“When it’s over. I’ll take care of it myself then.”
“Quite. It would be very insecure to do anything now.”
“I just want her left alone,” Leamas repeated with emphasis. “I just don’t want her to be messed about. I don’t want her to have a file or anything. I want her forgotten.”
He nodded to Control and slipped out into the night air. Into the cold.
* * 7 * Kiever
On the following day, Leamas arrived twenty minutes late for his lunch with Ashe, and smelled of whisky. Ashe’s pleasure on catching sight of Leamas was, however, undiminished. He claimed that he had himself only that moment arrived, he’d been a little late getting to the bank. He handed Leamas an envelope.
“Singles,” said Ashe. “I hope that’s all right?”
“Thanks,” Leamas replied, “let’s have a drink.” He hadn’t shaved and his collar was filthy. He called the waiter and ordered drinks, a large whisky for himself and a pink gin for Ashe. When the drinks came, Leamas’ hand trembled as he poured the soda into the glass, almost slopping it over the side.
They lunched well, with a lot to drink, and Ashe did most of the work. As Leamas had expected he first talked about himself, an old trick but not a bad one.
“To be quite frank, I’ve got on to rather a good thing recently,” said Ashe, “free-lancing English features for the foreign press. After Berlin I made rather a mess of things at first–the Corporation wouldn’t renew the contract and I took a job running a dreary toffee-shop weekly about hobbies for the over-sixties. Can you _imagine_ anything more frightful? That went under in the first printing strike–I can’t tell you how relieved I was. Then I went to live with my mama in Cheltenham for a time–she runs an antique shop, does very nicely thank you, as a matter of fact. Then I got a letter from an old friend, Sam Kiever his name is actually, who was starting up a new agency for small features on English life specially slanted for foreign papers. You know the sort of thing–six hundred words on Morris dancing. Sam had a new gimmick, though; he sold the stuff already translated and do you know, it makes a hell of a difference. One always imagines anyone can pay a translator or do it themselves, but if you’re looking for a half column in-fill for your foreign features you don’t _want_ to waste time and money on translation. Sam’s gambit was to get in touch with the editors direct–he traipsed round Europe like a gypsy, poor thing, but it’s paid hands _down_.”
Ashe paused, waiting for Leamas to accept the invitation to speak about himself, but Leamas ignored it. He just nodded dully and said, “Bloody good.” Ashe had wanted to order wine, but Leamas said he’d stick to whisky, and by the time the coffee came he’d had four large ones. He seemed to be in bad shape; he had the drunkard’s habit of ducking his mouth toward the rim of his glass just before he drank, as if his hand might fail him and the drink escape.
Ashe fell silent for a moment.
“You don’t know Sam, do you?” he asked.
“Sam?”
A note of irritation entered Ashe’s voice.
“Sam Kiever, my boss. The chap I was telling you about.”
“Was he in Berlin too?”
“No. He knows Germany well, but he’s never lived in Berlin. He did a bit of deviling in Bonn, free-lance stuff. You might have met him. He’s a dear.”
“Don’t think so.” A pause.
“What do you do these days, old chap?” asked Ashe.
Leamas shrugged. “I’m on the shelf,” he rephed, and grinned a little stupidly. “Out of the bag and on the shelf.”
“I forget what you were doing in Berlin. Weren’t you one of the mysterious cold warriors?”
My God, thought Learnas, you’re stepping things up a bit. Leamas hesitated, then colored and said sayagely, “Office boy for the bloody Yanks, like the rest of us.”
“You know,” said Ashe, as if he had been turning the idea over for some time, “you ought to meet Sam. You’d like him,” and then, all of a bother, “I say, Alec–I don’t even know where to get hold of you!”