First he took a wallet, a shabby brown one with a center compartment of cellophane which held Leiser’s identity card, fingered and stamped; it lay open behind its flat frame, so that the photograph of Leiser looked outward, a little prison picture. Beside it was an authority to travel and a written offer of employment from the State Cooperative for shipbuilding in Rostock. Haldane emptied one pocket of the wallet and then replaced the contents paper for paper, describing each in turn.
“Food registration card—driving license—Party Card. How long have you been a Party member?”
“Since forty-nine.”
He put in a photograph of a woman and three or four grimy letters, some still in their envelopes.
“Love letters,” he explained shortly.
Next came a Union card and a cutting from a Magdeburg newspaper about production figures at a local engineering works; a photograph of the Brandenburg Gate before the war; a tattered testimonial from a former employer.
“That’s the wallet, then,” Haldane said. “Except for the money. The rest of your equipment is in the rucksack. Provisions and that kind of thing.”
He handed Leiser a bundle of bank notes from the box. Leiser stood in the compliant attitude of a man being searched, his arms raised a little from his sides and his feet slightly apart. He would accept whatever Haldane gave him, put it carefully away, then resume the same position. He signed a receipt for the money. Haldane glanced at the signature and put the paper in a black briefcase which he had put separately on a side table.
Next came the odds and ends which Hartbeck would plausibly have about him: a bunch of keys on a chain—the key to the suitcase was among them—a comb, a khaki handkerchief stained with oil and a couple of ounces of substitute coffee in a twist of newspaper; a screwdriver, a length of fine wire and fragments of metal ends newly turned—the meaningless rubble of a workingman’s pockets.
“I’m afraid you can’t take that watch,” Haldane said.
Leiser unbuckled the gold armband and dropped the watch into Haldane’s open palm. They gave him a steel one of eastern manufacture and set it with great precision by Avery’s bedside clock.
Haldane stood back. “That will do. Now remain there and go through your pockets. Make sure things are where you would naturally keep them. Don’t touch anything else in the room, do you understand?”
“I know the form,” said Leiser, glancing at his gold watch on the table. He accepted the knife and hooked the black scabbard into the waistband of his trousers. “What about my gun?”
Haldane guided the steel clip of the briefcase into its housing and it snapped like the latch of a door.
“You don’t take one,” Avery said.
“No gun?”
“It’s not on, Fred. They reckon it’s too dangerous.”
“Who for?”
“It could lead to a dangerous situation. Politically, I mean. Sending an armed man into East Germany. They’re afraid of an incident.”
“Afraid?”
For a long time he stared at Avery, his eyes searching the young, unfurrowed face for something that was not there. He turned to Haldane.
“Is that true?”
Haldane nodded.
Suddenly he thrust out his empty hands in front of him, cupped in a terrible gesture of poverty, the fingers crooked and pressed together as if to catch the last water, his shoulders trembling in the cheap jacket, his face drawn, half in supplication, half in panic.
“The gun, John! You can’t send a man without a gun! For mercy’s sake, let me have the gun!”
“Sorry, Fred.”
His hands still extended, he swung around to Haldane. “You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Leclerc had heard the noise and came to the doorway. Haldane’s face was arid as rock; Leiser could have beaten his empty fists upon it for all the charity it held. His voice fell to a whisper. “What are you doing? God Christ, what are you trying to do?” To both of them he cried in revelation, “You hate me, don’t you! What have I done to you? John, what have I done? We were pals, weren’t we?”
Leclerc’s voice, when at last he spoke, sounded very pure, as if he were deliberately emphasizing the gulf between them.