Smiley said, ‘Yes. You’re a very good technician, Adrian. There’s no pain in you any more. You’ve made technique a way of life … like a whore … technique replacing love.’ He hesitated. ‘Little flags … the old war piping in the new. There was all that, wasn’t there? And then the man … he must have been heady wine. Comfort yourself, Adrian, you weren’t fit.’
He straightened his back, making a statement. ‘A British-naturalised Pole with a criminal record escapes across the border to East Germany. There is no extradition treaty. The Germans will say he is a spy and produce the equipment; we shall say they planted it and point out that it’s twenty-five years old. I understand he put out a cover story that he was attending a course in Coventry. That is easily disproved: there is no such course. The conclusion is that he proposed to flee the country; and we shall imply that he owed money. He was keeping some young girl, you know; she worked in a bank. That ties in quite nicely. I mean with the criminal record, since we have to make one up …’ He nodded to himself. ‘As I say, it’s not an attractive process. By then we shall all be in London.’
‘And he’ll be transmitting,’ Avery said, ‘and no one will listen.’
‘To the contrary,’ Smiley retorted bitterly. ‘They’ll be listening.’
Haldane asked: ‘Control too, no doubt. Isn’t that right?’
‘Stop!’ Avery shouted suddenly. ‘Stop, for God’s sake! If anything matters, if anything is real, we’ve got to hear him now! For the sake of …’
‘Well?’ Haldane inquired with a sneer.
‘Love. Yes, love! Not yours, Haldane, mine. Smiley’s right! You made me do it for you, made me love him! It wasn’t in you any more! I brought him to you, I kept him in your house, made him dance to the music of your bloody war! I piped for him, but there’s no breath in me now. He’s Peter Pan’s last victim, Haldane, the last one, the last love; the last music gone.’
Haldane was looking at Smiley: ‘My congratulations to Control,’ he said. ‘Thank him, will you? Thank him for the help, the technical help, Smiley; for the encouragement, thank him for the rope. For the kind words too: for lending you to bring the flowers. So nicely done.’
But Leclerc seemed impressed by the neatness of it.
‘Let’s not be hard on Smiley, Adrian. He’s only doing his job. We must all get back to London. There’s the Fielden report … I’d like to show you that, Smiley. Troop dispositions in Hungary: something new.’
‘And I’d like to see it,’ Smiley replied politely.
‘He’s right, you know, Avery,’ Leclerc repeated. His voice was quite eager. ‘Be a soldier. Fortunes of war; keep to the rules! We play the war rules in this game. Smiley, I owe you an apology. And Control too, I fear. I had thought the old rivalry was awake. I’m wrong.’ He inclined his head. ‘You must dine with me in London. My club is not your mark, I know, but it’s quiet there; a good set. Very good. Haldane must come. Adrian, I invite you!’
Avery had buried his face in his hands.
‘There’s something else I want to discuss with you, Adrian – Smiley, you won’t mind this I’m sure, you’re practically one of the family – the question of Registry. The system of library files is really out of date. Bruce was on to me about it just before I left. Poor Miss Courtney can hardly keep pace. I fear the answer is more copies … top copy to the case officer, carbons for information. There’s a new machine on the market, cheap photostats, threepence halfpenny a copy, that seems quite reasonable in these dog days … I must speak to the people about it … the Ministry … they know a good thing when they see one. Perhaps—’ he broke off. ‘Johnson, I could wish you made less noise, we’re still operational, you know.’ He spoke like a man intent upon appearances, conscious of tradition.
Johnson had gone to the window. Leaning on the sill he reached outside and with his customary precision began winding in the aerial. He held a spool in his left hand like a bobbin. As he gathered in the wire he gently turned it as an old woman spins her thread. Avery was sobbing like a child. No one heeded him.
23
The green van moved slowly down the road, crossed the Station Square where the empty fountain stood. On its roof the small loop aerial turned this way and that like a hand feeling for the wind. Behind it, well back, were two trucks. The snow was settling at last. They drove on sidelights, twenty yards apart, following each other’s tyre marks.
The captain sat in the back of the van with a microphone for speaking to the driver, and beside him the sergeant, lost in private memories. The corporal crouched at his receiver, his hand constantly turning the dial as he watched the line tremble in the small screen.
‘The transmission’s stopped,’ he said suddenly.
‘How many groups have you recorded?’ the sergeant asked.
‘A dozen. The call sign over and over again, then part of a message. I don’t think he’s getting any reply.’
‘Five letters or four?’
‘Still four.’
‘Did he sign off?’
