A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘What is he,’ he demanded, ‘pimp or spy?’

‘Which do you want to be, Alan?’ de Lisle asked cheerfully, but Turner declined to answer. ‘Alan Turner, Sam Allerton,’ he continued, quite unbothered. ‘Sam represents a lot of newspapers, don’t you, Sam? He’s enormously powerful. Not that he cares for power of course. Journalists never do.’ Allerton continued to stare at Turner.

‘Where’s he come from then?’

‘London Town,’ said de Lisle.

‘What part of London Town?’

‘Ag and Fish.’

‘Liar.’

‘The Foreign Office, then. Hadn’t you guessed?’

‘How long’s he here for?’

‘Just visiting.’

‘How long for?’

‘You know what visits are.’

‘I know what his visits are,’ said Allerton. ‘He’s a blood­hound.’ His dead, yellow eyes slowly took him in: the heavy shoes, the tropical suit, the blank face and the pale, unblinking gaze.

‘Belgrade,’ he said at last. ‘That’s where. Some bloke in the Embassy screwed a female spy and got photographed. We all had to hush it up or the Ambassador wasn’t going to give us any more port. Security Turner, that’s who you are. The Bevin boy. You did a job in Warsaw, didn’t you? I remember that too. That was a balls-up, wasn’t it? Some girl tried to kill herself. Someone you’d been too rough with. We had to sweep that under the carpet as well.’

‘Run away, Sam,’ said de Lisle.

Allerton began laughing. It was quite a terrible noise, mirth­less and cancered; indeed it seemed actually to cause him pain, for as he sat down, he interrupted himself with low, blasphemous cries. His black, greasy mane shook like an ill-­fitted wig; his paunch, hanging forward over his waistband, trembled uncertainly.

‘Well, Peter, how was Luddi Siebkron? Going to keep us safe and sound, is he? Save the Empire?’

Without a word, Turner and de Lisle got up and made their way across the lawn towards the car park.

‘Heard the news, by the way?’ Allerton called after them.

‘What news?’

‘You chaps don’t know a thing, do you? Federal Foreign Minister’s just left for Moscow. Top-level talks on Soviet-­German trade treaty. They’re joining Comecon and signing the Warsaw pact. All to please Karfeld and bugger up Brussels. Britain out, Russia in. Non-aggressive Rappallo. What do you think of that?’

‘We think you’re a bloody liar,’ said de Lisle.

‘Well, it’s nice to be fancied,’ Allerton replied, with a delib­erate homosexual lisp. ‘But don’t tell me it won’t happen, lover boy, because one day it will. One day they’ll do it. They’ll have to. Slap Mummy in the face. Find a Daddy for the Father­land. It isn’t the West any more, is it? So who’s it going to be?’ He raised his voice as they continued walking. ‘That’s what you stupid flunkies don’t understand! Karfeld’s the only one in Germany who’s telling the truth: the Cold War’s over for everyone except the fucking diplomats!’ His Parthian shot reached them as they closed the doors. ‘Never mind, darlings,’ ­they heard him say. ‘We can all sleep soundly now Turner’s here.’

The little sports car nosed its way slowly down the sanitary arcades of the American Colony. A church bell, much ampli­fied, was celebrating the sunlight. On the steps of the New England Chapel, a bride and groom faced the flashing cameras. They entered the Koblenzerstrasse and the noise hit them like a gale. Overhead, electronic indicators flashed out theoretical speed checks. The photographs of Karfeld had multiplied. Two Mercedes with Egyptian lettering on their number plates raced past them, cut in, swung out again and were gone.

‘That lift,’ Turner said suddenly. ‘In the Embassy. How long’s it been out of action?’

‘God, when was anything? Mid-April I suppose.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

‘You’re thinking of the trolley? Which also disappeared in mid-April?’

‘You’re not bad,’ Turner said. ‘You’re not bad at all.’

‘And you would be making a most terrible mistake if you ever thought you were a specialist,’ de Lisle retorted, with that same unpredictable force which Turner had discerned in him before. ‘Just don’t go thinking you’re in a white coat, that’s all; don’t go thinking we’re all laboratory specimens.’ He swung violently to avoid a double lorry and at once a motorised scream of fury rose from behind them. ‘I’m saving your soul though you may not notice it.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry. I’ve got Siebkron on my nerves, that’s all.’

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