The Spy Who Came in From The Cold

by Le Carre, John

  "What did he say then?" Karden repeated.

  "He laughed. He was above all that kind of thing."

  "Do you believe he was above it?"

  "Of course."

  The young man at the Judges' table spoke for the second time. His eyes were half closed:

  "Do you regard that as a valid judgment of a human being? That is he _above_ the course of history and the compulsions of dialectic?"

  "I don't know. It's what I believed, that's all."

  "Never mind," said Karden. "Tell me, was he a _happy_ person, always laughing and that kind of thing?"

  "No. He didn't often laugh."

  "But he laughed when you told him you were in the Party. Do you know why?"

  "I think he despised the Party."

  "Do you think he _hated_ it?" Karden asked casually.

  "I don't know," Liz replied pathetically.

  "Was he a man of strong likes and dislikes?"

  "No . . . no; he wasn't"

  "But he assaulted a grocer. Now why did he do that?"

  Liz suddenly didn't trust Karden any more. She didn't trust the caressing voice and the good-fairy face.

  "I don't know."

  "But you thought about it?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, what conclusion did you come to?"

  "None," said Liz flatly.

  Karden looked at her thoughtfully, a little disappointed perhaps, as if she had forgotten her catechism.

  "Did you," he asked--it might have been the most obvious of questions--"did you _know_ that Leamas was going to hit the grocer?"

  "No," Liz replied, perhaps too quickly, so that in the pause that followed Karden's smile gave way to a look of amused curiosity.

  "Until now, until today," he asked finally, "when had you last seen Leamas?"

  "I didn't see him again after he went to prison," Liz replied.

  "When did you see him last, then?" The voice was kind but persistent.

  Liz hated having her back to the court; she wished she could turn and see Leamas, see his face perhaps; read in it some guidance, some sign telling how to answer. She was becoming frightened for herself; these questions which proceeded from charges and suspicions of which she knew nothing. They must know she wanted to help Alec, that she was afraid, but no one helped her--why would no one help her?

  "Elizabeth, when was your last meeting with Leamas until today?" Oh that voice, how she hated it, that silken voice.

  "The night before it happened," she replied, "the night before he had the fight with Mr. Ford."

  "The fight? It wasn't a fight, Elizabeth. The grocer never hit back, did he--he never had a chance. Very unsporting!" Karden laughed, and it was all the more terrible because no one laughed with him. "Tell me, where did you meet Leamas that last night?"

  "At his flat. He'd been ill, not working. He'd been in bed and I'd been coming in and cooking for him."

  "And buying the food? Shopping for him?"

  "Yes."

  "How kind. It must have cost you a lot of money," Karden observed sympathetically. "Could you afford to keep him?"

  "I didn't keep him. I got it from Alec. He-"

  "Oh," said Karden sharply, "so he _did_ have some money?"

  Oh God, thought Liz, oh God, oh dear God, what have I said?

  "Not much," she said quickly, "not much, I know. A pound, two pounds, not more. He didn't have more than that He couldn't pay his bills--his electric light and his rent--they were all paid afterwards, you see, after he'd gone, by a friend. A friend had to pay, not Alec."

  "Of course," said Karden quietly, "a friend paid. Came specially and paid all his bifis. Some old friend of Leamas, someone he knew before he came to Bayswater, perhaps. Did you ever meet this friend, Elizabeth?"

  She shook her head.

  "I see. What other bills did this good friend pay, do you know?"

  "No. . . no."

  "Why do you hesitate?"

  "I said I don't know," Liz retorted fiercely.

  "But you hesitated," Karden explained. "I wondered if you had second thoughts."

  "No."

  "Did Leamas ever speak of this friend? A friend with money who knew where Leamas lived?"

  "He never mentioned a friend at all. I didn't think he had any friends."

  "Ah."

  There was a terrible silence in the courtroom, more terrible to Liz because like a blind child among, the seeing she was cut off from all those around her; they could measure her answers against some secret standard, and she could not know from the dreadful silence what they had found.

  "How much money do you earn, Elizabeth?"