‘No.’
‘What frequency was he using?’
‘Three six five zero.’
‘Keep scanning across it. Two hundred either side.’
‘There’s nothing there.’
‘Keep searching,’ he said sharply. ‘Right across the band. He’s changed the crystal. He’ll take a few minutes to tune up.’
The operator began spinning the large dial, slowly, watching the eye of green light in the centre of the set which opened and closed as he crossed one station after another. ‘Here he is. Three eight seven zero. Different call sign but the same handwriting. Quicker than yesterday; better.’
The tape recorder wound monotonously at his elbow. ‘He’s working on alternating crystals,’ the sergeant said. ‘Like they did in the war. It’s the same trick.’ He was embarrassed, an elderly man confronted with his past.
The corporal slowly raised his head. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Zero. We’re right on top of him.’
Quietly the two men dismounted from the van. ‘Wait here,’ the sergeant told the corporal. ‘Keep listening. If the signal breaks, even for a moment, tell the driver to flash the headlights, do you understand?’
‘I’ll tell him.’ The corporal looked frightened.
‘If it stops altogether, keep searching and let me know.’
‘Pay attention,’ the captain warned as he dismounted. The sergeant was waiting impatiently; behind him, a tall building standing on waste land.
In the distance, half hidden in the falling snow, lay row after row of small houses. No sound came.
‘What do they call this place?’ the captain asked.
‘A block of flats; workers’ flats. They haven’t named it yet.’
‘No, beyond.’
‘Nothing. Follow me,’ the sergeant said.
Pale lights shone in almost every window; six floors. Stone steps, thick with leaves, led to the cellar. The sergeant went first, shining his torch ahead of them on to the shoddy walls. The captain nearly fell. The first room was large and airless, half of brick and half unrendered plaster. At the far end were two steel doors. On the ceiling a single bulb burnt behind a wire cage. The sergeant’s torch was still on; he shone it needlessly into the corners.
‘What are you looking for?’ the captain asked.
The steel doors were locked.
‘Find the janitor,’ the sergeant ordered. ‘Quickly.’
The captain ran up the stairs and returned with an old man, unshaven, gently grumbling; he held a bunch of long keys on a chain. Some were rusty.
‘The switches,’ said the sergeant. ‘For the building. Where are they?’
The old man sorted through the keys. He pushed one into the lock and it would not fit, he tried another and a third.
‘Quick, you fool,’ the captain shouted.
‘Don’t fuss him,’ said the sergeant.
The door opened. They pushed into the corridor, their torches playing over the whitewash. The j
anitor was holding up a key, grinning. ‘Always the last one,’ he said. The sergeant found what he was looking for, hidden on the wall behind the door: a box with a glass front. The captain put his hand to the main lever, had half pulled it when the other struck him roughly away.
‘No! Go to the top of the stairs; tell me when the driver flashes his headlights.’
‘Who’s in charge here?’ the captain complained.
‘Do as I ask.’ He had opened the box and was tugging gently at the first fuse, blinking through his gold-rimmed spectacles; a benign man.
With diligent, surgical fingers the sergeant drew out the fuse, cautiously, as if he were expecting an electric shock, then immediately replaced it, his eyes turning towards the figure at the top of the steps; then a second and still the captain said nothing. Outside the motionless soldiers watched the windows of the block, saw how floor by floor the lights went out, then quickly on again. The sergeant tried another and a fourth and this time he heard an excited cry from above him: ‘The headlights! The headlights have gone out.’
‘Quite! Go and ask the driver which floor. But quietly.’
‘They’ll never hear us in this wind,’ the captain said irritably, and a moment later: ‘The driver says third floor. The third-floor light went out and the transmission stopped at the same time. It’s started again now.’
‘Put the men round the building,’ the sergeant said. ‘And pick five men to come with us. He’s on the third floor.’
Softly, like animals, the Vopos dismounted from the two trucks, their carbines held loosely in their hands, advancing in a ragged line, ploughing the thin snow, turning it to nothing; some to the foot of the building, some standing off, staring at the windows. A few wore helmets, and their square silhouette was redolent of the war. From here and there came a click as the first bullet was sprung gently into the breech; the sound rose to a faint hail and died away.
Leiser unhooked the aerial and wound it back on the reel, screwed the Morse key into the lid, replaced the earphones in the spares box and folded the silk cloth into the handle of the razor.
‘Twenty years,’ he protested, holding up the razor, ‘and they still haven’t found a better place.’
‘Why do you do it?’
