He had an attractive face, muscular, and a stubborn line to his thin mouth. His eyes were brown and small; Irish, some said. It was hard to place Leamas. If he were to walk into a London club the porter would certainly not mistake him for a member; in a Berlin night club they usually gave him the best table. He looked like a man who could make trouble, a man who looked after his money; a man who was not quite a gentleman.
The stewardess thought he was interesting. She guessed that he was North of England, which he might well have been, and rich, which he was not. She put his age at fifty, which was about right. She guessed he was single, which was half true. Somewhere long ago there had been a divorce; somewhere there were children, now in their teens, who received their allowance from a rather odd private bank in the City.
“If you want another whisky,” said the stewardess, “you’d better hurry. We shall be at London airport in twenty minutes.”
“No more.” He didn’t look at her; he was looking out of the window at the gray-green fields of Kent.
Fawley met him at the airport and drove him to London.
“Control’s pretty cross about Karl,” he said, looking sideways at Leamas. Leamas nodded.
“How did it happen?” asked Fawley.
“He was shot. Mundt got him.”
“Dead?”
“I should think so, by now. He’d better be. He nearly made it. He should never have hurried, they couldn’t have been sure. The Abteilung got to the checkpoint just after he’d been let through. They started the siren and a Vopo shot him twenty yards short of the line. He moved on the ground for a moment, then lay still.”
“Poor bastard.”
“Precisely,” said Leamas.
Pawley didn’t like Leamas, and if Leamas knew he didn’t care. Fawley was a man who belonged to clubs and wore representative ties, pontificated on the skills of sportsmen and assumed a service rank in office correspondence. He thought Leamas suspect, and Leamas thought him a fool.
“What section are you in?” asked Leamas.
“Personnel.”
“Like it?”
“Fascinating.”
“Where do I go now? On ice?”
“Better let Control tell you, old boy.”
“Do you know?”
“Of course.”
“Then why the hell don’t you tell me?”
“Sorry, old man,” Fawley replied, and Leamas suddenly very nearly lost his temper. Then he reflected that Fawley was probably lying anyway.
“Well, tell me one thing, do you mind? Have I got to look for a bloody flat in London?”
Fawley scratched at his ear: “I don’t think so, old man, no.”
“No? Thank God for that.”
They parked near Cambridge Circus, at a parking meter, and went together into the hail.
“You haven’t got a pass, have you? You’d better fill in a slip, old man.”
“Since when have we had passes? McCall knows me as well as his own mother.”
“Just a new routine. Circus is growing, you know.”
Leamas said nothing, nodded at McCall and got into the lift without a pass.
Control shook his hand rather carefully, like a doctor feeling the bones.
“You must be awfully tired,” he said apologetically, “do sit down.” That same dreary voice, the donnish bray.
Leamas sat down in a chair facing an olive-green electric fire with a bowl of water balanced on the top of it.
“Do you find it cold?” Control asked. He was stooping over the fire rubbing his hands together. He wore a cardigan under his black jacket, a shabby brown one. Leamas remembered Control’s wife, a stupid little woman called Mandy who seemed to think her husband was on the Coal Board. He supposed she had knitted it.
“It’s so dry, that’s the trouble.” Control continued. “Beat the cold and you parch the atmosphere. Just as dangerous.” He went to the desk and pressed some button. “We’ll try and get some coffee,” he said, “Ginthe’s on leave, that’s the trouble. They’ve given me some new girl. It really is too bad.” He was shorter than Leamas remembered him; otherwise, just the same. The same affected detachment, the same fusty conceits; the same horror of drafts; courteous according to a formula miles removed from Leamas’ experience. The same milk-and-white smile, the same elaborate diffidence, the same apologetic adherence to a code of behavior which he pretended to find ridicuions. The same banality.