The Looking Glass War (30 page)

Johnson was wearing earphones, sitting forward on a high-backed wooden chair carried up from the kitchen. The dark green receiver hummed gently from the mains transformer; the tuning dial, illuminated from within, glowed palely in the half-light of the attic.

Haldane and Avery sat uncomfortably on a bench. Johnson had a pad and pencil in front of him. He lifted the phones above his ears and said to Leclerc who stood beside him, ‘I shall take him straight through the routine, sir; I’ll do my best to tell you what’s going on. I’m recording, too, mind, for safety’s sake.’

‘I understand.’

They waited in silence. Suddenly – it was their moment of utter magic – Johnson had sat bolt upright, nodded sharply to them, switched on the tape recorder. He smiled, quickly turned to transmission and was tapping. ‘Come in, Fred,’ he said out loud. ‘Hearing you nicely.’

‘He’s made it!’ Leclerc hissed. ‘He’s on target now!’ His eyes were bright with excitement. ‘Do you hear that, John? Do you hear?’

‘Shall we be quiet?’ Haldane suggested.

‘Here he comes,’ Johnson said. His voice was level, controlled. ‘Forty-two groups.’

‘Forty-two!’ Leclerc repeated.

Johnson’s body was motionless, his head inclined a little to one side, his whole concentration given to the earphones, his face impassive in the pale light.

‘I’d like silence now, please.’

For perhaps two minutes his careful hand moved briskly across the pad. Now and then he muttered inaudibly, whispered a letter or shook his head, until the message seemed to come more slowly, his pencil pausing while he listened, until it was tracing out each letter singly with agonising care. He glanced at the clock.

‘Come on, Fred,’ he urged. ‘Come on, change over, that’s nearly three minutes.’ But still the message was coming through, letter by letter, and Johnson’s simple face assumed an expression of alarm.

‘What’s going on?’ Leclerc demanded. ‘Why hasn’t he changed his frequency?’

But Johnson only said, ‘Get off the air, for Christ’s sake, Fred, get off the air.’

Leclerc touched him impatiently on the arm. Johnson raised one earphone.

‘Why’s he not changed frequency? Why’s he still talking?’

‘He must have forgotten! He never forgot on training. I
know
he’s slow, but Christ!’ He was still writing automatically. ‘Five minutes,’ he muttered. ‘Five bloody minutes. Change the bloody crystal!’

‘Can’t you tell him?’ Leclerc cried.

‘Of course I can’t. How can I? He can’t receive and send at the same time!’

They sat or stood in dreadful fascination. Johnson had turned to them, his voice beseeching. ‘I told him; if I told him once I told him a dozen times. It’s bloody suicide, what he’s doing!’ He looked at his watch. ‘He’s been on damn near six minutes. Bloody, bloody,
bloody
fool.’

‘What will they do?’ said Haldane.

‘If they pick up a signal? Call in another station. Take a fix, then it’s simple trigonometry when he’s on this long.’ He banged his open hands helplessly on the table, indicated the set as if it were an affront. ‘A kid could do it. Do it with a pair of compasses. Christ Almighty! Come on, Fred, for Jesus’ sake, come on!’ He wrote down a handful of letters then threw his pencil aside. ‘It’s on tape, anyway,’ he said.

Leclerc turned to Haldane. ‘Surely there’s something we can do!’

‘Be quiet,’ Haldane said.

The message stopped. Johnson tapped an acknowledgement, fast, a stab of hatred. He wound back the tape recorder and began transcribing. Putting the coding sheet in front of him he worked without interruption for perhaps a quarter of an hour, occasionally making simple sums on the rough paper at his elbow. No one spoke. When he had finished he stood up, a half-forgotten gesture of respect. ‘Message reads: Area Kalkstadt closed three days mid November when fifty unidentified Soviet troops seen in town. No special equipment. Rumours of Soviet manoeuvres farther north. Troops believed moved to Rostock. Fritsche not repeat not known Kalkstadt railway station. No road check on Kalkstadt road.’ He tossed the paper on to the desk. ‘There are fifteen groups after that which I can’t unbutton. I think he’s muddled his coding.’

The Vopo sergeant in Rostock picked up the telephone; he was an elderly man, greying and thoughtful. He listened for a moment then began dialling on another line. ‘It must be a child,’ he said, still dialling. ‘What frequency did you say?’ He put the other telephone to his ear and spoke into it fast, repeating the frequency three times. He walked into the adjoining hut. ‘Witmar will be through in a minute,’ he said. ‘They’re taking a fix. Are you still hearing him?’ The corporal nodded. The sergeant held a spare headphone to his ear.