  "Six pounds a week."

  "Have you any savings?"

  "A little. A few pounds."

  "How much is the rent of your flat?"

  "Fifty shillings a week."

  "That's quite a lot, isn't it, Elizabeth? Have you paid your rent recently?"

  She shook her head helplessly.

  "Why not?" Karden continued. "Have you no money?"

  In a whisper she replied: "I've got a lease. Someone bought the lease and sent it to me."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know." Tears were running down her face. "I don't know;.. . Please don't ask any more questions. I don't know who it was. . . six weeks ago they sent it, a bank in the City. . . some Charity bad done it. . . a thousand pounds. I swear I don't know who . . . a gift from a Charity, they said. You know everything . . . you tell me who. . ."

  Burying her face in her hands she wept, her back still turned to the court, her shoulders moving as the sobs shook her body. No one moved, and at length she lowered her hands but did not look up.

  "Why didn't you inquire?" Karden asked simply. "Or are you used to receiving anonymous gifts of a thousand pounds?"

  She said nothing and Karden continued: "You didn't inquire because you guessed. Isn't that right?"

  Raising her hand to her face again, she nodded.

  "You guessed it came from Leamas, or from Leamas' friend, didn't you?"

  "Yes," she managed to say. "I heard in the Street that the grocer had got some money, a lot of money from somewhere after the trial. There was a lot of talk about it, and I knew it must be Alec's friend. ..

  "How very strange," said Karden almost to himself. "How odd." And then: "Tell me, Elizabeth, did anyone get in touch with you after Leamas went to prison?"

  "No," she lied. She knew now, she was sure they wanted to prove something against Alec, something about the money or his friends; something about the grocer.

  "Are you sure?" Karden asked, his eyebrows raised above the gold rims of his spectacles.

  "Yes."

  "But your neighbor, Elizabeth," Karden objected patiently, "says that men called--two men--quite soon after Leamas had been sentenced; or were they just lovers, Elizabeth? Casual lovers, like Leamas, who gave you money?"

  "Alec _wasn't_ a casual lover!" she cried. "How can you--" -

  "But he gave you money. Did the men give you money, too?"

  "Oh God," she sobbed, "don't ask--"

  "Who were they?" She did not reply, then Karden shouted, quite suddenly; it was the first time he had raised his voice. "_Who?_"

  "I don't know. They came in a car. Friends of Alec."

  "More friends? What did they want?"

  "I don't know. They kept asking me what he had told me. They told me to get in touch with them if--"

  "_How?_ _How_ get in touch with them?"

  At last she replied: "He lived in Chelsea. . . his name was Smiley.. . George Smiley. . . I was to ring him."

  "And did you?"

  "No!"

  Karden had put down his file. A deathly silence had descended on the court. Pointing toward Leanias, Karden said, in a voice more impressive because it was perfectly under control:

  "Smiley wanted to know whether Leamas had told her too much. Leamas had done the one thing British Intelligence had never expected him to do: he had taken a girl and wept on her shoulder."
r />   Then Karden laughed quietly, as if it were all such a neat joke. "Just as Karl Riemeck did. He's made the same mistake."

  "Did Leamas ever talk about himself?" Karden continued.

  "No."

  "You know nothing about his past?"

  "No. I knew he'd done something in Berlin. Something for the Government."

  "Then he did talk about his past, didn't he? Did he tell you he had been married?"

  There was a long silence. Liz nodded.

  "Why didn't you see him after he went to prison? You could have visited him."

  "I didn't think he'd want me to."

  "I see. Did you write to him?"

  "No. Yes, once . . . just to tell him I'd wait. I didn't think he'd mind."

  "You didn't think he would want that either?"

  "No."

  "And when he had served his time in prison, you didn't try to get in touch with him?"

  "No."

  "Did he have anywhere to go, did he have a job waiting for him--friends who would take him in?"

  "I don't know. . . I don't know."

  "In fact, you were finished with him, weren't you?" Karden asked with a sneer. "Had you found another lover?"

  "No! I waited for him . . . I'll always wait for him." She checked herself. "I wanted him to come back."

