The Russian captain was drinking beer; his jacket was slung over the back of his chair and he looked very bored.
“You wanted something, Sergeant?” He affected the languid style.
“He’s come. The man they told us about. The one who killed the boy.”
The captain put down his beer quickly.
“You heard him?”
“We’ve taken a fix. With Witmar. Groups of four. A slow hand. Area Kalkstadt. Close to one of our own frequencies. Sommer recorded the transmission.”
“Christ,” he said quietly. The sergeant frowned.
“What’s he looking for? Why should they send him here?” the sergeant asked.
The captain was buttoning his jacket. “Ask them in Leipzig. Perhaps they know that too.”
Twenty-One
It was very late.
The fire in Control’s grate was burning nicely, but he poked at it with effeminate discontent. He hated working at night.
“They want you at the Ministry,” he said irritably. “Now, of all hours. It really is too bad. Why does everyone get so agitato on a Thursday? It will ruin the weekend.” He put down the poker and returned to his desk. “They’re in a dreadful state. Some idiot talking about ripples in a pond. It’s extraordinary what the night does to people. I do detest the telephone.” There were several in front of him.
Smiley offered him a cigarette and he took one without looking at it, as if he could not be held responsible for the actions of his limbs.
“What Ministry?” Smiley asked.
“Leclerc’s. Have you any idea what’s going on?”
Smiley said, “Yes. Haven’t you?”
“Leclerc’s so vulgar. I admit, I find him vulgar. He thinks we compete. What on earth would I do with his dreadful militia? Scouring Europe for mobile laundries. He thinks I want to gobble him up.”
“Well don’t you? Why did we cancel that passport?”
“What a silly man. A silly, vulgar man. However did Haldane fall for it?”
“He had a conscience once. He’s like all of us. He’s learnt to live with it.”
“Oh dear. Is that a dig at me?”
“What does the Ministry want?” Smiley asked sharply.
Control held up some papers, flapping them. “You’ve seen these from Berlin?”
“They came in an hour ago. The Americans have taken a fix. Groups of four; a primitive letter code. They say it comes from the Kalkstadt area.”
“Where on earth’s that?”
“South of Rostock. The message ran six minutes on the same frequency. They said it sounded like an amateur on a first run-through. One of the old wartime sets: they wanted to know if it was ours.”
“And you replied?” Control asked quickly.
“I said no.”
“So I should hope. Good Lord.”
“You don’t seem very concerned,” Smiley said.
Control seemed to remember something from long ago. “I hear Leclerc’s in Lubeck. Now there’s a pretty town. I adore Lubeck. The Ministry wants you immediately. I said you’d go. Some meeting.” He added in apparent earnest, “You must, George. We’ve been the most awful fools. It’s in every East German newspaper; they’re screaming about peace conferences and sabotage.” He prodded at a telephone. “So is the Ministry. God, how I loathe Civil Servants.”
Smiley watched him with skepticism. “We could have stopped them,” he said. “We knew enough.”
“Of course we could,” Control said blandly. “Do you know why we didn’t? Plain, idiot Christian charity. We let them have their war game. You’d better go now. And Smiley …”
“Yes?”
“Be gentle.” And in his silly voice: “I do envy them Lubeck all the same. There’s that restaurant, isn’t there; what do they call it? Where Thomas Mann used to eat. So interesting.”
“He never did,” Smiley said. “The place you’re thinking of was bombed.”
Smiley still did not go. “I wonder,” he said. “You’ll never tell me, will you? I just wonder.” He was not looking at Control.
“My dear George, what has come over you?”
“We handed it to them. The passport that was canceled … a courier service they never needed … a clapped-out wireless set … papers, frontier reports … who told Berlin to listen for him? Who told them what frequencies? We even gave Leclerc the crystals, didn’t we? Was that just Christian charity too? Plain, idiot Christian charity?”