This outburst of Leiser’s appeared to cause Haldane some concern. He telephoned to London and ordered his assistant, Gladstone, to go over Leiser’s file for any trace of the name Freiser; he had a search made in all the indices, but without success. When Avery suggested Haldane was making too much of the incident, the other shook his head. “We’re waiting for the second vow,” he said.
Following upon Hyde’s visit, Leiser now received daily briefings about his cover. Stage by stage he, Avery and Haldane constructed in tireless detail the background of the man Hartbeck, establishing him in his work, his tastes and recreations, in his love life and choice of friends. Together, they entered the most obscure corners of the man’s conjectured existence, gave him skills and attributes which Leiser himself barely possessed.
Woodford came with news of the Department.
“The Director’s putting up a marvelous show.” From the way he spoke, Leclerc might have been fighting an illness. “We leave for Lubeck a week from today. Jimmy Gorton’s been on to the German frontier people—he says they’re pretty reliable. We’ve got a crossing point lined up and we’ve taken a farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. He’s let it be known that we’re a team of academics wanting a quiet time and a bit of fresh air.” Woodford looked confidingly at Haldane. “The Department is working wonderfully. As one man. And what a spirit, Adrian! No watching the clock these days. And no rank. Dennison, Sandford … we’re just a single team. You should see the way Clarkie’s going for the Ministry about poor Taylor’s pension. How’s Mayfly bearing up?” he added in a low voice.
“All right. He’s doing wireless upstairs.”
“Any more signs of nerves? Outbreaks or anything?”
“None so far as I know,” Haldane replied, as if he were unlikely to know anyway.
“Is he getting frisky? Sometimes they want a girl about now.”
Woodford had brought drawings of Soviet rockets. They had been made by Ministry draughtsmen from photographs held in Research Section, enlarged to about two foot by three, neatly mounted on showcards. Some were stamped with a security classification. Prominent features were marked with arrows and the nomenclature was curiously childish: fin, cone, fuel compartment, PAYLOAD. Beside each rocket stood a gay little figure like a penguin in a flying helmet, and printed beneath him: SIZE OF average man. Woodford arranged them around the room as if they were his own work; Avery and Haldane watched in silence.
“He can look at them after lunch,” Haldane said. “Put them together till then.”
“I’ve brought along a film to give him some background. Launchings, transportation, a bit about destructive capacity. The Director said he should have an idea what these things can do. Give him a shot in the arm.”
“He doesn’t need a shot in the arm,” Avery said.
Woodford remembered something. “Oh—and your little Gladstone wants to talk to you. He said it was urgent—didn’t know how to get hold of you. I told him you’d give him a ring when you had time. Apparently you asked him to do a job on the Mayfly area. Industry, was it, or maneuvers? He says he’s got the answer ready for you in London. He’s the best type of N.C.O., that fellow.” He glanced at the ceiling. “When’s Fred coming down?”
Haldane said abruptly, “I don’t want you to meet him, Bruce.” It was unusual in Haldane to use a Christian name.
“I’m afraid you must take luncheon in the town. Charge it to Accounts.”
“Why on earth not?”
“Security. I see no point in his knowing more of us than is strictly necessary. The charts speak for themselves; so, presumably, does the film.”
Woodford, profoundly insulted, left.
Avery knew then that Haldane was determined to preserve Leiser in the delusion that the Department housed no posts.
For the last day of the course, Haldane had planned a full-scale exercise to last from ten in the morning until eight in the evening, a combined affair including visual observation in the town, clandestine photography and listening to tapes.
The information which Leiser assembled during the day was to be made into a report, encoded and communicated by wireless to Johnson in the evening. A certain hilarity infected the briefing that morning. Johnson made a joke about not photographing the Oxford Constabulary by mistake; Leiser laughed richly and even Haldane allowed himself a wan smile. It was the end of term; the boys were going home.