A SMALL TOWN IN GERMANY by John le Carré

Bradfield did not move.

‘For God’s sake!’

‘I’m staying here. Crabbe has a car. Let him take you. It must be nearly an hour since he saw him, or thought he did, with all that traffic. He’ll be gone by now. I don’t propose to waste my own time.’ Ignoring Turner’s astonished gaze, he continued, ‘The Ambassador has already asked me not to leave the building. We expect word from Brussels any minute; it is highly likely that he will wish to call upon the Chancellor.’

‘Christ, what do you think this is? A tripartite conference?

He may be sitting there with a caseful of secrets! No wonder he looks under the weather! What’s got into you now? Do you want Siebkron to find him before we do? Do you want him to be caught red-handed?’

‘I have already told you: secrets are not sacrosanct. We would prefer them kept, it is true. In relation to what I have to do here-‘

‘Those secrets are, aren’t they? What about the bloody Green File?’

Bradfield hesitated.

‘I’ve no authority over him,’ Turner cried. ‘I don’t even know what he looks like! What am I supposed to do when I see him? Tell him you’d like a word with him? You’re his boss, aren’t you? Do you want Ludwig Siebkron to find him first?’ Tears had started absurdly to his eyes. His voice was one of utter supplication. ‘Bradfield!’

‘He was all alone,’ Crabbe muttered, not looking at Brad­field, ‘just him and himself, old boy. And the kid. I’m sure of that.’

Bradfield stared at Crabbe, and then at Turner, and once again his face seemed crowded by private pains scarcely held at bay.

‘It’s true,’ he said at last, very reluctantly, ‘I am his superior. I am responsible. I had better be there.’ Carefully double-­locking the outer door, he left word with Miss Peate that Gaveston should stand in for him, and led the way downstairs.

New fire extinguishers, just arrived from London, stood like red sentinels along the corridor. At the landing, a consignment of steel beds awaited assembly. A file-trolley was loaded with grey blankets. In the lobby two men, mounted on separate ladders, were erecting a steel screen. Dark Gaunt watched them in bewilderment as they swept through the glass doors into the car park, Crabbe leading. Bradfield drove with an arrogance which took Turner by surprise. They raced across the lights on amber, keeping to the left lane to make the turn into the station road. At the traffic check he barely halted; both he and Crabbe had their red cards ready at the window. They were on wet cobble, skidding on the tramlines and Bradfield held the wheel still, waiting patiently for the car to come to its senses. They approached an intersection where the sign said ‘Yield’, and ran straight over it under the wheels of an oncoming bus. The cars were fewer, the streets were packed with people.

Some carried banners, others wore the grey gabardine rain­coats and black Homburg hats which were the uniform of the Movement’s supporters. They yielded reluctantly, scowling at the number plates and the glittering foreign paintwork. Brad­field neither sounded his horn nor changed gear, but let them wake to him and avoid him as they might. Once he braked for an old man who was either deaf or drunk; once a boy slapped the roof of the car with his bare hand, and Bradfield became very still and pale. Confetti lay on the steps, the pillars were covered with slogans. A cab driver was yelling as if he had been hit. They had parked in the cab rank.

‘Left,’ Crabbe called as Turner ran ahead of him. A high doorway admitted them to the main hall.

‘Keep left,’ Turner heard Crabbe shout for the second time. Three barriers led to the platform; three ticket collectors sat in their glass cages. Notices warned him in three languages not to ask them favours. A group of priests, whispering, turned to eye him disapprovingly: haste, they said, is not a Christian quality. A blonde girl, her face chestnut brown, swung danger­ously past him with a rucksack and well-worn skis, and he saw the trembling of her pullover.

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