The Spy Who Came in from the Cold s-3

by John le Carré

  Bill did go on, ad-lib no doubt, but he did it well, playing up the sex side a little, how they'd finished up in a night club with three of these girls; Alec, a chap from the political adviser's office and Bill, and Bill had been so embarrassed because he hadn't any money on him and Alec had paid, and Bill had wanted to take a girl home and Alec had lent him another tenner—

  "Christ," said Leamas, "I remember now, of course I do."

  "I knew you would," said Ashe happily, nodding at Leamas over his glass. "Look, do let's have the other half, this is such fun."

  Ashe was typical of that strata of mankind which conducts its human relationships according to a principle of challenge and response. Where there was softness, he would advance; where he found resistance, retreat. Having himself no particular opinions or tastes, he relied upon whatever conformed with those of his companion. He was as ready to drink tea at Fortnum's as beer at the Prospect of Whitby; he would listen to military music in St. James's Park or jazz in a Compton Street cellar; his voice would tremble with sympathy when he spoke of Sharpeville, or with indignation at the growth of Britain's colored population. To Leamas this observably passive role was repellent; it brought out the bully in him, so that he would lead the other gently into a position where he was committed, and then himself withdraw, so that Ashe was constantly scampering back from some cul-de-sac into which Leamas had enticed him. There were moments that afternoon when Leamas was so brazenly perverse that Ashe would have been justified in terminating their conversation—especially since he was paying; but he did not. The little sad man with spectacles who sat alone at the neighboring table, deep in a book on the manufacture of ball bearings, might have deduced, had he been listening, that Leamas was indulging a sadistic nature—or perhaps (if he had been a man of particular subtlety) that Leamas was proving to his own satisfaction that only a man with a strong ulterior motive would put up with that kind of treatment.

  It was nearly four o'clock before they ordered the bill, and Leamas tried to insist on paying his half. Ashe wouldn't hear of it, paid the bill and took out his checkbook in order to settle his debt to Leamas.

  "Twenty of the best," he said, and filled in the date on the check form.

  Then he looked up at Leamas, all wide-eyed and accommodating. "I say, a check is all right with you, isn't it?"

  Coloring a little, Leamas replied, "I haven't got a bank at the moment—only just back from abroad, something I've got to fix up. Better give me a check and I'll cash it at your bank."

  "My dear chap, I wouldn't dream of it! You'd have to go to Rotherhithe to cash this one!" Leamas shrugged and Ashe laughed, and they agreed to meet at the same place on the following day, at one o'clock, when Ashe would have the money in cash.

  * * *

  Ashe took a cab at the corner of Compton Street, and Leamas waved at it until it was out of sight. When it was gone, he looked at his watch. It was four o'clock. He guessed he was still being followed, so he walked down to Fleet Street and had a cup of coffee in the Black and White. He looked at bookshops, read the evening papers displayed in the show windows of newspaper offices, and then quite suddenly, as if the thought had occurred to him at the last minute, he jumped on a bus. The bus went to Ludgate Hill, where it was held up in a traffic jam near a tube station; he dismounted and caught a tube. He bought a sixpenny ticket, stood in the end car and got off at the next station. He caught another train to Euston, trekked back to Charing Cross. It was nine o'clock when he reached the station and it had turned rather cold. There was a van waiting in the forecourt; the driver was fast asleep.

  Leamas glanced at the number, went over and called through the window, "Are you from Clements?"

  The driver woke up with a start and asked, "Mr. Thomas?"

  "No," replied Leamas. "Thomas couldn't come. I'm Amies from Hounslow."

  "Hop in, Mr. Amies," the driver replied, and opened the door. They drove West, toward the King's Road. The driver knew the way.

  Control opened the door.

  "George Smiley's out," he said. "I've borrowed his house. Come in." Not until Leamas was inside and the front door closed, did Control put on the hail light.

  "I was followed till lunchtime," Leamas said. They went into the little drawing room. There were books everywhere. It was a pretty room; tall, with eighteenth century moldings, long windows and a good fireplace. "They picked me up this morning. A man called Ashe." He lit a cigarette. "A pansy. We're meeting again tomorrow."

