A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

They were glaring at one another across centuries of sus­picion: Turner clever, predatory and vulgar, with the hard eye of the upstart; Bradfield disadvantaged but not put down, drawn in upon himself, picking his language as if it had been made for him.

‘Our most secret file has disappeared. It vanished on the same day that Harting left. It covers the whole spectrum of our most delicate conversations with the Germans, formal and informal, over the last six months. For reasons which do not concern you, its publication would ruin us in Brussels.’

He thought at first that it was the roar of the aeroplane engines still ringing in his ears, but the traffic in Bonn is as constant as the mist. Gazing out of the window he was suddenly assailed by the feeling that from now on he would neither see nor hear with clarity; that his senses were being embraced and submerged by the cloying heat and the disembodied sound. ‘Listen.’ He indicated his canvas bag. ‘I’m the abortionist. You don’t want me but you’ve got to have me. A neat job with no aftermath, that’s what you’re paying for. All right; I’ll do my best. But before we all go over the wall, let’s do a bit of counting on our fingers, shall we?’

The catechism began.

‘He was unmarried?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always has been?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lived alone?’

‘So far as I know.’

‘Last seen?’

‘On Friday morning, at the Chancery meeting. In here.’

‘Not afterwards?’

‘I happen to know the pay clerk saw him, but I’m limited in whom I can ask.’

‘Anyone else missing at all?’

‘No one.’

‘Had a full count have you? No little long-legged bird from Registry?’

‘People are constantly on leave; no one is unaccountably absent.’

‘Then why didn’t Harting take leave? They usually do, you know. Defect in comfort, that’s my advice.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You weren’t close to him?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘What about his friends? What do they say?’

‘He has no friends worth speaking of.’

‘Any not worth speaking of?’

‘So far as I know, he has no close friends in the community. Few of us have. We have acquaintances, but few friends. That is the way of Embassies. With such an intensive social life, one learns to value privacy.’

‘How about Germans?’

‘I have no idea. He was once on familiar terms with Harry Praschko.’

‘Praschko?’

‘We have a parliamentary opposition here: the Free Demo­crats. Praschko is one of its more colourful members. He has been most things in his time: not least a fellow-traveller. There is a note on file to say they were once friendly. They knew one another during the Occupation, I believe. We keep an index of useful contacts. I once questioned him about Praschko as a matter of routine and he told me that the relationship was discontinued. That is all I can tell you.’

‘He was once engaged to be married to a girl called Mar­garet Aickman. This Harry Praschko was named as a character reference. In his capacity as a member of the Bundestag.’

‘Well?’

‘You’ve never heard of Aickman?’

‘Not a name to me, I’m afraid.’

‘Margaret.’

‘So you said. I never heard of any engagement, and I never heard of the woman.’

‘Hobbies? Photography? Stamps? Ham radio?’

Turner was writing all the time. He might have been filling in a form.

‘He was musical. He played the organ in Chapel. I believe he also had a collection of gramophone records. You would do better to enquire among the Junior Staff; he was more at home with them.’

‘You never went to his house?’

‘Once. For dinner.’

‘Did he come to yours?’

There was the smallest break in the rhythm of their interro­gation while Bradfield considered.

‘0nce.’

‘For dinner?’

‘For drinks. He wasn’t quite dinner party material. I am sorry to offend your social instincts.’

‘I haven’t got any.’

Bradfield did not appear surprised.

‘Still, you did go to him, didn’t you? I mean you gave him hope.’ He rose and ambled back to the window like a great moth lured to the light. ‘Got a file on him, have you?’ His tone was very detached; he might have been infected by Brad­field’s own forensic style.

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