  "Then why had you not written? Why didn't you try to find out where he was?"

  "He didn't want me to, don't you see! He made me promise. . . never to follow him. . . never to . . ."

  "_So he expected to go to prison, did he?_" Karden demanded triumphantly.

  "No--I don't know. How can I tell you what I don't know?"

  "And on that last evening," Karden persisted, his voice harsh and bullying, "on the evening before he hit the grocer, did he make you renew your promise? Well, did he?"

  With infinite weariness, she nodded in a pathetic gesture of capitulation. "Yes."

  "And you said good-bye?"

  "We said good-bye."

  "After supper, of course. It was quite late. Or did you spend the night with him?"

  "After supper. I went home--not straight home. I went for a walk first, I don't know where. Just walking."

  "What reason did he give for breaking off your relationship?"

  "He didn't break it off," she said. "Never. He just said there was something he had to do; someone he had to get even with, whatever it cost, and afterwards, one day perhaps, when it was all over.. . he would... come back, if I was still there and. . ."

  "And you said," Karden suggested with irony, "that you would always wait for him, no doubt? That you would always love him?"

  "Yes," Liz replied simply.

  "Did he say he would send you money?"

  "He said. . . he said things weren't as bad as they seemed. That I would be.. . looked after."

  "And that was why you didn't inquire, afterwards, wasn't it, when some Charity in the City casually gave you a thousand pounds?"

  "Yes! Yes, that's right! Now you know everything-- you knew it all already. Why did you send for me if you knew?"

  Imperturbably Karden waited for her sobbing to stop.

  "That," he observed finally to the Tribunal before him, "is the evidence of the defense. I am sorry that a girl whose perception is clouded by sentiment and whose alertness is blunted by money should be considered by our British comrades a suitable person for Party office."

  Looking first at Leamas and then at Fiedler he added brutally: "She is a fool. It is fortunate, nevertheless, that Leamas met her. This is not the first time that a _revanchist_ plot has been uncovered through the decadence of its architects."

  With a little, precise bow toward the Tribunal, Karden sat down.

  As he did so, Leamas rose to his feet, and this time the guards let him alone.

  London must have gone raving mad. He'd told them--That was the joke--he'd told them to leave her alone. And now it was clear that from the moment, the very moment he left England--before that, even, as soon as he went to prison--some bloody fool had gone round tidying up--paying the bills, settling the grocer, the landlord; above all, Liz. It was insane, fantastic. What were they trying to do--kill Fiedler, kill their agent? Sabotage their own operation? Was it just Smiley? Had his wretched little conscience driven him to this? There was only one thing to do--get Liz and Fiedler out of it and carry the can. He was probably written off anyway. If he could save Fiedler's skin--if he could do that--perhaps there was a chance that Liz would get away.

  How the hell did they know so much? He was sure he hadn't been followed to Smiley's house that afternoon. And the money--how did they pick up the story about him stealing money from the Circus? That was designed for internal consumption only . . . then how? For God's sake, how?

  Bewildered, angry and bitterly ashamed, he walked slowly up the gangway, stiffly, like a man going to the scaffold.

  * * 23 * Confession

  "All right, Karden." His face was white and hard as stone, his head tilted back, a little to one side, in the attitude of a man listening to some distant sound. There was a frightful stillness about him, not of resignation but of self-control, so that his whole body seemed to be in the iron grip of his will.

  "All right, Karden, let her go."

  Liz was staring at him, her face crumpled and ugly, her dark eyes filled with tears.

  "No, Alec . . . no," she said. There was no one else in the room--just Leamas tall and straight like a soldier.

  "Don't tell them," she said, her voice rising, "whatever it is, don't tell them just because of me.. . . I don't mind any more, Alec. I promise I don't."

  "Shut up, Liz," said Leamas awkwardly. "It's too late now." His eyes turned to the President. "She knows nothing. Nothing at all. Get her out of here and send her home. I'll tell you the rest."

  The President glanced briefly at the men on either side of her. She deliberated, then said, "She can leave the court, but she cannot go home until the hearing is finished. Then we shall see."

