keeping in London a few sheets of blank writing paper signed with samples, forged or authentic, of Sam Fennan’s signature, in case it was ever necessary to compromise or blackmail him. Assuming this to be so, Mundt brought a sheet with him in order to type the suicide letter over the signature on Fennan’s own typewriter. In the ghastly scene which must have followed Elsa’s arrival, Mundt realized that Dieter had wrongly interpreted Fennan’s encounter with Smiley, but relied on Elsa to preserve her dead husband’s reputation—not to mention her own complicity. Mundt was therefore reasonably safe. Mundt made Elsa type the letter, perhaps because he did not trust his English. (Note: But who the devil typed the first letter, the denunciation?)
“Mundt then, presumably, demanded the music case he had failed to collect, and Elsa told him that she had obeyed standing instructions and posted the cloakroom ticket to the Hampstead address, leaving the music case at the theatre. Mundt reacted significantly: he forced her to telephone the theatre and to arrange for him to collect the case that night on his way back to London. Therefore either the address to which the ticket was posted was no longer valid, or Mundt intended at that stage to return home early the next morning without having time to collect the ticket and the case.
“Smiley visits Walliston early on the morning of Wednesday, 4 January, and during the first interview takes an 8.30 call from the exchange which (beyond reasonable doubt) Fennan requested at 7.55
the previous evening. WHY?
“Later that morning S. returns to Elsa Fennan to ask about the 8.30 call—which she knew (on her own admission) would ‘worry me’ (no doubt Mundt’s flattering description of my powers had had its effect). Having told S. a futile story about her bad memory she panics and rings Mundt.
“Mundt, presumably equipped with a photograph or a description from Dieter, decides to liquidate S. (on Dieter’s authority?) and later that day nearly succeeds. (Note: Mundt did not return the car to Scarr’s garage till the night of the 4th. This does not necessarily prove that Mundt had no plans for flying earlier in the day. If he had originally meant to fly in the morning he might well have left the car at Scarr’s earlier and gone to the airport by bus.)
“It does seem pretty likely that Mundt changed his plans after Elsa’s telephone call. It is not clear that he changed them because of her call.” Would Mundt really be panicked by Elsa? Panicked into staying, panicked into murdering Adam Scarr, he wondered.
The telephone was ringing in the hall …
“George, it’s Peter. No joy with the address or the telephone number. Dead end.”
“What do you mean?”
“The telephone number and the address both led to the same place—furnished apartment in Highgate village.”
“Well?”
“Rented by a pilot in Lufteuropa. He paid his two months’ rent on the fifth of January and hasn’t come back since.”
“Damn.”
“The landlady remembers Mundt quite well. The pilot’s friend. A nice polite gentleman he was, for a German, very open-handed. He used to sleep on the sofa quite often.”
“Oh God.”
“I went through the room with a toothcomb. There was a desk in the corner. All the drawers were empty except one, which contained a cloakroom ticket. I wonder where that came from … Well, if you want a laugh, come round to the Circus. The whole of Olympus is seething with activity. Oh, incidentally—”
“Yes?”
“I dug around at Dieter’s flat. Another lemon. He left on the fourth of January. Didn’t tell the milkman.”
“What about his mail?”
“He never received any, apart from bills. I also had a look at Comrade Mundt’s little nest: couple of rooms over the Steel Mission. The furniture went out with the rest of the stuff. Sorry.”
“I see.”
“I’ll tell you an odd thing though, George. You remember I thought I might get on to Fennan’s personal possessions—wallet, notebook and so on? From the police.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I did. His diary’s got Dieter’s full name entered in the address section with the Mission telephone number against it. Bloody cheek.”
“It’s more than that. It’s lunacy. Good Lord.”
“Then for the fourth of January the entry is ‘Smiley C.A. Ring 8.30.’ That was corroborated by an entry for the third which ran ‘request call for Wed. morning.’ There’s your mysterious call.”
“Still unexplained.” A pause.
“George, I sent Felix Taverner round to the FO to do some ferreting. It’s worse than we feared in one way, but better in another.”
“Why?”
“Well, Taverner got his hands on the registry schedules for the last two years. He was able to work out what files have been marked to Fennan’s section. Where a file was particularly requested by that section they still have a requisition form.”
“I’m listening.”
“Felix found that three or four files were usually marked in to Fennan on a Friday afternoon and marked out again on Monday morning; the inference is that he took the stuff home at week-ends.”
“Oh my Lord!”
“But the odd thing is, George, that during the last six months, since his posting in fact, he tended to take home unclassified stuff which wouldn’t have been of interest to anyone.”
“But it was during the last months that he began dealing mainly with secret files,” said Smiley. “He could take home anything he wanted.”
“I know, but he didn’t. In fact you’d almost say it was deliberate. He took home very low-grade stuff barely related to his daily work. His colleagues can’t understand it now they think about it—he even took back some files handling subjects outside the scope of his section.”
“And unclassified.”
“Yes—of no conceivable intelligence value.”
