There was a very long silence and the little man looked more worried than ever. Finally he asked her: “Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.” She was suddenly terrified for Alec, and she didn’t know why.
The man asked: “Leamas has got two children by his marriage, did he tell you?” Liz said nothing. “In spite of that he gave your name as next of kin. Why do you think he did that?” The little man seemed embarrassed by his own question. He was looking at his hands, which were pudgy and clasped together on his lap. Liz blushed.
“I was in love with him,” she replied.
“Was he in love with you?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know.”
“Are you still in love with him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever say he would come back?” asked the younger man.
“No.”
“But he did say good-bye to you?” the other asked quickly.
“Did he say good-bye to you?” The little man repeated his question slowly, kindly. “Nothing more can happen to him, I promise you. But we want to help him, and if you have any idea of why he hit Ford, if you have the slightest notion from something he said, perhaps casually, ,or something he did, then tell us for Alec’s sake.”
Liz shook her head.
“Please go,” she said, “please don’t ask any more questions. Please go now.”
As he got to the door, the elder man hesitated, then took a card from his wallet and put it on the table gingerly, as if it might make a noise. Liz thought he was a very shy little man.
“If you ever want any help–if anything happens about Leamas or–ring me up,” he said. “Do you understand?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend of Alec Leamas.” He hesitated. “Another thing,” he added, “one last question. Did Alec know you were. . . Did Alec know about the Party?”
“Yes,” she replied hopelessly. “I told him.”
“Does the Party know about you and Alec?”
“I’ve told you. No one knew.” Then, white-faced, she cried out suddenly, “Where is he? Tell me where he is. Why won’t you tell me where he is? I can help him, don’t you see; I’ll look after him. . . even if he’s gone mad, I don’t care, I swear I don’t. . . . I wrote to him in prison; I shouldn’t have done that, I know. I just said he could come back any time, I’d wait for him always. . . .” She couldn’t speak any more, just sobbed and sobbed, standing there in the middle of the room, her broken face buried in her hands; the little man watching her.
“He’s gone abroad,” he said gently. “We don’t quite know where he is. He isn’t mad, but he shouldn’t have said all that to you. It was a pity.”
The younger man said, “We’ll see you’re looked after. For money and that kind of thing.”
“Who are you?” Liz asked again.
“Friends of Alec,” the young man repeated; “good friends.”
She heard them go quietly down the stairs and into the street. From her window she watched them get into a small black car and drive away in the- direction of the park.
Then she remembered the card. Going to the table she picked it up and held it to the light. It was expensively done, more than a policeman could afford, she thought. Engraved. No rank in front of the name, no police station or anything. Just the name with “Mister”–and whoever heard of a policeman living in Chelsea?
MR. GEORGE SMILEY. 9 BYWATER STREET, CHELSEA. Then the telephone number underneath. It was very strange.
* * 12 * East
Leamas unfastened his seat belt.
It is said that men condemned to death are subject to sudden moments of elation; as if, like moths in the fire, their destmction were coincidental with attainment. Following directly upon his decision, Leamas was aware of a comparable sensation; relief, short-lived but consoling, sustained him for a time. It was followed by fear and hunger.
He was slowing down. Control was right.
He’d noticed it first during the Riemeck Case early last year. Karl had sent a message: he’d got something special for him and was making one of his rare – visits to West Germany; some legal conference at Karisruhe. Leamas had managed to get an air passage to Cologne, and picked up a car at the airport. It was stifi quite early in the morning and he’d hoped to miss most of the autobahn traffic to Karisruhe but the heavy lorries were already on the move. He drove seventy kilometers in half an hour, weaving between the traffic, taking risks to beat the clock, when a small car, a Fiat probably, nosed its way out into the fast lane forty yards ahead of him. Leamas stamped on the brake, turning his headlights full on and sounding his horn, and by the grace of God he missed it; missed it by a fraction of a second. As he passed the car he saw out of the corner of his eye four children in the back, waving and laughing, and the stupid, frightened face of their father at the wheel. He drove on, cursing, and suddenly it happened; suddenly his hands were shaking feverishly, his face was burning hot, his heart palpitating wildly. He managed to pull off the road into a lay-by, scrambled out of the car and stood, breathing heavily, staring at the hurtling stream of giant lorries. He had a vision of the little car caught among them, pounded and smashed, until there was nothing left, nothing but the frenetic whine of klaxons and the blue lights flashing; and the bodies of the children, torn, like the murdered refugees on the road across the dunes.