  Control listened carefully to Leamas' story, stage by stage, from the day he hit Ford the grocer to his encounter that morning with Ashe.

  "How did you find prison?" Control inquired. He might have been asking whether Leamas had enjoyed his holiday. "I am sorry we couldn't improve conditions for you, provide little extra comforts, but that would never have done."

  "Of course not"

  "One must be consistent At every turn one must be consistent. Besides, it would be wrong to break the spell. I understand you were ill. I am sorry. What was the trouble?"

  "Just fever."

  "How long were you in bed?"

  "About ten days."

  "How very distressing; and nobody to look after you, of course."

  There was a very long silence.

  "You know she's in the Party, don't you?" Control asked quietly.

  "Yes," Leamas replied. Another silence. "I don't want her brought into this."

  "Why should she be?" Control asked sharply and for a moment, just for a moment, Leamas thought he had penetrated the veneer of academic detachment. "Who suggested she should be?"

  "No one," Leamas replied. "I'm just making the point. I know how these things go—all offensive operations. They have by-products, take sudden turns in unexpected directions. You think you've caught one fish and you find you've caught another. I want her kept clear of it."

  "Oh quite, quite."

  "Who's that man in the Labour Exchange—Pitt? Wasn't he in the Circus during the war?"

  "I know no one of that name. Pitt, did you say?"

  "Yes."

  "No, the name means nothing to me. In the Labour Exchange?"

  "Oh, for God's sake," Leamas muttered audibly.

  "I'm sorry," said Control, getting up, "I'm neglecting my duties as deputy host. Would you care for a drink?"

  "No. I want to get away tonight, Control. Go down to the country and get some exercise. Is the House open?"

  "I've arranged a car," he said. "What time do you see Ashe tomorrow—one o'clock?"

  "Yes."

  "I'll ring Haldane and tell him you want some squash. You'd better see a doctor, too. About that fever."

  "I don't need a doctor."

  "Just as you like."

  Control gave himself a whisky and began looking idly at the books in Smiley's shelf.

  "Why isn't Smiley here?" Leamas asked.

  "He doesn't like the operation," Control replied indifferently. "He finds it distasteful. He sees the necessity but he wants no part in it. His fever," Control added with a whimsical smile, "is recurrent."

  "He didn't exactly receive me with open arms."

  "Quite. He wants no part in it. But he told you about Mundt; gave you the background?"

  "Yes."

  "Mundt is a very hard man," Control reflected. "We should never forget that and a good intelligence officer."

  "Does Smiley know the reason for the operation? The special interest?" Control nodded and took a sip of whisky.

  "And he still doesn't like it?"

  "It isn't a question of moralities. He is like the surgeon who has grown tired of blood. He is content that others should operate."

  "Tell me," Leamas continued, "how are you so certain this will get us where we want? How do you know the East Germans are on to it—not the Czechs or the Russians?"

  "Rest assured," Control said a little pompously, "that that has been taken care of."

  As they got to the door, Control put his hand lightly on Leamas' shoulder. "This is your
last job," he said. "Then you can come in from the cold. About that girl—do you want anything done about her, money or anything?"

  "When it's over. I'll take care of it myself then."

  "Quite. It would be very insecure to do anything now."

  "I just want her left alone," Leamas repeated with emphasis. "I just don't want her to be messed about. I don't want her to have a file or anything. I want her forgotten."

  He nodded to Control and slipped out into the night air. Into the cold.

  7

  Kiever

  On the following day, Leamas arrived twenty minutes late for his lunch with Ashe, and smelled of whisky. Ashe's pleasure on catching sight of Leamas was, however, undiminished. He claimed that he had himself only that moment arrived, he'd been a little late getting to the bank. He handed Leamas an envelope.

  "Singles," said Ashe. "I hope that's all right?"

  "Thanks," Leamas replied, "let's have a drink." He hadn't shaved and his collar was filthy. He called the waiter and ordered drinks, a large whisky for himself and a pink gin for Ashe. When the drinks came, Leamas' hand trembled as he poured the soda into the glass, almost slopping it over the side.