‘It couldn’t be an amateur,’ he muttered. ‘Breaking the regulations. But what is it? No agent in his right mind would put out a signal like that. What are the neighbouring frequencies? Military or civilian?’

‘It’s near the military. Very near.’

‘That’s odd,’ the sergeant said. ‘That would fit, wouldn’t it? That’s what they did in the war.’

The corporal was staring at the tapes slowly revolving on their spindles. ‘He’s still transmitting. Groups of four.’

‘Four?’ The sergeant was searching in his memory for something that had happened long ago. ‘Let me hear again. Listen, listen to the fool! He’s as slow as a child.’

The sound struck some chord in his memory – the slurred gaps, the dots so short as to be little more than clicks. He could swear he knew that hand … from the war, in Norway … but not so slow: nothing had ever been as slow as this. Not Norway … France. Perhaps it was only imagination. Yes, it was imagination.

‘Or an old man,’ the corporal said.

The telephone rang. The sergeant listened for a moment, then ran, ran as fast as he could, through the hut to the officers’ mess across the tarmac path.

The Russian captain was drinking beer; his jacket was slung over the back of his chair and he looked very bored.

‘You wanted something, Sergeant?’ He affected the languid style.

‘He’s come. The man they told us about. The one who killed the boy.’

The captain put down his beer quickly.

‘You heard him?’

‘We’ve taken a fix. With Witmar. Groups of four. A slow hand. Area Kalkstadt. Close to one of our own frequencies. Sommer recorded the transmission.’

‘Christ,’ he said quietly. The sergeant frowned.

‘What’s he looking for? Why should they send him here?’ the sergeant asked.

The captain was buttoning his jacket. ‘Ask them in Leipzig. Perhaps they know that too.’

It was very late.

The fire in Control’s grate was burning nicely, but he poked at it with effeminate discontent. He hated working at night.

‘They want you at the Ministry,’ he said irritably. ‘Now, of all hours. It really is too bad. Why does everyone get so
agitato
on a Thursday? It will
ruin
the weekend.’ He put down the poker and returned to his desk. ‘They’re in a dreadful state. Some idiot talking about ripples in a pond. It’s extraordinary what the night does to people. I do
detest
the telephone.’ There were several in front of him.

Smiley offered him a cigarette and he took one without looking at it, as if he could not be held responsible for the actions of his limbs.

‘What Ministry?’ Smiley asked.

‘Leclerc’s. Have you
any
idea what’s going on?’

Smiley said, ‘Yes. Haven’t you?’

‘Leclerc’s so
vulgar
. I admit, I find him vulgar. He thinks we compete. What on earth would I do with his dreadful militia? Scouring Europe for mobile laundries. He thinks I want to gobble him up.’

‘Well, don’t you? Why
did
we cancel that passport?’

‘What a
silly
man. A silly, vulgar man. However did Haldane fall for it?’

‘He had a conscience once. He’s like all of us. He’s learnt to live with it.’

‘Oh dear. Is that a dig at me?’

‘What does the Ministry want?’ Smiley asked sharply.

Control held up some papers, flapping them. ‘You’ve seen these from Berlin?’

‘They came in an hour ago. The Americans have taken a fix. Groups of four; a primitive letter code. They say it comes from the Kalkstadt area.’

‘Where on
earth’s
that?’

‘South of Rostock. The message ran six minutes on the same frequency. They said it sounded like an amateur on a first run-through. One of the old wartime sets: they wanted to know if it was ours.’

‘And you replied?’ Control asked quickly.

‘I said no.’

‘So I should hope. Good Lord.’

‘You don’t seem very concerned,’ Smiley said.

Control seemed to remember something from long ago. ‘I hear Leclerc’s in Lübeck. Now
there’s
a pretty town. I adore Lübeck. The Ministry wants you immediately. I said you’d go. Some meeting.’ He added in apparent earnest, ‘You must, George. We’ve been the most awful fools. It’s in every East German newspaper; they’re screaming about peace conferences and sabotage.’ He prodded at a telephone. ‘So is the Ministry. God, how I loathe Civil Servants.’

Smiley watched him with scepticism. ‘We could have stopped them,’ he said. ‘We knew enough.’

