And now this.
This wasn’t part of the bargain; this was different. What the hell was he supposed to do? By pulling out now, by refusing to go along with Peters, he was wrecking the operation. It was just possible that Peters was lying, that this was the test–all the more reason that he should agree to go. But if he went, if he agreed to go east, to Poland, Czechoslovakia or God knows where, there was no good reason why they should ever let him out–there was no good reason (since he was notionally a wanted man in the West) why he should _want_ to be let out.
Control had done it–he was sure. The terms had been too generous, he’d known that all along. They didn’t throw money about like that for nothing–not unless they thought they might lose you. Money like that was a _douceur_ for discomforts and dangers Control would not openly admit to. Money like that was a warning; Leamas had not heeded the warning.
“Now how the devil,” he asked quietly, “could they get onto that?” A thought seemed to cross his mind and he said, “Your friend Ashe could have told them, of course, or Kiever. . .”
“It’s possible,” Peters replied. “You know as well as I do that such things are always possible. There is no certainty in our job. The fact is,” he added with something like impatience, “that by now every country in western Europe will be looking for you.”
Leanias might not have heard what Peters was saying. “You’ve got me on the hook now, haven’t you, Peters?” he said. “Your people must be laughing themselves sick. Or did they give the tip-off themselves?”
“You overrate your own importance,” Peters said sourly.
“Then why do you have me followed, tell me that? I went for a walk this morning. Two little men in brown suits, one twenty yards behind the other, trailed me along the seafront. When I came back the housekeeper rang you up.”
“Let us stick to what we know,” Peters suggested. “How your own authorities have got on to you does not at the moment acutely concern us. The fact is, they have.”
“Have you brought the London evening papers with you?”
“Of course not. They are not available here. We received a telegram from London.”
“That’s a lie. You know perfectly well your apparatus is only allowed to communicate with Centre.”
“In this case a direct link between two outstations was permitted,” Peters retorted angrily.
“Well, well,” said Leamas with a wry smile, “you must be quite a big wheel. Or”–a thought seemed to strike him–“isn’t Centre in on this?”
Peters ignored the question.
“You know the alternative. You let us take care of you, let us arrange your safe passage, or you fend for yourself–with the certainty of eventual capture. You’ve no false papers, no money, nothing. Your British passport will have expired in ten days.”
“There’s a third possibility. Give me a Swiss passport and some money and let me run. I can look after myself.”
“I am afraid that is not considered desirable.”
“You mean you haven’t finished the interrogation. Until you have I am not expendable?”
“That is roughly the position.”
“When you have completed the interrogation, what will you do with me?”
Peters shrugged. “What do you suggest?”
“A new identity. Scandinavian passport perhaps. Money.”
“It’s very academic,” Peters replied, “but I will suggest it to my superiors. Are you coming with me?”
Leamas hesitated. Then he smiled a little uncertainly and asked, “If I didn’t, what would you do? After all, I’ve quite a story to tell, haven’t I?”
“Stories of that kind are hard to substantiate. I shall be gone tonight. Ashe and Kiever. . .” He shrugged. “What do they add up to?”
Leamas went to the window. A storm was gathering over the gray North Sea. He watched the gulls wheeling against the dark clouds. The girl had gone.
“All right,” he said at last, “fix it up.”
“There’s no plane east until tomorrow. There’s a flight to Berlin in an hour. We shall take that. It’s going to be very close.”
Leamas’ passive role that evening enabled him once again to admire the unadorned efficiency of Peters’ arrangements. The passport had been put together long ago–Centre must have thought of that. It was – made out in the name of Alexander Thwaite, travel agent, and filled with visas and frontier stamps–the old, well-fingered passport of the professional traveler. The Dutch frontier guard at the airport just nodded and stamped it for form’s sake–Peters was three or four behind him in the queue and took no interest in the formalities.