  They lunched well, with a lot to drink, and Ashe did most of the work. As Leamas had expected he first talked about himself, an old trick but not a bad one.

  "To be quite frank, I've got on to rather a good thing recently," said Ashe, "free-lancing English features for the foreign press. After Berlin I made rather a mess of things at first—the Corporation wouldn't renew the contract and I took a job running a dreary toffee-shop weekly about hobbies for the over-sixties. Can you imagine anything more frightful? That went under in the first printing strike—I can't tell you how relieved I was. Then I went to live with my mama in Cheltenham for a time—she runs an antique shop, does very nicely thank you, as a matter of fact. Then I got a letter from an old friend, Sam Kiever his name is actually, who was starting up a new agency for small features on English life specially slanted for foreign papers. You know the sort of thing—six hundred words on Morris dancing. Sam had a new gimmick, though; he sold the stuff already translated and do you know, it makes a hell of a difference. One always imagines anyone can pay a translator or do it themselves, but if you're looking for a half column in-fill for your foreign features you don't want to waste time and money on translation. Sam's gambit was to get in touch with the editors direct—he traipsed round Europe like a gypsy, poor thing, but it's paid hands down."

  Ashe paused, waiting for Leamas to accept the invitation to speak about himself, but Leamas ignored it. He just nodded dully and said, "Bloody good." Ashe had wanted to order wine, but Leamas said he'd stick to whisky, and by the time the coffee came he'd had four large ones. He seemed to be in bad shape; he had the drunkard's habit of ducking his mouth toward the rim of his glass just before he drank, as if his hand might fail him and the drink escape.

  Ashe fell silent for a moment.

  "You don't know Sam, do you?" he asked.

  "Sam?"

  A note of irritation entered Ashe's voice.

  "Sam Kiever, my boss. The chap I was telling you about."

  "Was he in Berlin too?"

  "No. He knows Germany well, but he's never lived in Berlin. He did a bit of deviling in Bonn, free-lance stuff. You might have met him. He's a dear."

  "Don't think so." A pause.

  "What do you do these days, old chap?" asked Ashe.

  Leamas shrugged. "I'm on the shelf," he replied, and grinned a little stupidly. "Out of the bag and on the shelf."

  "I forget what you were doing in Berlin. Weren't you one of the mysterious cold warriors?"

  My God, thought Leamas, you're stepping things up a bit. Leamas hesitated, then colored and said savagely, "Office boy for the bloody Yanks, like the rest of us."

  "You know," said Ashe, as if he had been turning the idea over for some time, "you ought to meet Sam. You'd like him," and then, all of a bother, "I say, Alec—I don't even know where to get hold of you!"

  "You can't," Leamas replied listlessly.

  "I don't get you, old chap. Where are you staying?"

  "Around the place. Roughing it a bit. I haven't got a job. Bastards wouldn't give me a proper pension."

  Ashe looked horrified.

  "But Alec, that's awful, why didn't you tell me? Look, why not come and stay at my place? It's only tiny but there's room for one more if you don't mind a camp bed. You can't just live in the trees, my dear chap!"

  "I'm all right for a bit," Leamas replied, tapping at the pocket which contained the envelope. "I'm going to get a job." He nodded with determination. "Get one in a week or so. Then I'll be all right."

  "What sort of job?"

  "Oh, I don't know. Anything."

  "But you can't just throw yourself away, Alec! You speak German like a native, I remember you do. There must be all sorts of things you can do!"

  "I've done all sorts of things. Selling encyclopedias for some bloody American firm, sorting books in a psychic library, punching work tickets in a stinking glue factory. What the hell can I do?" He wasn't looking at Ashe but at the table before him, his agitated lips moving quickly. Ashe responded to his animation, leaning forward across the table, speaking with emphasis, almost triumph.

