“I’ll pass that on to Mr. Thomas. Does he know where to get in touch with you?”
“Dolphin Square,” Leamas replied, and gavethe address. “Good-bye.”
After making some inquiries at the reception desk, he returned to Ashe’s flat and sat on the camp bed looking at his clasped hands. After a while he lay down. He decided to accept Ashe’s advice and get some rest. As he closed his eyes he remembered Liz lying beside him in the flat in Bayswater, and he wondered vaguely what had become of her.
He was wakened by Ashe, accompanied by a small, rather plump man with long, graying hair swept back and a double-breasted suit. He spoke with a slight central European accent; German perhaps, it was hard to tell. He said his name was Kiever–Sam Kiever.
They had a gin and tonic, Ashe doing most of the talking. It was just like old times, he said, in Berlin: the boys together and the night their oyster. Kiever said he didn’t want to be too late; he had to work tomorrow. They agreed to eat at a Chinese restaurant that Ashe knew of–it was opposite Limehouse police station and you brought your own wine. Oddly enough, Ashe had some Burgundy in the kitchen, and they took that with them in the taxi.
Dinner was very good and they drank both bottles of wine. Kiever opened up a little on the second: he’d just come back from a tour of West Germany and France. France was in a hell of a mess, de Gaulle was on the way out, and God alone knew what would happen then. With a hundred thousand demoralized colons returning from Algeria he reckoned fascism was in the cards.
“What about Germany?” asked Ashe, prompting him.
“It’s just a question of whether the Yanks can hold them.” Kiever looked invitingly at Leamas.
“What do you mean?” asked Leamas.
“What I say. Dulles gave them a foreign policy with one hand, Kennedy takes it away with the other. They’re getting waspish.”
Leamas nodded abruptly and said, “Bloody typical Yank.”
“Alec doesn’t seem to like our American cousins,” and Ashe, stepping in heavily, and Kiever, with complete disinterest, murmured, “Oh really?”
Kiever played it, Leamas reflected, very long. Like someone used to horses, he let you come to him. He conveyed to perfection a man who suspected that he was about to be asked a favor, and was not easily won.
After dinner Ashe said, “I know a place in Wardour Street–you’ve been there, Sam. They do you all right there. Why don’t we summon a cab and go along?”
“Just a minute,” said Leamas, and there was something in his voice which made Ashe look at him quickly. “Just tell me something, will you? Who’s paying for this jolly?”
“I am,” said Ashe quickly. “Sam and I.”
“Have you discussed it?”
“Well–no.”
“Because I haven’t got any bloody money; you know that, don’t you? None to throw about, anyway.”
“Of course, Alec. Fve looked after you up till now, haven’t I?”
“Yes,” Leamas replied. “Yes, you have.”
He seemed to be going to say something else, and then to change his mind. Ashe looked worried, not offended, and Kiever as inscrutable as before.
Leamas refused to speak in the taxi. Ashe attempted some conciliatory remark and he just shrugged irritably. They arrived at Wardour Street and dismounted, neither Leamas nor Kiever making any attempt to pay for the cab. Ashe led them past a shop window full of “girlie” magazines, down a narrow alley, at the far end of which shone a tawdry neon sign: PUSSYWILLOW CLUB–MEMBERS ONLY. On either side of the door were photographs of girls, and pinned across each was a thin, hand-printed strip of paper which read _Nature Study. Members Only_.
Ashe pressed the bell. The door was at once opened by a very large man in a white shirt and black trousers.
“I’m a member,” Ashe said. “These two gentlemen are with me.”
“See your card?”
Ashe took a buff card from his wallet and handed it over.
“Your guests pay a quid a head, temporary membership. Your recommendation, right?” He held out the card and as he did so, Leamas stretched past Ashe and took it. He looked at it for a moment, then handed it back to Ashe.