Too much? Too little? Too light? She’s thinking about it. For too long.
‘I thought it was Windfall you were interested in,’ I remind her.
‘Oh, we’re interested in all of it. Windfall’s just an excuse. What happened to Millie?’
Millie? Ah, Millie. Not Tulip. Millie.
‘When?’ I say stupidly.
‘Just now. Where did she go?’
‘Upstairs to her flat, probably.’
‘Would you mind whistling for her, please? She hates me.’
But when I open the door, there’s Millie waiting with her keys. Pushing past her, Laura strides ahead down the corridor, map in hand. I hang back.
‘Where’s George?’ I murmur to Millie.
She shakes her head. Don’t know? Or don’t ask?
‘Keys, Millie?’
Millie dutifully unlocks the double doors to the library. Laura takes a pace forward, then slapstick-style two back as she emits the mandatory cry of Holy shit! – so shrill it must have awakened the dead in the British Museum. Incredulously, she advances on the ranks of tattered tomes that cram the bookshelves from floor to ceiling. Gingerly she makes her first selection, volume 18 of a broken thirty-book set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, published 1878. She opens it, flips a couple of pages in disbelief, dumps it on a side table and treats herself instead to Treks Through Araby and Beyond, published 1908, also part of a broken set, and priced, as I unaccountably remember, at five shillings and sixpence a volume, a pound for the lot, after Mendel had beaten down the dealer.
‘Do you mind telling me who reads this crap? Or did?’ – to me again.
‘Anyone who was Windfall cleared and had good reason.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning,’ I reply with as much dignity as I can muster, ‘that George Smiley was of the opinion that, since we were not blessed with an armed fortress beside the Thames, natural concealment was better than physical protection. And that, while barred windows and a steel safe would act as an open invitation to any local footpad to break and enter, the thief had yet to be born whose ideal heist was a skipload of—’
‘Just show me, okay? Whatever you stole. Whatever’s here.’
Placing a set of library steps in front of a fireplace filled with Millie’s dried flowers, I fish from the top shelf a copy of A Layman’s Guide to the Science of Phrenology by Henry J. Ramken, MA (Cantab.), and from its gouged cavity a buff folder. Passing the folder down to Laura, I restore Dr Ramken to his shelf and descend to firm ground to find her perched on the arm of a library chair scrutinizing her bounty; and Millie again nowhere to be seen.
‘I have a Paul here,’ Laura says accusingly. ‘Who’s Paul when he’s at home?’
This time I am not quite so successful at controlling my tonal responses:
‘He’s not at home, Laura. He’s dead. Paul, pronounced the German way, was one of several cover names that Alec Leamas used in Berlin for his joes.’ Belatedly, I managed the casual: ‘He alternated. Didn’t trust the world much. Well, didn’t trust Joint Steering, let’s say.’
She’s interested but doesn’t want me to know it. ‘And these are all the files, right? The whole caboose. Everything you stole is right here, hidden in these old books? Yes?’
I am only too pleased to enlighten her: ‘Not all by any means, Laura, I’m afraid. George’s policy was to keep as little as possible. Whatever could be dispensed with was shredded. We shredded, then we burned the shreds. George’s law.’
‘Where’s the shredder?’
‘Right over there in the corner.’
She’d missed it.
‘Where did you burn them?’
‘In that fireplace.’
‘Did you keep destruction certificates?’
‘Then we’d have had to destroy the destruction certificates, wouldn’t we?’
While I am still relishing my little victory, her gaze shifts to the darkest and most distant corner of the room, where two long photographs of standing men hang side by side. And this time she emits no cry of ‘Holy shit’ or any other exclamation, but advances on them in slow steps, as if afraid they’ll fly away.
‘And these beauties?’
‘Josef Fiedler and Hans-Dieter Mundt. Respectively Head and deputy Head of the Stasi’s operational directorate.’
‘I’ll take the one on the left.’
‘That’s Fiedler.’
‘Description?’
‘German Jewish, sole surviving son of academic parents who died in the camps. Studied humanities in Moscow and Leipzig. Late entrant to the Stasi. Fast-streamed, smart, hates the guts of the man standing next to him.’
‘Mundt.’
