“Thanks,” said Kiever, almost too gratefully, “thanks very much.”
They walked from the customs shed along the corridor to the reception hail on the other side of the airport buildings. Kiever led the way to the main exit, between the little groups of travelers staring vaguely at kiosk displays of scent, cameras and fruit. As they pushed their way through the revolving glass door, Leamas looked back. Standing at the newspaper kiosk, deep in a copy of the _Continental Daily Mail_ stood a small, froglike figure wearing glasses, an earnest, worried little man. He looked like a civil servant. Something like that.
A car was waiting for them in the parking lot, a Volkswagen with a Dutch registration, driven by a woman who ignored them. She drove slowly, always stopping if the lights were amber, and Leamas guessed she had been briefed to drive that way and that they were being followed by another car. He watched the sideview mirror, trying to recognize the car but without success. Once he saw a black Peugeot with a CD number, but when they turned the corner there was only a furniture van behind them. He knew The Hague quite well from the war, and he tried to work out where they were heading. He guessed they were traveling northwest toward Scheveningen. Soon they had left the suburbs behind them and were approaching a colony of villas bordering the dunes along the seafront.
Here they stopped. The woman got out, leaving them in the car, and rang the front doorbell of a small cream-colored bungalow which stood at the near end of the row. A wrought-iron sign hung on the porch with the words LE MIRAGE in pale blue Gothic script. There was a notice in the window which proclaimed that all the rooms were taken.
The door was opened by a kindly, plump woman who looked past the driver toward the car. Her eyes still on the car, she came down the drive toward them, smiling with pleasure. She reminded Leamas of an old aunt he’d once had who beat him for wasting string.
“How nice that you have come,” she declared; “we are so _pleased_ that you have come!”
They followed her into the bungalow, Kiever leading the way. The driver got back into the car. Leamas glanced down the road which they had just traveled; three hundred yards away a black car, a Fiat perhaps, or a Peugeot, had parked. A man in a raincoat was getting out.
Once in the hall, the woman shook Leamas warmly by the hand. ‘Welcome, welcome to Le Mirage. Did you have a good journey?”
“Fine,” Leamas replied.
“Did you fly or come by sea?”
“We flew,” Kiever said; “a very smooth flight.” He might have owned the airline.
“I’ll make your lunch,” she declared, “a special lunch. I’ll make you something specially good. What shall I bring you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Leamas under his breath, and the doorbell rang. The woman went quickly into the kitchen; Kiever opened the front door.
He was wearing a mackintosh with leather buttons. He was about Leamas’ height, but older. Leamas put him at about fifty-five. His face had a hard, gray hue and sharp furrows; he might have been a soldier. He held out his hand.
“My name is Peters,” he said. The fingers were slim and polished. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Yes,” said Kiever quickly, “quite uneventful.”
“Mr. Leamas and I have a lot to discuss; I do not think we need to keep you, Sam. You could take the Volkswagen back to town.”
Kiever smiled. Leamas saw the relief in his smile.
“Good-bye, Leamas,” said Kiever, his voice jocular. “Good luck, old man.”
Leamas nodded, ignoring Kiever’s hand.
“Good-bye,” Kiever repeated and let himself quietly out of the front door.
Leamas followed Peters into a back room. Heavy lace curtains hung at the window, ornately frilled and draped. The windowsill was covered with potted plants–great cacti, tobacco plant and some curious tree with wide, rubbery leaves. The furniture was heavy, pseudo-antique. In the center of the room was a table with two carved chairs. The table was covered with a rust-colored counterpane more like a carpet; on it before each chair was a pad of paper and a pencil. On a sideboard there was whisky and soda. Peters went over tQ it and mixed them both a drink.