A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

Lumley examined him like an old magistrate who had not many cases left.

‘Christ, you’re quick to despise,’ he said at last. ‘You frighten me, I’ll tell you that for nothing. You’re going to have to start liking people soon, or it’ll be too late. You’ll need us, you know, before you die. Even if we are a second best.’ He thrust a file into Turner’s hand. ‘Go on then. Find him. But don’t think you’re off the leash. I should take the midnight train if I were you. Get in at lunchtime.’ His hooded yellow eyes flickered towards the sunlit park. ‘Bonn’s a foggy bloody place.’

‘I’ll fly if it’s all the same.’

Lumley slowly shook his head.

‘You can’t wait, can you. You can’t wait to get your hands on him. Pawing the bloody earth, aren’t you? Christ, I wish I had your enthusiasm.’

‘You had once.’

‘And get yourself a suit or something. Try and look as though you belong.’

‘I don’t though, do I?’

‘All right,’ said Lumley, not caring any more. ‘Wear the cloth cap. Christ,’ he added, ‘I’d have thought your class was suffering from too much recognition already.’

‘There’s something you haven’t told me. Which do they want most: the man or the files?’

‘Ask Bradfield,’ Lumley replied, avoiding his eye.

Turner went to his room and dialled his wife’s number. Her sister answered.

‘She’s out,’ she said.

‘You mean they’re still in bed.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Tell her I’m leaving the country.’

As he rang off he was again distracted by the sound of the porter’s wireless. He had turned it on full and tuned it to the European network. A well-bred lady was giving a summary of the news. The Movement’s next rally would be held in Bonn, she said; on Friday, five days from today.

Turner grinned. It was a little like an invitation to tea. Pick­ing up his bag, he set off for Fulham, an area well known for boarding houses and married men in exile from their wives.

CHAPTER FOUR

Decembers of Renewal

De Lisle picked him up from the airport. He had a sports car that was a little too young for him and it rattled wildly on the wet cobble of the villages. Though it was quite a new car, the paintwork was already dulled by the chestnut gum of Godes­berg’s wooded avenues. The time was nine in the morning but the street lights still burned. To either side, on flat fields, farm-houses and new building estates lay upon the strips of mist like hulks left over by the sea. Drops of rain prickled on the small windscreen.

‘We’ve booked you in at the Adler; I suppose that’s all right. We didn’t know quite what sort of subsistence you people get.’

‘What are the posters saying?’

‘Oh, we hardly read them any more. Reunification… alli­ance with Moscow… Anti-America… Anti-Britain.’

‘Nice to know we’re still in the big league.’

‘You’ve hit a real Bonn day, I’m afraid. Sometimes the fog is a little colder,’ de Lisle continued cheerfully, ‘then we call it winter. Sometimes it’s warmer, and that’s summer. You know what they say about Bonn: either it rains or the level crossings are down. In fact, of course, both things happen at the same time. An island cut off by fog, that’s us. It’s a very metaphysical spot; the dreams have quite replaced reality. We live some­where between the recent future and the not so recent past. Not personally, if you know what I mean. Most of us feel we’ve been here for ever.’

‘Do you always get an escort?’

The black Opellay thirty yards behind them. It was neither gaining nor losing ground. Two pale men sat in the front and the headlights were on.

‘They’re protecting us. That’s the theory. Perhaps you heard of our meeting with Siebkron?’ They turned right and the Opel followed them. ‘The Ambassador is quite furious. And now, of course, they can say it’s all vindicated by Hanover: no Englishman is safe without a bodyguard. It’s not our view at all. Still, perhaps after Friday we’ll lose them again. How are things in London? I hear Steed-Asprey’s got Lima.’

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