‘By a process of elimination, yes, Mundt,’ I agree. ‘First name Hans-Dieter.’
Hans-Dieter Mundt in a double-breasted suit with all his jacket buttons done up. Hans-Dieter Mundt with his murderer’s arms pressed to his sides, thumbs downward, staring contemptuously into camera. He’s attending an execution. His own. Someone else’s. Either way, his expression will never change, the knife slash down the side of his face will never heal.
‘He was your mark, right? The man your pal Alec Leamas was sent to eliminate, right? Except Mundt eliminated Leamas instead. Right?’ She returns to Fiedler. ‘And Fiedler was your super-source? Right? The ultimate secret volunteer. The walk-in who never walked in. Just dumped a pile of red-hot intelligence on your doorstep, pressed the bell and ran away without leaving his name. Over and over. And you still don’t know for sure he was your joe, as you call him. That right?’
I take a breath: ‘All the unsolicited Windfall material that we received pointed in Fiedler’s direction,’ I reply, picking my words with precision. ‘We even asked ourselves whether Fiedler was positioning himself to defect and, so to speak, casting his bread on the waters in advance.’
‘Because he hated Mundt so much? Mundt the ex-Nazi who never quite reformed?’
‘That would have been a motive. Combined, we assumed, with a disillusionment about the democracy or lack of it as practised by the German Democratic Republic, the GDR. The feeling that his Communist god might have failed him, turning to certainty. There’d been an unsuccessful counter-revolution in Hungary, which the Soviets had repressed rather brutally.’
‘Thank you. I think I knew that.’
Of course she did. She’s History.
Two dishevelled youths were standing in the doorway, one male, one female. My first thought was that they must have come in by the back entrance, which had no bell; and my second – a wild one, I admit – that they were Karen, daughter to Elizabeth, and her fellow plaintiff Christoph, son to Alec, come to make a citizen’s arrest. Laura gives herself a lift-up on the stepladder for extra authority.
‘Nelson. Pepsi. Say hullo to Pete,’ she commands.
Hi, Pete.
Hi, Pete.
Hi.
‘Okay. Listen up, everyone. The premises where you are standing will henceforth be treated as a crime scene. They are also Circus premises. That includes the garden. Every bit of paper, file, piece of detritus, whatever’s on the walls by way of charts, pegboards, whatever’s in the drawers and bookshelves, is Circus property and potentially a court exhibit, to be copied, photographed and listed accordingly. Right?’
Nobody says it isn’t right.
‘Pete here is our reader. For his reading Pete will be accommodated here in the library. Pete will read, he will be briefed and debriefed by Head of Legal and myself. Only.’ Back to the dishevelled youths: ‘Your conversations with Pete will be social, right? They will be courteous. They will not at any point touch on the material he is reading, or the reasons why he’s reading it. All of which you both know, but I’m repeating it for Pete’s information. Should either one of you have cause to suppose that Pete or Millie, by mistake or deliberately,
is attempting to remove documents or exhibits from Circus premises, you will immediately notify Legal. Millie.’
No answer, but she’s still in the doorway.
‘Was your area – your apartment – ever used – is it now used – for any kind of Service business?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Does your area contain Service equipment? Cameras? Listening devices? Secret writing materials? Files? Papers? Official correspondence?’
‘It does not.’
‘Typewriter?’
‘My own. Purchased by myself, out of my personal money.’
‘Electronic?’
‘Remington manual.’
‘Radio?’
‘A wireless. My own. Purchased by myself.’
‘Tape recorder?’
‘For the wireless. Purchased by myself.’
‘Computer? iPad? Smartphone?’
‘Just a normal telephone, thank you.’
‘Millie, you just had your advance notice. Written confirmation is in the post. Pepsi. You will please accompany Millie to her apartment now, right? Millie, please provide whatever assistance Pepsi requires. I want the place picked into small pieces. Pete.’
‘Laura.’
‘How do I identify the active volumes in these shelves?’
‘All quarto books on the top shelf with authors’ surnames beginning A to R should contain papers, if they haven’t been destroyed.’
‘Nelson. You remain here in the library till the team arrives. Millie.’
‘What now?’
‘The bicycle in the hallway. Kindly move it. It’s in the way.’
