They took him to a small comfortable room, decently furnished with a desk and armchairs. Swedish blinds half covered the barred windows. Mundt sat at the desk and Leamas in an armchair, his eyes half closed. The guards stood at the door.
“Give me a drink,” said Leamas.
“Whisky?”
“Water.”
Mundt filled a carafe from a basin in the corner, and put it on the table beside him with a glass.
“Bring him something to eat,” he ordered, and one of the guards left the room, returning with a mug of soup and some sliced sausage. He drank and ate, and they watched him in silence.
“Where’s Fiedler?” Leamas asked finally.
“Under arrest,” Mundt replied curtly.
“What for?”
“Conspiring to sabotage the security of the people.”
Leamas nodded slowly. “So you won,” he said. “When did you arrest him?”
“Last night.”
Leamas waited a moment, trying to focus again on Mundt.
“What about me?” he asked.
“You’re a material witness. You will of course stand trial yourself later.”
“So I’m part of a put-up job by London to frame Mundt, am I?”
Mundt nodded, lit a cigarette and gave it to one of the sentries to pass to Leamas. “That’s right,” he said. The sentry came over, and with a gesture of grudging solicitude, put the cigarette between Leamas’ lips.
“A pretty elaborate operation,” Leamas observed, and added stupidly, “Clever chaps these Chinese.”
Mundt said nothing. Leamas became used to his silences as the interview progressed. Mundt had rather a pleasant voice, that was something Leamas hadn’t expected, but he seldom spoke. It was part of Mundt’s extraordinary self-confidence, perhaps, that he did not speak unless he specifically wished to, that he was prepared to allow long silences to intervene rather than exchange pointless words. In this he differed from professional interrogators who set store by initiative, by the evocation of atmosphere and the exploitation of that psychological dependency of a prisoner upon his inquisitor. Mundt despised technique: he was a man of fact and action. Leamas preferred that.
Mundt’s appearance was fully consistent with his temperament. He looked an athlete. His fair hair was cut short. It lay mat and neat. His young face had a hard, clean line, and a frightening directness; it was barren of humor or fantasy. He looked young but not youthful; older men would take him seriously. He was well built. His clothes fitted him because he was an easy man to fit. Leamas found no difficulty in recalling that Mundt was a killer. There was a coldness about him, a rigorous self-sufficiency which perfectly equipped him for the business of murder. Mundt was a very hard man.
“The other charge on which you will stand trial, if necessary,” Mundt added quietly, “is murder.”
“So the sentry died, did he?” Leamas replied.
A wave of intense pain passed through his head.
Mundt nodded. “That being so,” he said, “your trial for espionage is somewhat academic. I propose that the case against Fiedler should be publicly heard. That is also the wish of the Praesidium.”
“And you want my confession?”
“Yes.”
“In other words you haven’t any proof.”
“We shall have proof. We shall have your confession.” There was no menace in Mundt’s voice. There was no style, no theatrical twist. “On the other hand, there could be mitigation in your case. You were blackmailed by British Intelligence; they accused you of stealing money and then coerced you into preparing a _revanchist_ trap against myself. The court would have sympathy for such a plea.”
Leamas seemed to be taken off his guard.
“How did you know they accused me of stealing money?” But Mundt made no reply.
“Fiedler has been very stupid,” Mundt observed. “As soon as I read the report of our friend Peters I knew why you had been sent, and I knew that Fiedler would fall into the trap. Fiedler hates me so much.” Mundt nodded, as if to emphasize the truth of his observation. “Your people knew that of course. It was a very clever operation. Who prepared it, tell me. Was it Smiley? Did he do it?” Leamas said nothing.
“I wanted to see Fiedler’s report of his own interrogation of you, you see. I told him to send it to me. He procrastinated and I knew I was right. Then yesterday he circulated it among the Praesidium, and did not send me a copy. Someone in London has been very clever.”