The Spy Who Came in From The Cold

“I think I can manage my buttons now,” Leamas retorted.

“Then good night,” said Kiever shortly, and left the room.

He’s on edge, too, thought Leainas.

Leamas was awakened by the telephone at his bedside. It was Kiever.

“It’s six o’clock,” he said, “breakfast at half past.”

“All right,” Leamas replied, and rang off. He had a headache.

Kiever must have telephoned for a taxi, because at seven o’clock the doorbell rang and Kiever asked, “Got everything?”

“I’ve no luggage,” Leamas replied, “except a toqthbrush and a razor.”

“That is taken care of. Are you ready otherwise?”

Leamas shrugged. “I suppose so. Have you any cigarettes?”

“No,” Kiever replied, “but you can get some on the plane. You’d better look through this,” he added, and handed Leamas a British passport. It was made out in his name with his own photograph mounted in it, embossed by a deep-press Foreign Office seal running across the corner. It was neither old nor new; it described Leainas as a clerk, and gave his status as single. Holding it in his hand for the first time, Leamas was a little nervous. It was like getting married: whatever happened, things would never be the same again.

“What about money?” Leamas asked.

“You don’t need any. It’s on the firm.”

* * 8 * Le Mirage

It was cold that morning, the light mist was damp and gray, pricking the skin. The airport reminded Leamas of the war: machines, half hidden in the fog, waiting patiently for their masters; the resonant voices and their echoes, the sudden shout and the incongruous clip of a girl’s heels on a stone floor; the roar of an engine that might have been at your elbow. Everywhere that air of conspiracy which generates among people who have been up since dawn–of superiority almost, from the common experience of having seen the night disappear and the morning come. The staff had that look which is informed by the mystery of dawn and animated by the cold, and they treated the passengers and their luggage with the remoteness of men returned from the front: ordinary mortals and nothing for them that morning.

Kiever had provided Leamas with luggage. It was a detail: Leamas admired it. Passengers without luggage attract attention, and it was not part of Kiever’s plan to do that. They checked in at the airline desk and followed the signs to passport control. There was a ludicrous moment when they lost the way and Kiever was rude to a porter. Leamas supposed Kiever was worried about the passport–he needn’t be, thought Leamas, there’s nothing wrong with it.

The passport officer was a youngish little man with an Intelligence Corps tie and some mysterious badge in his lapel. He had a ginger mustache and a North Country accent which was his life’s enemy.

“Going to be away for a long time, sir?” he asked Leamas.

“A couple of weeks,” Leamas replied.

“You’ll want to watch it, sir. Your passport’s due for renewal on the thirty-first.”

“I know,” said Leamas.

They walked side by side into the passengers’ waiting room. On the way Leamas said: “You’re a suspicious sod, aren’t you, Kiever?” and the other laughed quietly.

“Can’t have you on the loose, can we? Not part of the contract,” he replied.

They still had twenty minutes to wait. They sat down at a table and ordered coffee. “And take these things away,” Kiever added to the waiter, indicating the used cups, saucers and ashtrays on the table.

“There’s a trolley coming around,” the waiter replied.

“Take them,” Kiever repeated, angry again. “It’s disgusting, leaving dirty dishes there like that.”

The waiter just turned and walked away. He didn’t go near the service counter and he didn’t order their coffee. Kiever was white, ill with anger. “For Christ’s sake,” Leamas muttered, “let it go. Life’s too short.”

“Cheeky bastard, that’s what he is,” said Kiever.

“All right, all right, make a scene; you’ve chosen a good moment, they’ll never forget us here.”

The formalities at the airport at The Hague provided no problem. Kiever seemed to have recovered from his anxieties. He became jaunty and talkative as they walked the short distance between the plane and the customs sheds. The young Dutch officer gave a perfunctory glance at their luggage and passports and announced in awkward, throaty English, “I hope you have a pleasant stay in the Netherlands.”

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