A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘Only paysheets, annual reports, a character reference from the Army. It’s all very standard stuff. Read it if you want.’ When Turner did not reply, he added: ‘We keep very little here on staff; they change so often. Harting was the exception.’

‘He’s been here twenty years.’

‘Yes. As I say, he is the exception.’

‘And never vetted.’

Bradfield said nothing.

‘Twenty years in the Embassy, most of them in Chancery. And never vetted once. Name never even submitted. Amazing really.’ He might have beep commenting on the view.

‘I suppose we all thought it had been done already. He came from the Control Commission after all; one assumes they exacted a certain standard.’

‘Quite a privilege being vetted, mind. Not the kind of thing you do for anyone.’

The marquee had gone. Homeless, the two German policemen paced the grey lawn, their wet leather coats flap­ping lazily round their boots. It’s a dream, Turner thought. A noisy unwilling dream. ‘Bonn’s a very metaphysical place,’ de Lisle’s agreeable voice reminded him. ‘The dreams have quite replaced reality.’

‘Shall I tell you something?’

‘I can hardly stop you.’

‘All right: you’ve warned me off. That’s usual enough. But where’s the rest of it?’

‘I’ve no idea what you mean.’

‘You’ve no theory, that’s what I mean. It’s not like anything I’ve ever met. There’s no panic. No explanation. Why not? He worked for you. You knew him. Now you tell me he’s a spy; he’s pinched your best files. He’s garbage. Is it always like that here when somebody goes? Do the gaps seal that fast?’ He waited. ‘Let me help you, shall I? “He’s been working here for twenty years. We trusted him implicitly. We still do.” How’s that?’

Bradfield said nothing.

‘Try again. “I always had my suspicions about him ever since that night we were discussing Karl Marx. Harting swallowed an olive without spitting out the pip.” Any good?’

Still Bradfield did not reply.

‘You see, it’s not usual. See what I mean? He’s unimportant. How you wouldn’t have him to dinner. How you washed your hands of him. And what a sod he is. What he’s betrayed.’ Turner watched him with his pale, hunter’s eyes; watched for a movement, or a gesture, head cocked waiting for the wind. In vain. ‘You don’t even bother to explain him, not to me, not to yourself. Nothing. You’re just… blank about him. As if you’d sentenced him to death. You don’t mind my being personal, do you? Only I’m sure you’ve not much time: that’s the next thing you’re going to tell me.’

‘I was not aware,’ Bradfield said, ice-cold, ‘that I was expected to do your job. Nor you mine.’

‘Capri. How about that? He’s got a bird. The Embassy’s in chaos, he pinches some files, flogs them to the Czechs and bolts with her.’

‘He has no girl.’

‘Aickman. He’s dug her up. Gone off with Praschko, two on a bird. Bride, best man and groom.’

‘I told you, he has no girl.’

‘Oh. So you do know that? I mean there are some things you are sure of. He’s a traitor and he’s got no bird.’

‘So far as anyone knows, he has no woman. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Perhaps he’s queer.’

‘I’m sure he’s nothing of the sort.’

‘It’s broken out in him. We’re all a bit mad, aren’t we, round about our age? The male menopause, how about that?’

‘That is an absurd suggestion.’

‘Is it?’

‘To the best of my knowledge, yes.’ Bradfield’s voice was trembling with anger; Turner’s barely rose above a murmur.

‘We never know though, do we? Not till it’s too late. Did he handle money at all?’

‘Yes. But there’s none missing.’

Turner swung on him. ‘Jesus,’ he said, his eyes bright with triumph. ‘You checked. You have got a dirty mind.’

‘Perhaps he’s just walked into the river,’ Turner suggested comfortingly, his eyes still upon Bradfield. ‘No sex. Nothing to live for. How’s that?’

‘Ridiculous, since you ask.’

‘Important to a bloke like Harting, though, sex. I mean if you’re alone, it’s the only thing. I mean I don’t know how some of these chaps manage, do you? I know I couldn’t. About a couple of weeks is as long as I can go, me. It’s the only reality, if you live alone. Or that’s what I reckon. Apart from politics of course.’

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