*
Seated in the Middle Room, Laura and I are alone for the first time. She has offered me Control’s chair. I prefer Smiley’s. She appropriates Control’s for herself, lounging on her flank, either for her relaxation or for my benefit.
‘I’m a lawyer. Right? A pretty fucking good one. First I went private, then I went corporate. Then I got pissed off and applied to join your crowd. I was young and beautiful so they gave me History. I’ve been History ever since. Whenever the past threatens to bite the Service in the arse, it’s get Laura. And Windfall, believe me, is looking like quite some bite.’
‘You must be very pleased.’
If she notices the irony in my voice, she ignores it.
‘And what we want from you, corny as it may sound, is the whole truth and nothing but, and screw your loyalty to Smiley or anybody else. Right?’
Not right at all, so why bother to say it?
‘Once we have the truth, we’ll know how to doctor it. Maybe in your favour too, where our interests coincide. My job is to head off the shit before it hits the fan. That’s what you want too, right? No scandals, however historic. They’re a distraction, they raise unpleasant comparisons with our own times. A Service marches on its reputation and its good looks. Rendition, torture, playing footsie in the woodshed with murderous psychopaths: it’s bad for the public image, bad for trade. So we’re on the same side, right?’
Again I manage to say nothing.
‘So here’s the bad news. It’s not just the offspring of the Windfall victims who are after our blood. Bunny was soft-pedalling out of kindness. There’s a bunch of attention-hungry MPs who want to use Windfall as an example of what happens when the surveillance society is allowed to run amok. They can’t get their hands on the real stuff, so give them history.’ And growing impatient at my silence: ‘I’m telling you, Pete. If we don’t have your total cooperation, this thing could—’
She waits for me to complete the sentence. I let her do the waiting instead.
‘And you really haven’t heard from him, right?’ she says finally.
It takes me a moment to realize I am sitting in his chair.
‘No, Laura. Once again, I have not heard from George Smiley.’
She leans back and hauls an envelope from her back pocket. For a mad moment I think it’s going to be from George. Electronically printed. No watermark. No human hand.
Temporary accommodation has been obtained for you effective today’s date at apartment 110B, Hood House, Dolphin Square, London SW. Following conditions apply.
I am to keep no pets. No unauthorized third party to be admitted to the premises. I am to be present and available in the premises between 2200 and 0700 hours, or supply Legal Department with notification in advance. In view of my position (unstated) a concessionary rental of £50 per night will be set against my pension. There will be no charge for heat, light or electricity, but I will be held accountable for any loss or damage to property.
The dishevelled youth called Nelson is poking his head round the door.
‘Van’s up, Laura.’
The sacking of the Stables is about to begin.
5
Dusk was falling. An autumn evening, but by English standards warm as summer. Somehow my first day in the Stables had ended. I walked for a while, had a Scotch in a pub full of deafening young, took a bus to Pimlico, hopped out a few stops early and walked again. Soon the lighted hulk of Dolphin Square was rising at me out of the haze. Ever since I had rallied to the secret flag, the place had given me the shivers. Dolphin Square in my day had more safe flats to the cubic foot than any building on the planet, and there wasn’t one of them where I hadn’t briefed or debriefed some luckless joe. It was also the place where Alec Leamas had spent his last night in England as a guest of Moscow’s recruiter before setting out on the journey that killed him.
Flat 110B Hood House did nothing to dispel his ghost. Circus safe flats had always been models of planned discomfort. This one was a classic of the breed: one industrial-sized fire extinguisher, red; two lumpy armchairs with springs gone; one reproduction watercolour of Lake Windermere; one minibar, locked; one printed warning not to smoke EVEN WITH WINDOW OPEN; one very large television set that I automatically assumed was two-way; and one mossy black telephone with no number on it, to be used, as far as I was concerned, for disinformation purposes only. And in the tiny bedroom, one iron-hard school bed, single, to discourage venery.
Closing the bedroom door on the television set, I unpacked my overnight bag and cast round for somewhere to cache my French passport. A framed INSTRUCTIONS IN CASE OF FIRE was badly screwed to the bathroom door. Easing the screws, I slid the passport into the cavity, tightened them again, went downstairs and devoured a hamburger. Back in the flat, I treated myself to a liberal shot of Scotch and tried to recline in an austerity armchair. But barely had I drifted off than I was awake again and cold sober, this time in West Berlin in the year of Our Lord nineteen fifty-seven.
