THE LOOKING GLASS WAR by John LeCarré

He put his face in his hands, summoning the last of his concentration, then reached for the key and began tapping. Keep the hand loose, first and second fingers on top of the key, thumb beneath the edge, no, putting the wrist on the table, Fred. Breathe regular, Fred, you’ll find it helps you to relax.

God, why were his hands so slow? Once he took his fingers from the key and stared impotently at his open palm; once he ran his left hand across his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes, and he felt the key drifting across the table. His wrist was too stiff: the hand he killed the boy with. All the time he was saying it over to himself—dot, dot, dash, then a K, he always knew that one. A dot between two dashes—his lips were spelling out the letters, but his hand wouldn’t follow, it was a kind of stammer that got worse the more he spoke, and always the boy in his mind, only the boy. Perhaps he was quicker than he thought. He lost all notion of time; the sweat was running into his eyes, he couldn’t stop it anymore. He kept mouthing the dots and dashes, and he knew that Johnson would be angry because he shouldn’t be thinking in dots and dashes at all but musically, de-dah dah, the way the professionals did, but Johnson hadn’t killed the boy. The pounding of his heart outran the weary tapping of the key; his hand seemed to grow heavier and still he went on signaling because it was the only thing left to do, the only thing to hold on to while his body gave way. He was waiting for them now, wishing they’d come—take me, take it all—longing for the footsteps. Give us your hand, John; give us a hand.

When at last he had finished, he went back to the bed. Almost with detachment he caught sight of the line of crystals on the blanket, untouched, still and ready, dressed by the left and numbered, flat on their backs like dead sentries.

Avery looked at his watch. It was quarter past ten. “He should come on in five minutes,” he said.

Leclerc announced suddenly: “That was Gorton on the telephone. He’s received a telegram from the Ministry. They have some news for us apparently. They’re sending out a courier.”

“What could that be?” Avery asked.

“I expect it’s the Hungarian thing. Fielden’s report. I may have to go back to London.” A satisfied smile. “But I think you people can get along without me.”

Johnson was wearing earphones, sitting forward on a high-backed wooden chair carried up from the kitchen. The dark green receiver hummed gently from the mains transformer; the tuning dial, illuminated from within, glowed palely in the half light of the attic.

Haldane and Avery sat uncomfortably on a bench. Johnson had a pad and pencil in front of him. He lifted the phones above his ears and said to Leclerc who stood beside him, “I shall take him straight through the routine, sir; I’ll do my best to tell you what’s going on. I’m recording too, mind, for safety’s sake.”

“I understand.”

They waited in silence. Suddenly—it was their moment of utter magic—Johnson had sat bolt upright, nodded sharply to them, switched on the tape recorder. He smiled, quickly turned to transmission and was tapping. “Come in, Fred,” he said out loud. “Hearing you nicely.”

“He’s made it!” Leclerc hissed. “He’s on target now!” His eyes were bright with excitement. “Do you hear that, John? Do you hear?”

“Shall we be quiet?” Haldane suggested.

“Here he comes,” Johnson said. His voice was level, controlled. “Forty-two groups.”

“Forty-two!” Leclerc repeated.

Johnson’s body was motionless, his head inclined a little to one side, his whole concentration given to the earphones, his face impassive in the pale light.

“I’d like silence now, please.”

For perhaps two minutes his careful hand moved briskly across the pad. Now and then he muttered inaudibly, whispered a letter or shook his head, until the message seemed to come more slowly, his pencil pausing while he listened, until it was tracing out each letter singly with agonizing care. He glanced at the clock.

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