  "But Alec, you need contacts, don't you see? I know what it's like, I've been on the breadline myself. That's when you need to know people. I don't know what you were doing in Berlin, I don't want to know, but it wasn't the sort of job where you could meet people who matter, was it? If I hadn't met Sam at Poznan five years ago I'd still be on the breadline. Look, Alec, come and stay with me for a week or so. We'll ask Sam around and perhaps one or two of the old press boys from Berlin if any of them are in town."

  "But I can't write," said Leamas. "I couldn't write a bloody thing."

  Ashe had his hand on Leamas' arm. "Now don't fuss," he said soothingly. "Let's just take things one at a time. Where are your bits and pieces?"

  "My what?"

  "Your things: clothes, baggage and what not?"

  "I haven't got any. I’ve sold what I had—except the parcel."

  "What parcel?"

  "The brown paper parcel you picked up in the park. The one I was trying to throw away."

  Ashe had a flat in Dolphin Square. It was just what Leamas had expected—small and anonymous with a few hastily assembled curios from Germany: beer mugs, a peasant's pipe and a few pieces of second-rate Nymphenburg.

  "I spend the weekends with my mother in Cheltenham," he said. "I just use this place midweek. It's pretty handy," he added deprecatingly. They fixed the camp bed up in the tiny drawing room. It was about four-thirty.

  "How long have you been here?" asked Leamas.

  "Oh—about a year or more."

  "Find it easily?"

  "They come and go, you know, these flats. You put your name down and one day they ring you up and tell you you've made it."

  Ashe made tea and they drank it, Leamas sullen, like a man not used to comfort. Even Ashe seemed a little subdued. After tea Ashe said, "I'll go out and do a spot of shopping before the shops close, then we'll decide what to do about everything. I might give Sam a tinkle later this evening—I think the sooner you two get together the better. Why don't you get some sleep— you look all in."

  Leamas nodded. "It's bloody good of you"—he made an awkward gesture with his hand—"all this." Ashe gave him a pat on the shoulder, picked up his army mackintosh and left.

  As soon as Leamas reckoned Ashe was safely out of the building he left the front door of the flat slightly ajar and made his way downstairs to the center hall, where there were two telephone booths. He dialed a Maida Vale number and asked for Mr. Thomas' secretary. Immediately a girl's voice said, "Mr. Thomas' secretary speaking."

  "I'm ringing on behalf of Mr. Sam Kiever," Leamas said. "He has accepted the invitation and hopes to contact Mr. Thomas personally this evening."

  "I'll pass that on to Mr. Thomas. Does he know w
here to get in touch with you?"

  "Dolphin Square," Leamas replied, and gave the address. "Good-bye."

  After making some inquiries at the reception desk, he returned to Ashe's flat and sat on the camp bed looking at his clasped hands. After a while he lay down. He decided to accept Ashe's advice and get some rest. As he closed his eyes he remembered Liz lying beside him in the flat in Bayswater, and he wondered vaguely what had become of her.

  * * *

  He was wakened by Ashe, accompanied by a small, rather plump man with long, graying hair swept back and a double-breasted suit. He spoke with a slight central European accent; German perhaps, it was hard to tell. He said his name was Kiever—Sam Kiever.

  They had a gin and tonic, Ashe doing most of the talking. It was just like old times, he said, in Berlin: the boys together and the night their oyster. Kiever said he didn't want to be too late; he had to work tomorrow. They agreed to eat at a Chinese restaurant that Ashe knew of—it was opposite Limehouse police station and you brought your own wine. Oddly enough, Ashe had some Burgundy in the kitchen, and they took that with them in the taxi.

  Dinner was very good and they drank both bottles of wine. Kiever opened up a little on the second: he'd just come back from a tour of West Germany and France. France was in a hell of a mess, de Gaulle was on the way out, and God alone knew what would happen then. With a hundred thousand demoralized colons returning from Algeria he reckoned fascism was in the cards.

  "What about Germany?" asked Ashe, prompting him.

  "It's just a question of whether the Yanks can hold them." Kiever looked invitingly at Leamas.

  "What do you mean?" asked Leamas.

  "What I say. Dulles gave them a foreign policy with one hand, Kennedy takes it away with the other. They're getting waspish."