A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘Those are the real Nazis, that scum.’ His voice pitched high enough for anyone to hear, Praschko indicated the journalists with a contemptuous wave of his fat hand. ‘They put out their tongues and fart and think they’ve invented democracy. Where’s that damn waiter: dead?’

‘We’re looking for Harting,’ Bradfield said.

‘Sure!’ Praschko was used to crisis. His hand, drawing the napkin across his cracked lips, moved at the same steady pace. The eyes, yellow in their parched sockets, barely flickered as he continued to survey the two men.

‘I haven’t seen him around,’ he continued, carelessly. ‘Maybe he’s in the gallery. You guys have a special box up there.’ He put down the napkin. ‘Maybe you ought to go look.’

‘He’s been missing since last Friday morning. He’s been missing for a week.’

‘Listen: Leo? That guy will always come back.’ The waiter appeared. ‘He’s indestructible.’

‘You’re his friend,’ Bradfield continued. ‘Perhaps his only friend. We thought he might have consulted you.’

‘What about?’

‘Ah, that’s the problem,’ Bradfield said with a little smile. ‘We thought he might have told you that.’

‘He never found an English friend?’ Praschko was looking from one to the other. ‘Poor Leo.’ There was an edge to his voice now.

‘You occupied a special position in his life. After all, you did a great many things together. You shared a number of experiences. We felt that if he had needed advice, or money, or whatever else one needs at certain crises in one’s life, he would instinctively seek you out. We thought he might even have come to you for protection.’

Praschko looked again at the cuts on Turner’s face. ‘Protection?’ His lips barely parted as he spoke; it was as if he would prefer not to have known that he had spoken at all. ‘You might as well protect a-‘ The moisture had risen suddenly on his brow. It seemed to come from outside, and to settle on him like steam. ‘Go away,’ he said to the girl. Without a word she stood up, smiled distractedly at them all and sauntered out of the restaurant, while Turner, for a moment of irrelevant, light-headed joy, followed the provoca­tive rotation of her departing hips; but Bradfield was already talking again.

‘We haven’t much time.’ He was leaning forward and speak­ing very quickly. ‘You were with him in Hamburg and Berlin. There are certain matters known perhaps only to the two of you. Do you follow me?’

Praschko waited.

‘If you can help us to find him without fuss; if you know where he is and can reason with him; if there’s anything you can do for the sake of an old friendship, I will undertake to be very gentle with him, and very discreet. I will keep your name out of it, and anyone else’s as well.’

It was Turner’s turn to wait now, as he stared from one to the other. Only the sweat betrayed Praschko; only the fountain pen betrayed Bradfield. He clenched it in his closed fist as he leaned across the table. Outside the window, Turner saw the grey columns waiting; in the corner, the moon men watched dully, eating rolls and butter.

‘I’ll send him to England; I’ll get him out of Germany altogether if necessary. He has put himself in the wrong already; there is no question of re-employing him. He has done things – he has behaved in a way which puts him beyond our consideration; do you understand what I mean? Whatever knowledge he may have is the property of the Crown…’ He sat back. ‘We must find him before they do,’ he said, and still Praschko watched him with his small hard eyes, saying nothing.

‘I also appreciate,’ Bradfield continued, ‘that you have special interests which must be served.’

Praschko stirred a little. ‘Go careful,’ he said.

‘Nothing is further from my mind than to interfere in the internal affairs of the Federal Republic. Your political ambitions, the future of your own party in relation to the Movement, these are matters far outside our sphere of inter­est. I am here to protect the alliance, not to sit in judgment over an ally.’

Quite suddenly, Praschko smiled.

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