“How about earlier, before he came into his new job? What kind of stuff went home then?”
“Much more what you’d expect—files he’d used during the day, policy and so on.”
“Secret?”
“Some were, some weren’t. As they came.”
“But nothing unexpected—no particularly delicate stuff that didn’t concern him?”
“No. Nothing. He had opportunity galore quite frankly and didn’t use it. Windy, I suppose.”
“So he ought to be if he puts his controller’s name in his diary.”
“And make what you like of this: he’d arranged at the FO to take a day off on the fourth—the day after he died. Rather an event apparently—he was a glutton for work, they say.”
“What’s Maston doing about all this?” asked Smiley, after a pause.
“Going through the files at the moment and rushing in to see me with bloody fool questions every two minutes. I think he gets lonely in there with hard facts.”
“Oh, he’ll beat them down, Peter, don’t worry.”
“He’s already saying that the whole case against Fennan rests on the evidence of a neurotic woman.”
“Thanks for ringing, Peter.”
“Be seeing you, dear boy. Keep your head down.”
Smiley replaced the receiver and wondered where Mendel was. There was an evening paper on the hall table, and he glanced vaguely at the headline “Lynching: World Jewry Protests” and beneath it the account of the lynching of a Jewish shopkeeper in Düsseldorf. He opened the drawing-room door—Mendel was not there. Then he caught sight of him through the window wearing his gardening hat, hacking savagely with a pick-axe at a tree stump in the front garden. Smiley watched him for a moment, then went upstairs again to rest. As he reached the top of the stairs the telephone began ringing again.
“George—sorry to bother you again. It’s about Mundt.”
“Yes?”
“Flew to Berlin last night by BEA. Travelled under another name but was easily identified by the air hostess. That seems to be that. Hard luck, chum.”
Smiley pressed down the cradle with his hand for a moment, then dialled Walliston 2944. He heard the number ringing the other end. Suddenly the dialling tone stopped and instead he heard Elsa Fennan’s voice:
“Hullo … Hullo … Hullo?”
Slowly he replaced the receiver. She was alive.
Why on earth now? Why should Mundt go home now, five weeks after murdering Fennan, three weeks after murdering Scarr; why had he eliminated the lesser danger—Scarr—and left Elsa Fennan unharmed, neurotic and embittered, liable at any moment to throw aside her own safety and tell the whole story? What effect might that terrible night not have had upon her? How could Dieter trust a woman now so lightly bound to him? Her husband’s good name could no longer be preserved; might she not, in God knows what mood of vengeance or repentance, blurt out the whole truth? Obviously, a little time must elapse between the murder of Fennan and the murder of his wife, but what event, what information, what danger, had decided Mundt to return last night? A ruthless and elaborate plan to preserve the secrecy of Fennan’s treason had now apparently been thrown aside unfinished. What had happened yesterday that Mundt could know of? Or was the timing of his departure a coincidence? Smiley refused to believe it was. If Mundt had remained in England after the two murders and the assault on Smiley, he had done so unwillingly, waiting upon some opportunity or event that would release him. He would not stay a moment longer than he need. Yet what had he done since Scarr’s death? Hidden in some lonely room, locked away from light
and news. Then why did he now fly home so suddenly?
And Fennan—what spy was this who selected innocuous information for his masters when he had such gems at his fingertips? A change of heart, perhaps? A weakening of purpose? Then why did he not tell his wife, for whom his crime was a constant nightmare, who would have rejoiced at his conversion? It seemed now that Fennan had never shown any preference for secret papers—he had simply taken home whatever files currently might occupy him. But certainly a weakening of purpose would explain the strange summons to Marlow and Dieter’s conviction that Fennan was betraying him. And who wrote the anonymous letter?
Nothing made sense, nothing. Fennan himself—brilliant, fluent and attractive—had deceived so naturally, so expertly. Smiley had really liked him. Why then had this practised deceiver made the incredible blunder of putting Dieter’s name in his diary—and shown so little judgement or interest in the selection of intelligence?
Smiley went upstairs to pack the few possessions which Mendel had collected for him from Bywater Street. It was all over.
14
THE DRESDEN GROUP
He stood on the doorstep and put down his suitcase, fumbling for his latchkey. As he opened the door he recalled how Mundt had stood there looking at him, those very pale blue eyes calculating and steady. It was odd to think of Mundt as Dieter’s pupil. Mundt had proceeded with the inflexibility of a trained mercenary— efficient, purposeful, narrow. There had been nothing original in his technique: in everything he had been a shadow of his master. It was as if Dieter’s brilliant and imaginative tricks had been compressed into a manual which Mundt had learnt by heart, adding only the salt of his own brutality.
Smiley had deliberately left no forwarding address and a heap of mail lay on the door mat. He picked it up, put it on the hall table and began opening doors and peering about him, a puzzled, lost expression on his face. The house was strange to him, cold and musty. As he moved slowly from one room to another he began for the first time to realize how empty his life had become.
A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead Page 25
