THE LOOKING GLASS WAR by John LeCarré

He stopped.

“Well?”

“They were following the message, you see; they wanted to know where the safety signal came. It was in the ninth letter; a back shift of one. They let me finish the message and then they were on me, one hitting me, men all over the house.”

“But who, Fred? Who’s they!”

“You can’t talk about it like that: you never know. It’s never that easy.”

“But for God’s sake, whose fault was it? Who did it? Fred!”

“Anyone. You can never tell. You’ll learn that.” He seemed to have given up.

“You’re alone this time. Nobody has been told. Nobody’s expecting you.”

“No. That’s right.” His hands were clasped on his lap. He made a hunched figure, small and cold. “In the war it was easier because however bad it got, you thought one day we’d win. Even if you were picked up, you thought, They’ll come and get me, they’ll drop some men or make a raid. You knew they never would, see, but you could think it. You just wanted to be left alone to think it. But nobody wins this one, do they?”

“It’s not the same. But more important.”

“What do you do if I’m caught?”

“We’ll get you back. Not to worry, eh, Fred?”

“Yes, but how?”

“We’re a big outfit, Fred. A lot goes on you don’t know about. Contacts here and there. You can’t see the whole picture.”

“Can you?”

“Not all of it, Fred. Only the Director sees it all. Not even the Captain.”

“What’s he like, the Director?”

“He’s been in it a long time. You’ll see him tomorrow. He’s a very remarkable man.”

“Does the Captain fancy him?”

“Of course.”

“He never talks about him,” Leiser said.

“None of us talk about him.”

“There was this girl I had. She worked in the bank. I told her I was going away. If anything goes wrong I don’t want anything said, see. She’s just a kid.”

“What’s her name?”

A moment of mistrust. “Never mind. But if she turns up, just keep it all right with her.”

“What do you mean, Fred?”

“Never mind.”

Leiser didn’t talk after that. When the morning came, Avery returned to his room.

“What’s it all about?” Haldane asked.

“He was in some mess in the war, in Holland. He was betrayed.”

“But he’s giving us a second chance. How nice. Just what they always said.” And then: “Leclerc arrives this morning.”

His taxi came at eleven. Leclerc was getting out almost before it had pulled up. He was wearing a duffle coat, heavy brown shoes for rough country and a soft cap. He looked very well.

“Where’s Mayfly?”

“With Johnson,” Haldane said.

“Got a bed for me?”

“You can have Mayfly’s when he’s gone.”

At eleven thirty Leclerc held a briefing: in the afternoon they were to make a tour of the border.

The briefing took place in the hall. Leiser came in last. He stood in the doorway, looking at Leclerc, who smiled at him winningly, as if he liked what he saw. They were about the same height.

Avery said, “Director, this is Mayfly.”

His eyes still on Leiser, Leclerc replied, “I think I’m allowed to call him Fred. Hello.” He advanced and shook him by the hand, both formal, two weathermen coming out of a box.

“Hello,” said Leiser.

“I hope they haven’t been working you too hard.”

“I’m all right, sir.”

“We’re all very impressed,” Leclerc said. “You’ve done a grand job.” He might have been talking to his constituents.

“I haven’t started yet.”

“I always feel the training is three-quarters of the battle. Don’t you, Adrian?”

“Yes.”

They sat down. Leclerc stood a little away from them. He had hung a map on the wall. By some indefinable means—it may have been his maps, it may have been the precision of his language, or it may have been his strict deportment, which so elusively combined purpose with restraint—Leclerc evoked in that hour the same nostalgic, campaigning atmosphere which had informed the briefing in Blackfriars Road a month before. He had the illusionist’s gift—whether he spoke of rockets or wireless transmission, of cover or the point at which the border was to be crossed—of implying great familiarity with his subject.

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