*
It’s a Friday, end of day.
I’ve been in the divided city a week, and I’m looking forward to a couple of carnal days and nights in the company of a Swedish journalist called Dagmar, with whom I have fallen passionately in love in the space of three minutes at a cocktail party given by our British High Commissioner, who doubles as British Ambassador to the eternally provisional West German Government in Bonn. I’m due to meet her in a couple of hours, but before doing so I’ve decided to drop in on our Berlin Station and say my hullos and goodbyes to my old pal Alec.
Down at Berlin’s Olympic Stadium, in an echoing redbrick barracks built for Hitler’s glory and once known as the House of German Sports, the Station is packing up for the weekend. I find Alec standing in the queue at the barred window of the Registry, waiting his turn to hand in a tray full of classified papers. He isn’t expecting me, but nothing much surprises him any more, so I say hullo, Alec, great to see you, and Alec says oh, hullo, Peter, it’s you, what the hell are you doing here? Then, after some uncharacteristic hesitation, he asks me whether I’m tied up for the weekend. And I say, I am actually. To which he says, oh, pity, I thought you might come with me to Düsseldorf. And I say, why on earth Düsseldorf? And he does so
me more hesitation.
‘I just need to get out of bloody Berlin for once,’ he says, with an unconvincing shrug of indifference. And because he seems to accept that I could never, in my wildest dreams, imagine him as a casual tourist: ‘Got to see a man about a dog,’ he explains, from which I take it that he wishes me to understand he has a joe he’s got to take care of, and I might in that case be useful to him as a foil or a back-up or whatever. But that’s no reason to stand up Dagmar:
‘Can’t do, I’m afraid, Alec. A Scandinavian lady needs my undivided attention. And I need hers.’
He thinks about this for a while, but not in a way that I associate with Alec. It’s as if he feels hurt, or puzzled. A registry clerk is gesturing impatiently the other side of the grille. Alec hands over his papers. The clerk signs them in.
‘A woman would be good,’ he says, without looking at me.
‘Even a woman who thinks I’m from the Ministry of Labour, scouting for German scientific talent? Come off it!’
‘Bring her. She’ll be fine,’ he says.
And if you knew Alec as well as I did, that was as close to a cry for help as you would ever hear from him. In all the years we had hunted together, amid all the ups and downs, I had never once seen him at a loss, till now. Dagmar is game, so the same evening the three of us fly the corridor to Helmstedt, pick up a car, drive to Düsseldorf and book into a hotel Alec knows. Over dinner he barely speaks, but Dagmar, who is turning out to be a real trouper, more than holds her own, and we slip off to bed early and have our carnal night, both parties thoroughly pleased with themselves. Saturday morning we all meet for late breakfast and Alec says he’s got tickets for a football match. I’d never in my life heard Alec express the smallest interest in football. Then it turns out he’s got four tickets.
‘Who’s the fourth?’ I ask him, fantasizing that he’s got a secret love tucked away who’s only available on Saturdays.
‘Kid I know,’ he says.
We get into the car, Dagmar and self in the back, and off we go. Alec pulls up at a street corner. A tall, rigid-faced boy in his teens is standing under a Coca–Cola sign, waiting for him. Alec shoves open the door, the boy jumps into the front seat and Alec says, ‘This is Christoph,’ so we say, ‘Hullo, Christoph,’ and off we drive to the stadium. Alec speaks German as well as he speaks English, probably better, and he speaks it to the boy in undertones. The boy grunts, nods or shakes his head. How old is he? Fourteen? Eighteen? Whatever age he is, he is the eternal German adolescent of the authoritarian class: sullen, spotty and resentfully obedient. He’s blond, pallid and square-shouldered, and for a kid he doesn’t smile a lot. On a rise, set back from the touchline, he and Alec stand side by side and exchange the odd word I can’t hear, but the boy doesn’t cheer, he stares, and at half-time the two of them disappear, I’m assuming for a pee or a hot dog. But only Alec returns.