A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘I imagine you have a routine in such cases,’ Bradfield con­tinued, addressing Turner’s back. ‘You must tell us what you want and we shall do our best to provide it.’

‘Sure.’

‘The cypher clerks have a dayroom where you’ll be undis­turbed. They are instructed to send your telegrams without reference to anyone else. I’ve had a desk and a telephone put in there for you. I have also asked Registry to prepare a list of the missing files. If there’s anything more you want, I am sure de Lisle will do his best to provide it. And on the social side’ – Bradfield hesitated – ‘I am to invite you to dine with us tomorrow night. We would be very pleased. It’s the usual Bonn evening. De Lisle will lend you a dinner jacket, I am sure.’

‘There’s lots of routines,’ Turner replied at last. He was leaning against the radiator, looking round the room. ‘In a country like this it should be dead simple. Call in the police. Check hospitals, nursing homes, prisons, Salvation Army hos­tels. Circulate his photograph and personal description and square the local press. Then I’d look for him myself.’

‘Look for him? Where?’

‘In other people. In his background. Motive, political associ­ations, boy friends, girl friends, contacts. Who else was involved; who knew; who half-knew; who quarter-knew; who ran him; who did he meet and where; how did he communi­cate; safe houses, pick-up points; how long’s it been going on. Who’s protected him, maybe. That’s what I call looking. Then I’d write a report: point the blame, make new enemies.’ He continued to examine the room, and it seemed that nothing was innocent under his clear, inscrutable eye. ‘That’s one routine. That’s for a friendly country, of course.’

‘Most of what you suggest is quite unacceptable here.’

‘Oh sure. I’ve had all that from Lumlev.’

‘Perhaps before we go any further, you had better have it from me as well.’

‘Please yourself,’ said Turner, in a manner which might have been deliberately chosen to annoy.

‘I imagine that in your world, secrets are an absolute stan­dard. They matter more than anything. Those who preserve them are your allies; those who betray them are your quarry. Here that is simply not the case. As of now, the local political considerations far exceed those of security.’

Suddenly, Turner was grinning. ‘They always do,’ he said. ‘It’s amazing.’

‘Here in Bonn we have at present one contribution to make: to maintain at all costs the trust and good will of the Federal Government. To stiffen their resolve against mounting criti­cism from their own electorate. The Coalition is sick; the most casual virus could kill it. Our job is to pamper the invalid. To console, encourage and occasionally threaten him, and pray to God he survives long enough to see us into the Common Market.’

‘What a lovely picture.’ He was looking out of the window again. ‘The only ally we’ve got, and he’s on crutches. The two sick men of Europe propping one another up.’

‘Like it or not, it happens to be the truth. We are playing a poker game here. With open cards and nothing in our hand. Our credit is exhausted, our resources are nil. Yet in return for no more than a smile, our partners bid and play. That smile is all we have. The whole relationship between HMG and the Federal Coalition rests upon that smile. Our situation is as delicate as that; and as mysterious. And as critical. Our whole future with Europe could be decided in ten days from now.’ He paused, apparently expecting Turner to speak. ‘It is no coincidence that Karfeld has chosen next Friday for his rally in Bonn. By Friday, our friends in the German Cabinet will be forced to decide whether to bow to French pressure or honour their promises to ourselves and their partners in the Six. Karfeld detests the Market and favours an opening to the East. In the short term he inclines to Paris; in the long term, to Moscow. By marching on Bonn and increasing the tempo of his campaign, he is deliberately placing pressure on the Coalition at the most critical moment. Do you follow me?’

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