The Spy Who Came in From the Cold (7 page)

“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.

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 hail, 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 where 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.