‘Of course we could,’ Control said blandly. ‘D’you know why we didn’t? Plain, idiot Christian charity. We let them have their war game. You’d better go now. And Smiley …’

‘Yes?’

‘Be gentle.’ And in his silly voice: ‘I do envy them Lübeck, all the same. There’s that restaurant, isn’t there; what do they call it? Where Thomas Mann used to eat. So interesting.’

‘He never did,’ Smiley said. ‘The place you’re thinking of was bombed.’

Smiley still did not go. ‘I wonder,’ he said. ‘You’ll never tell me, will you? I just wonder.’ He was not looking at Control.

‘My dear George, what
has
come over you?’

‘We handed it to them. The passport that was cancelled … a courier service they never needed … a clapped-out wireless set … papers, frontier reports … who told Berlin to listen for him? Who told them what frequencies? We even gave Leclerc the crystals, didn’t we? Was that just Christian charity too? Plain, idiot Christian charity?’

Control was shocked.

‘What
are
you suggesting? How
very
distasteful. Who ever would do a thing like that?’

Smiley was putting on his coat.

‘Goodnight, George,’ Control said; and fiercely, as if he were tired of sensibility: ‘Run along. And preserve the difference between us: your country needs you. It’s not
my
fault they’ve taken so long to die.’

The dawn came and Leiser had not slept. He wanted to wash but dared not go into the corridor. He dared not move. If they were looking for him, he knew he must leave normally, not bolt from the hostel before the morning came. Never run, they used to say: walk like the crowd. He could go at six: that was late enough. He rubbed his chin against the back of his hand: it was sharp and rough, marking the brown skin.

He was hungry and no longer knew what to do, but he would not run.

He half turned on the bed, pulled the knife from inside the waistband of his trousers and held it before his eyes. He was shivering. He could feel across his brow the unnatural heat of incipient fever. He looked at the knife, and remembered the clean, friendly way they had talked: thumb on top, blade parallel to the ground, forearm stiff. ‘Go away,’ the old man had said. ‘You are either good or bad, and both are dangerous.’ How should he hold the knife when people spoke to him like that? The way he held it for the boy?

It was six o’clock. He stood up. His legs were heavy and stiff. His shoulders still ached from carrying the rucksack. His clothes, he noticed, smelt of pine and leaf mould. He picked the half-dried mud from his trousers and put on his second pair of shoes.

He went downstairs, looking for someone to pay, the new shoes squeaking on the wooden steps. There was an old woman in a white overall sorting lentils into a bowl, talking to a cat.

‘What do I owe?’

‘You fill in the form,’ she said sourly. ‘That’s the first thing you owe. You should have done it when you came.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She rounded on him, muttering but not daring to raise her voice. ‘Don’t you know it’s forbidden, staying in a town and not reporting your presence to the police?’ She looked at his new shoes. ‘Or are you so rich that you think you need not trouble?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Leiser said again. ‘Give me the form and I’ll sign it now. I’m not rich.’

The woman fell silent, picking studiously among the lentils.

‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.

‘East,’ said Leiser. He meant south, from Magdeburg, or west from Wilmsdorf.

‘You should have reported last night. It’s too late now.’

‘What do I pay?’

‘You can’t,’ the woman replied. ‘Never mind. You haven’t filled in the form. What will you say if they catch you?’

‘I’ll say I slept with a girl.’

‘It’s snowing outside,’ the woman said. ‘Mind your nice shoes.’

Grains of hard snow drifted forlornly in the wind, collecting in the cracks between the black cobbles, lingering on the stucco of the houses. A drab, useless snow, dwindling where it fell.

He crossed the Friedensplatz and saw a new, yellow building, six or seven storeys high, standing on a patch of waste land beside a new estate. There was washing hanging on the balconies, touched with snow. The staircase smelt of food and Russian petrol. The flat was on the third floor. He could hear a child crying and a wireless playing. For a moment he thought he should turn and go away, because he was dangerous for them. He pressed the bell twice, as the girl had told him. She opened the door; she was half asleep. She had put on her mackintosh over the cotton nightdress and she held it at the neck because of the freezing cold. When she saw him she hesitated, not knowing what to do, as if he had brought bad news. He said nothing, just stood there with the suitcase swinging gently at his side. She beckoned with her head; he followed her across the corridor to her room, put the suitcase and rucksack in the corner. There were travel posters on the walls, pictures of desert, palm trees and the moon over a tropical sea. They got into bed and she covered him with her heavy body, trembling a little because she was afraid.