‘Do you think it’s possible,’ Turner said, his gaze still upon the hill, ‘that Siebkron already knows about Harting? Would that make them hostile? Would that account for the extra attention?’
‘Later,’ de Lisle said quietly. ‘Not in front of the children if you don’t mind.’
The sun landed upon the river, lighting it from nowhere like a great gold bird, spreading its wings over the whole valley, frisking the water’s surface into the light-hearted movements of a new spring day. Ordering the boy to bring two of his nicest brandies to the tennis garden, de Lisle picked his way elegantly between the empty tables to the side door. At the centre of the room the journalists had fallen silent; sullen with drink, slumped in their leather chairs, they gracelessly awaited the stimulus of new political catastrophe.
‘Poor old thing,’ he observed as they entered the fresh air. ‘What a bore I’ve been. Do you get this wherever you go? I suppose we all unburden our hearts to the stranger, do we? And do we all finish up like little Karfelds? Is that it? Middleclass patriotic anarchists? How awfully dreary for you.’
‘I’ve got to see his house,’ Turner said. ‘I’ve got to find out.’
‘You’re out of court,’ de Lisle replied evenly. ‘Ludwig Siebkron’s got it picketed.’
It was three o’clock; a white sun had broken through the clouds. They sat in the garden under beach umbrellas, sipping their brandy and watching the diplomatic daughters volley and laugh in the wet, red clay of the tennis courts.
‘Praschko, I suspect, is a baddie,’ de Lisle declared. ‘We used to have him on the books long ago, but he went sour on us.’ He yawned. ‘He was quite dangerous in his day; a political pirate. No conspiracy was complete without him. I’ve met him a few times; the English still bother him. Like all converts, he does hanker for the lost loyalties. He’s a Free Democrat these days; or did Rawley tell you? That’s a home for lost causes if ever there was one; they’ve got some very weird creatures over there.’
‘But he was a friend.’
‘You are innocent,’ de Lisle said drowsily. ‘Like Leo. We can know people all our lives without becoming friends. We can know people five minutes and they’re our friends for life. Is Praschko so important?’
‘He’s all I’ve got,’ said Turner. ‘He’s all I’ve got to go on. He’s the only person I’ve heard of who knew him outside the Embassy. He was going to be best man at his wedding.’
‘Wedding? Leo?’ De Lisle sat bolt upright, his composure gone.
‘He was engaged long ago to someone called Margaret Aickman. They seem to have known one another in Leo’s pre-Embassy days.’
De Lisle fell back in apparent relief.
‘If you’re thinking of approaching Praschko-‘ he said. ‘I’m not, don’t worry; that’s one message I have got.’ He drank. ‘But someone tipped Leo off. Someone did. He went mad. He knew he was living on borrowed time and he took whatever he could get his hands on. Anything. Letters, files… and when he finally ran for it, he didn’t even bother to apply for leave.’
‘Rawley wouldn’t have granted it; not in this situation.’
‘Compassionate leave; he’d have got that all right, it was the first thing Bradfield thought of.’
‘Did he pinch the trolley too?’
Turner did not answer.
‘I suppose he helped himself to my nice electric fan. He’ll need that in Moscow for sure.’ De Lisle leaned even further back into his chair. The sky was quite blue, the sun as hot and intense as if it came through glass. ‘If this keeps up, I’ll have to get a new one.’
‘Someone tipped him off,’ Turner insisted. ‘It’s the only explanation. He panicked. That’s why I thought of Praschko, you see: he’s got a left-wing past. Fellow-traveller was Rawley’s term. He was old chums with Leo; they’d even spent the war together in England.’ He stared at the sky.
‘You’re going to advance a theory,’ de Lisle murmured. ‘I can hear it ticking.’
‘They come back to Germany in forty-five; do some army service; then part. They go different ways: Leo stays British and covers that target, Praschko goes native and gets himself mixed up in German politics. They’d be a useful pair, those two, as long-term agents, I must say. Maybe they were both at the same game… recruited by the same person back in England when Russia was the ally. Gradually they run down their relationship. That’s standard, that is. Not safe to associate any more… bad security to have our names linked; but they keep it up; keep it up in secret. Then one day Praschko gets word. Just a few weeks ago. Out of the blue perhaps. He hears it on the Bonn grapevine you’re all so proud of: Siebkron’s on the trail. Some old trace has come up; someone’s talked; we’re betrayed. Or maybe they’re only after Leo. Pack your bags, he says, take what you can and run for it.’