A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

‘Next year,’ Saab’s brown voice assured her in a whisper. ‘Next year we go to the mountains,’ and Siebkron smiled to Turner as if that were one joke they could surely share.

‘But now Mr Turner is in the valley. You are staying in Bonn, Mr Turner?’

‘Godesberg.’

‘In a hotel, Mr Turner?’

‘The Adler. Room Ten.’

‘And what kind of research, I wonder, is conducted from the Hotel Adler, Room Ten?’

‘Ludwig, my dear chap,’ Bradfield interposed – his jocularity was not so very hollow – ‘surely you recognise a spy when you see one. Alan’s our Mata Hari. He entertains the Cabinet in his bedroom.’

Laughter, Siebkron’s expression said, does not last for ever; he waited until it had subsided. ‘Alan,’ he repeated quietly.’ Alan Turner from Yorkshire, working in Foreign Office Research Department and staying at the Adler Hotel, a distin­guished mountaineer. You must forgive my curiosity, Mr Turner. We are all on edge here in Bonn, you know. As, for my sins, I am charged with the physical protection of the British Embassy, I have naturally a certain interest in the people I protect. Your presence here is reported to Personnel Department no doubt? I must have missed the bulletin.’

‘We put him down as a technician,’ Bradfield said, clearly irritated now to be questioned before his own guests.

‘How sensible,’ said Siebkron. ‘So much simpler than Research. He does research but you put him down as a tech­nician. Your technicians on the other hand are all engaged in research. It’s a perfectly simple arrangement. But your research is of a practical nature, Mr Turner? A statistician? Or you are an academic perhaps?’

‘Just general.’

‘General research. A very catholic responsibility. You will be here long?’

‘A week. Maybe more. Depends how long the project lasts.’

‘The research project? Ah. Then you have a project. I had imagined at first you were replacing someone. Ewan Waldeb­ere, for instance; he was engaged in commercial research, was he not, Bradfield? Or Peter McCreedy, on scientific develop­ment. Or Harting: you are not replacing Leo Harting, for instance? Such a pity he’s gone. One of your oldest and most valuable collaborators.’

‘Oh Harting!’ Mrs Vandelung had taken up the name, and it was already clear she had strong views. ‘You know what they are saying now already? That Harting is drunk in Cologne: He goes on fits, you know.’ She was much entertained to hold their interest. ‘All the week he wears angels’ wings and plays the organ and sings like a Christian; but at weekends he goes to Cologne and fights the Germans. He is quite a Jekyll and Hyde I assure you!’ She laughed indulgently. ‘Oh he is very wicked. Rawley, you remember André de Hoog I am sure. He has heard it all from the police here: Harting made a great fight in Cologne. In a night club. It was all to do with a bad woman. Oh, he is very mysterious I assure you. And now we have no one to play the organ.’

Through the mist Siebkron repeated his question.

‘I’m not replacing anyone,’ Turner said and he heard Hazel Bradfield’s voice, quite steady from his left, but vibrant for all that with anger unexpressed.

‘Mrs Vandelung, you know our silly English ways. We are supposed to leave the men to their jokes.’

Reluctantly the women departed. Little Frau Saab, deso­lated to leave her husband, kissed his neck and made him promise to be sober. The Gräfin said that in Germany one expected a cognac after a meal: it aided the digestion. Only Frau Siebkron followed without complaint; she was a quiet, deserted beauty who had learnt very early in her marriage that it paid not to resist.

Bradfield was at the sideboard with decanters and silver coas­ters; the Hungarians had brought coffee in a Hester Bateman jug which sat in unremarked magnificence at Hazel’s end of the table. Little Vandelung was lost in memories; he was stand­ing at the french windows, staring down the sloping dark lawn at the lights of Bad Godesberg.

‘Now we will get port,’ Saab assured them all. ‘With Brad­field that is always a fantastic experience.’ He selected Turner. ‘I have had ports here, I can tell you, that are older than my father. What are we getting tonight, Bradfield? A Cockburn? Maybe he will give us a Cruft’s. Bradfield knows all the brands. Ein richtiger Kenner: Siebkron, what is Kenner auf Englisch?’

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