Leamas shrugged.
“They did,” he said.
“What did he do with his money?”
“After that afternoon I didn’t give him any. The Circus took that over straightaway. It was paid into a West German bank. He even gave me back what I’d given him. London banked it for him.”
“How much did you tell London?”
“Everything after that. I had to; then the Circus told the Departments. After that,” Leamas added venomously, “it was only a matter of time before it packed up. With the Departments at their backs, London got greedy. They began pressing us for more, wanted to give him more money. Finally we had to suggest to Karl that he recruit other sources, and we took them on to form a network. It was bloody stupid, it put a strain on Karl, endangered him, undermined his confidence in us. It was the beginning of the end.”
“How much did you get out of him?”
Leamas hesitated. “How much? Christ, I don’t know. It lasted an unnaturally long time. I think he was blown long before he was caught. The standard dropped in the last few months; think they’d begun to suspect him by then and kept him away from the good stuff.”
“Altogether, what did he give you?” Peters persisted.
Piece by piece, Leamas recounted the full extent of all Karl Riemeck’s work. His memory was, Peters noted approvingly, remarkably precise considering the amount he drank. He could give dates and names, he could remember the reaction from London, the nature of corroboration where it existed. He could remember sums of money demanded and paid, the dates of the conscription of other agents into the network.
“I’m sorry,” said Peters at last, “but I do not believe that one man, however well placed, however careful, however industrious, could have acquired such a range of detailed knowledge. For that matter, even if he had he would never have been able to photograph it.”
“He _was_ able,” Leamas persisted, suddenly angry. “He bloody well did and that’s all there is to it.”
“And the Circus never told you to go into it with him, exactly how and when he saw all this stuff?”
“No,” snapped Leamas. “Riemeck was touchy about that, and London was content to let it go.”
“Well, well,” Peters mused.
After a moment Peters said, “You heard about that woman, incidentally?”
“What woman?” Leamas asked sharply.
“Karl Riemeck’s mistress, the one who came over to West Berlin the night Riemeck was shot.”
“Well?”
“She was found dead a week ago. Murdered. She was shot from a car as she left her fiat.”
“It used to be my flat,” said Leamas mechanically.
“Perhaps,” Peters suggested, “she knew more about Riemeck’s network than you did.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Leamas demanded.
Peters shrugged. “It’s all very strange,” he observed. “I wonder who killed her.”
When they had exhausted the case of Karl Riemeck, Leamas went on to talk of other less spectacular agents, then of the procedure of his Berlin office, its communications, its staff, its secret ramifications– flats, transport, recording and photographic equipment. They talked long into the night and throughout the next day, and when at last Leamas stumbled into bed the following night he knew he had betrayed all that he knew of Allied Intelligence in Berlin and had drunk two bottles of whisky in two days.
One thing puzzled him: Peters’ insistence that Karl Riemeck must have had help–must have had a highlevel collaborator. Control had asked him the same question–he remembered now–Control had asked about Riemeck’s access. How could they both be so sure Karl hadn’t managed alone? He’d had helpers, of course; like the guards by the canal the day Leamas met him. But they were small beer–Karl had told him about them. But Peters–and Peters, after all, would know precisely how much Karl had been able to get his hands on–Peters had refused to believe Karl had managed alone. On this point, Peters and Control were evidently agreed.
Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was somebody else. Perhaps this was the special interest whom Control was so anxious to protect from Mundt. That would mean that Karl Riemeck had collaborated with this special interest and provided what both of them had together obtained. Perhaps that was what Control had spoken to Karl about, alone, that evening in Leamas’ fiat in Berlin.