THE LOOKING GLASS WAR by John LeCarré

She seemed to relax when she heard they knew her father.

“He’s on an airplane,” she repeated.

Avery felt in his pocket and gave her two half crowns, the change from Sarah’s ten shillings. She closed the door, leaving them on that damned staircase with the wireless playing dreamy music.

Four

They stood in the street not looking at one another. Leclerc said, “Why did you ask that question, the question about her father?”

Avery offered no reply; Leclerc did not seem to expect one.

Sometimes Leclerc seemed neither to hear, nor to feel; he drifted away, listening for a sound, like a man who having learned the steps had been deprived of the music. This mood read like a deep sadness, like the bewilderment of a man betrayed.

“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to come back here with you this afternoon,” Avery said gently. “Perhaps Bruce Woodford would be preferred . . .”

“Bruce is no good.” He added: “You’ll be at the meeting: at ten forty-five?”

“I may have to leave before the end to get to the Circus and collect my things. Sarah hasn’t been well. I’ll stay at the office as long as I can. I’m sorry I asked that question, I really am.”

“I don’t want anyone to know. I must speak to her mother first. There may be some explanation. Taylor’s an old hand. He knew the rules.”

“I shan’t mention it, I promise I shan’t. Nor Mayfly.”

“I must tell Haldane about Mayfly. He’ll object of course. Yes, that’s what we’ll call it… the whole operation. We’ll call it Mayfly.” The thought consoled him.

They hurried to the office, not to work but for refuge; for anonymity, a quality they had come to need.

His room was one along from Leclerc’s. It had a label on the door saying ASSISTANT TO THE DIRECTOR. Two years ago Leclerc had been invited to America, and the expression dated from his return. Within the Department, staff were referred to by the function they fulfilled. Hence Avery was known simply as Private Office; though Leclerc might alter the title every week, he could not alter the vernacular.

At a quarter to eleven Woodford came into his room. Avery guessed he would: a little chat before the meeting began, a quiet word about some matter not strictly on the agenda.

“What’s it all about, John?” He lit his pipe, tilted back his large head and extinguished the match with long, swinging movements of his hand. He had once been a schoolmaster; an athletic man.

“You tell me.”

“Poor Taylor.”

“Precisely.”

“I don’t want to jump the gun,” he said, and settled himself on the edge of the desk, still absorbed in his pipe. “I don’t want to jump the gun, John,” he repeated, “but there’s another matter we ought to look at, tragic as Taylor’s death is.” He stowed the tobacco tin in the pocket of his green suit and said, “Registry.”

“That’s Haldane’s parish. Research.”

“I’ve got nothing against old Adrian. He’s a good scout. We’ve been working together for over twenty years.” And therefore you’re a good scout too, thought Avery.

Woodford had a way of coming close when he spoke; riding his heavy shoulder against you like a horse rubbing itself against a gate. He leaned forward and looked at Avery earnestly: a plain man perplexed, he was saying, a decent man choosing between friendship and duty. His suit was hairy, too thick to crease, forming rolls like a blanket; rough-cut buttons of brown bone.

“John, Registry’s all to the devil; we both know that. Papers aren’t being entered, files aren’t brought up on the right dates.” He shook his head in despair. “We’ve been missing a policy file on marine freight since mid-October. Just vanished into thin air.”

“Adrian Haldane put out a search notice,” Avery said. “We were all involved, not just Adrian. Files do get lost—this is the first time since April, Bruce. I don’t think that’s bad, considering the amount we handle. I thought Registry was one of our best things. The files are immaculate. I understand our Research index is unique. That’s all Adrian’s doing, isn’t it? Still, if you’re worried, why not speak to Adrian about it?”

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