  "She knows nothing, I tell you!" Leamas shouted. "Karden's right, don't you see? It was an operation, a planned operation. How could she know that? She's just a frustrated little girl from a crackpot library-- she's no good to you!"

  "She is a witness," replied the President shortly. "Fiedler may want to question her." It wasn't Comrade Fiedler any more.

  At the mention of his name, Fiedler seemed to wake from the reverie into which he had sunk, and Liz looked at him consciously for the first time. His deep brown eyes rested on her for a moment, and he smiled very slightly, as if in recognition of her race. He was a small, forlorn figure, oddly relaxed she thought.

  "She knows nothing," Fiedler said. "Leamas is right, let her go." His voice was tired.

  "You realize what you are saying?" the PresidentS asked. "You realize what this means? Have you no questions to put to her?"

  "She has said what she had to say." Fiedler's hands were folded on his knees and he was studying them as if they interested him more than the proceedings of the court. "It was all most cleverly done." He nodded. "Let her go. She cannot tell us what she does not know." With a certain mock formality he added, "I have no questions for the witness."

  A guard unlocked the door and called into the passage outside. In the total silence of the court they heard a woman's answering voice, and her ponderous footsteps slowly approaching. Fiedler abruptly stood up and taking Liz by the arm, he guided her to the door. As she reached the door she turned and looked back toward Leamas but he was staring away from her like a man who cannot bear the sight of blood.

  "Go back to England," Fiedler said to her. "You go back to England." Suddenly Liz began to sob uncontrollably. The wardress put an arm around her shoulder, more for support than comfort, and led her from the room. The guard closed the door. The sound of her crying faded gradually to nothing.

  "There isn't much to say," Leamas began. "Karden's right. It was a put-up job. When we lost Karl Riemeck we lost our only decent agent in the Zone. All the rest had g
one already. We couldn't understand it-- Mundt seemed to pick them up almost before we'd recruited them. I came back to London and saw Control. Peter Guillam was there and George Smiley. George was in retirement really, doing something clever. Philology or something.

  "Anyway, they'd dreamed up this idea. Set a man to trap himself, that's what Control said. Go through the motions and see if they bite. Then we worked it out-- backwards so to speak. 'Inductive' Smiley called it. If Mundt _were_ our agent how would we have paid him, how would the files look, and so on. Peter remembered that some Arab had tried to sell us a breakdown of the Abteilung a year or two back and we'd sent him packing. Afterwards we found out we'd made a mistake. Peter had the idea of fitting that in--as if we'd turned it down because we already knew. That was clever.

  "You can imagine the rest. The pretense of going to pieces; drink, money troubles, the rumors that Leamas had robbed the till. It all hung together. We got Elsie in Accounts to help with the gossip, and one or two others. They did it bloody well," he added with a touch of pride. "Then I chose a morning--a Saturday morning, lots of people about--and broke out. It made the local press--it even made the _Worker_, I think--and by that time you people had picked it up. From then on," he added with contempt, "you dug your own graves."

  "Your grave," said Mundt quietly. He was looking thoughtfully at Leamas with his pale, pale eyes. "And perhaps Comrade Fiedler's."

  "You can hardly blame Fiedler," said Leamas indifferently, "he happened to be the man on the spot; he's not the only man in the Abteilung who'd willingly hang you, Mundt."

  "We shall hang you, anyway," said Mundt reassuringly. "You murdered a guard. You tried to murder me." -

  Leamas smiled drily.

  "All cats are alike in the dark, Mundt. . . . Smiley always said it could go wrong. He said it might start a reaction we couldn't stop. His nerve's gone--you know that. He's never been the same since the Fennan Case--since the Mundt affair in London. They say something happened to him then--that's why he left the Circus. That's what I can't make out, why they paid off the bills, the girl and all that. It must have been Smiley wrecking the operation on purpose, it must have been. He must have had a crisis of conscience, thought it was wrong to kill or something. It was mad, after all that preparation, all that work, to mess up an operation that way.