She was sitting contentedly on the bed in her nightdress, wrapped in the mackintosh as if it gave her company.
‘Who do you talk to?’ she asked again.
‘No one. No one heard.’
‘Why do you do it, then?’
He had to say something, so he said, ‘For peace.’
He put on his jacket, went to the window and peered outside. Snow lay on the houses. The wind blew angrily across them. He glanced into the courtyard below, where the silhouettes were waiting.
‘Whose peace?’ she asked.
‘The light went out, didn’t it, while I was working the set?’
‘Did it?’
‘A short break, a second or two, like a power cut?’
‘Yes.’
‘Put it out again now.’ He was very still. ‘Put the light out.’
‘Why?’
‘I like to look at the snow.’
She put the light out and he drew the threadbare curtains. Outside the snow reflected a pale glow into the sky. They were in half-darkness.
‘You said we’d love now,’ she complained.
‘Listen; what’s your name?’
He heard the rustle of raincoat.
‘What is it?’ His voice was rough.
‘Anna.’
‘Listen, Anna.’ He went to the bed. ‘I want to marry you,’ he said. ‘When I met you, in that inn, when I saw you sitting there, listening to the records, I fell in love with you, do you understand? I’m an engineer from Magdeburg, that’s what I said. Are you listening?’
He seized her arms and shook her. His voice was urgent.
‘Take me away,’ she said.
‘That’s right! I said I’d make love to you, take you away to all the places you dreamt of, do you understand?’ He pointed to the posters on the wall. ‘To islands, sunny places—’
‘Why?’ she whispered.
‘I brought you back here. You thought it was to make love, but I drew this knife and threatened you. I said if you made a sound, I’d kill you with the knife, like I – I told you I’d killed the boy and I’d kill you.’
‘Why?’
‘I had to use the wireless. I needed a house, see? Somewhere to work the wireless. I’d nowhere to go. So I picked you up and used you. Listen: if they ask you, that’s what you must say.’
She laughed. She was afraid. She lay back uncertainly on her bed, inviting him to take her, as if that were what he wanted.
‘If they ask, remember what I said.’
‘Make me happy. I love you.’
She put out her arms and pulled his head towards her. Her lips were cold and damp, too thin against her sharp teeth. He drew away but she still held him. He strained his ears for any sound above the wind, but there was none.
‘Let’s talk a bit,’ he said. ‘Are you lonely, Anna? Who’ve you got?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Parents, boy friend. Anyone.’
She shook her head in the darkness. ‘Just you.’
‘Listen; here, let’s button your coat up. I like to talk first. I’ll tell you about London. You want to hear about London, I’ll bet. I went for a walk, once, it was raining and there was this man by the river, drawing on the pavement in the rain. Fancy that! Drawing with chalk in the rain, and the rain just washing it away.’
‘Come now. Come.’
‘Do you know what he was drawing? Just dogs, cottages and that. And the people, Anna – listen to this! – standing in the rain, watching him.’
‘I want you. Hold me. I’m frightened.’
‘Listen! D’you know why I went for a walk: they wanted me to make love to a girl. They sent me to London and I went for this walk instead.’
He could make her out as she watched him, judging him according to some instinct he did not understand.
‘Are you alone too?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you come?’
‘They’re crazy people, the English! That old fellow by the river: they think the Thames is the biggest river in the world, you know that? And it’s nothing! Just a little brown stream, you could nearly jump across it some places!’
‘What’s that noise?’ she said suddenly. ‘I know that noise! It was a gun; the cocking of a gun!’
He held her tightly to stop her trembling.
‘It was just a door,’ he said, ‘the latch of a door. This place is made of paper. How could you hear anything in such a wind?’
There was a footfall in the corridor. She struck at him in terror, the raincoat swinging round her. As they came in he was standing away from her, the knife at her throat, his thumb uppermost, the blade parallel to the ground. His back was very straight and his small face was turned to her, empty, held by some private discipline, a man once more intent upon appearances, conscious of tradition.
The farmhouse lay in darkness, blind and not hearing, motionless against the swaying larches and the running sky.
They had left a shutter open and it banged slowly without rhythm, according to the strength of the storm. Snow gathered like ash and was dispersed. They had gone, leaving nothing behind but tyre tracks in the hardening mud, a twist of wire, and the sleepless tapping of the north wind.
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First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann Ltd 1965
Published in Penguin Classics 2011
Cover photograph © Ronald Startup/Picture Post/GettyImages.
Copyright © le Carré Productions, 1965
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
ISBN: 978-0-14-196747-9
The Looking Glass War Page 26
