A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘One more question.’

‘Well?’

‘That contract he had. If it had expired… say last Thursday?’

‘Well?’

‘Would you have renewed it? Again?’

‘We are under great strain. Yes, I would have renewed it.’

‘You must miss him.’

The door was opened from the outside by de Lisle. His gentle features were drawn and solemn.

‘Ludwig Siebkron rang; the exchange had orders not to put through your calls. I spoke to him myself.’

‘Well?’

‘About the librarian, Eich: the wretched woman they beat up in Hanover.’

‘About her?’

‘I’m afraid she died an hour ago.’

Bradfield considered this intelligence in silence. ‘Find out where the funeral is. The Ambassador must make a gesture; a telegram to the dependants rather than flowers. Nothing too conspicuous; just his deepest sympathy. Talk to them in Private Office, they’ll know the wording. And something from the Anglo-German Society. You’d better handle that yourself. And send a cable to the Association of Assistant Librarians; they were enquiring about her. And ring Hazel, will you, and tell her? She asked particularly to be kept informed.’

He was poised and perfectly in control. ‘If you require any­thing,’ he added to Turner, ‘tell de Lisle.’

Turner was watching him.

‘Otherwise we shall expect you tomorrow night. About five to eight? Germans are very punctual. It is the local custom that we assemble before they arrive. And if you’re going down to his room, perhaps you would take that cushion. I see no point in our having it up here.’

Albino Cork, stooped over the cypher machines while he coaxed the strips of print from the rollers, heard the thud and turned his pink eyes sharply towards the large figure in the doorway.

‘That’s my bag. Leave it where it is; I’ll be in later.’

‘Righty-ho,’ said Cork and thought: a Funny. Just his luck, with the whole ruddy world blowing up in his face, and Janet’s baby due any minute, and that poor woman in Hanover turn­ing up her toes, to be landed with a Funny in the dayroom. This was not his only grudge. The German steel strike was spreading nicely; if he had only thought of it on Friday and not Saturday, that little flutter on Swedish steel would have shown a four-bob capital profit in three days; and five per cent per day, in Cork’s losing battle with clerical status, was what villas in the Adriatic were made of. Top Secret, he read wearily, Personal for Bradfield and Decypher Yourself: how much longer will that go on? Capri… Crete… Spetsai… Elba… Give me an island to myself; he sang, in a high-pitched pop improvisation – for Cork had dreams of cutting his own discs as well – Give me an Island to myself; Any Island, Any Island but Bonn.

CHAPTER FIVE

John Gaunt

The crowd in the lobby had thinned. The Post Office clock above the sealed lift said ten thirty-five; those who dared not risk a trip to the canteen had gathered at the front desk; the Chancery Guard had made mid-morning tea, and they were drinking it and talking in subdued voices when they heard his approaching footsteps. His heels had metal quarters and they echoed against the pseudo-marble walls like shots on a valley range. The despatch riders, with that nose for authority which soldiers have, gently set down their cups and fastened the buttons of their tunics.

‘Macmullen?’

He stood on the lowest step, one hand propped massively on the banister, the other clutching the embroidered cushion. To either side of him, corridors haunted with iron riot grilles and free-standing pillars of chrome led into the dark like ghettos from a splendid city. The silence was suddenly impor­tant, making a fool of all that had gone before.

‘Macmullen’s off duty, sir. Gone down to Naafi.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Gaunt, sir. I’m standing in for him.’

‘My name’s Turner. I’m checking physical security. I want to see Room Twenty-one.’

Gaunt was a small man, a devout Welshman, with a long memory of the Depression inherited from his father. He had come to Bonn from Cardiff, where he had driven motor-cars for the police. He carried the keys in his right hand, low down by his side, and his gait was square and rather solemn, so that as he preceded Turner into the dark mouth of the corridor, he resembled a miner making for the pithead.

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