Le Carre, John - The Looking Glass War (v1.0) Read online

  "Oh?"

  "Drop a hint to the London newspapers. Stimulate publicity. Print the photographs."

  "And?"

  "Watch them. Watch the East German and Soviet diplomacy, watch their communications. Throw a stone into the nest and see what comes out."

  "I can tell you exactly what would come out. A protest from the Americans that would ring through these corridors for another twenty years."

  "Of course. I was forgetting that."

  "Then you're very lucky. You suggested putting an agent in."

  "Only tentatively. We've no one in mind."

  "Look," said the Under Secretary, with the finality of a man much tried. "The Minister's position is very simple. You have produced a report. If it is true, it alters our entire defense position. In fact it alters everything. I detest sensation, so does the Minister. Having put up the hare, the least you can do is have a shot at it."

  Leclerc said, "If I found a man there's the problem of resources. Money, training and equipment. Extra staff perhaps. Transport. Whereas an overnight…"

  "Why do you raise so many difficulties? I understood you people existed for this kind of thing."

  "We have the expertise, Under Secretary. But I cut down, you know. I have cut down a lot. Some of our functions have lapsed: one must be honest. I have never tried to put the clock back. This is, after all"—a delicate smile—"a slightly anachronistic situation."

  The Under Secretary glanced out of the window at the lights along the river.

  "It seems pretty contemporary to me. Rockets and that kind of thing. I don't think the Minister considers it anachronistic."

  "I'm not referring to the target but the method of attack: it would have to be a crash operation at the border. That has scarcely been done since the war. Although it is a form of clandestine warfare with which my Department is traditionally at home. Or used to be."

  "What are you getting at?"

  "I'm only thinking aloud, Under Secretary. I wonder whether the Circus might not be better equipped to deal with this. Perhaps you should approach Control. I can promise him the support of my armaments people."

  "You mean you don't think you can handle it?"

  "Not with my existing organization. Control can. As long, that is, as the Minister doesn't mind bringing in another Department. Two, really. I didn't realize you were so worried about publicity."

  "Two?"

  "Control will feel bound to inform the Foreign Office. It's his duty. Just as I inform you. And from then on, we must accept that it will be their headache."

  "If those people know," the Under Secretary said with contempt, "it'll be round every damned club by tomorrow."

  "There is that danger," Leclerc conceded. "More particularly, I wonder whether the Circus has the military skills. A rocket site is a complicated affair: launch pads, blast shields, cable troughs; all these things require proper processing and evaluation. Control and I could combine forces, I suppose—"

  "That's out of the question. You people make poor bedfellows. Even if you succeeded in cooperating, it would be against policy; no monolith."

  "Ah yes. Of course."

  "Assume you do it yourself, then; assume you find a man. What would that involve?"

  "A supplementary estimate. Immediate resources. Extra staff. A training establishment. Ministerial protection; special passes and authority." The knife again. "And some help from Control … we could obtain that under a pretext."

  A foghorn echoed mournfully across the water.

  "If it's the only way . . ."

  "Perhaps you'd put it to the Minister," Leclerc suggested.

  Silence. Leclerc continued, "In practical terms we need the best part of thirty thousand pounds."

  "Accountable?"

  "Partially. I understood you wanted to be spared details."

  "Except where the Treasury's concerned. I suggest that you make a memo about costs."

  "Very well. Just an outline."

  The silence returned.

  "That is hardly a large sum when set against the risk," the Under Secretary said, consoling himself.

  "The potential risk. We want to clarify. I don't pretend to be convinced. Merely suspicious, heavily suspicious." He couldn't resist adding, "The Circus would ask twice as much. They're very free with money."

  "Thirty thousand pounds, then, and our protection?"

  "And a man. But I must find him for myself." A small laugh. The Under Secretary said abruptly, "There are certain details the Minister will not want to know. You realize that?"

  "Of course. I imagine you will do most of the talking."

  "I imagine the Minister will. You've succeeded in worrying him a good deal."

  This time Leclerc remarked with impish piety, "We should never do that to our master; our common master."

  The Under Secretary did not seem to feel they had one. They stood up.

  "Incidentally," Leclerc said, "Mrs. Taylor's pension. I'm making an application to the Treasury. They feel the Minister should sign it."

  "Why, for God's sake?"

  "It's a question of whether he was killed in action."

  The Under Secretary froze. "That is most presumptuous. You're asking for Ministerial confirmation that Taylor was murdered."

  "I'm asking for a widow's pension," Leclerc protested gravely. "He was one of my best men."

  "Of course. They always are."

  The Minister did not look up as they came in.

  But the Police Inspector rose from his chair, a short, plump man with a shaven neck. He wore plain clothes. Avery supposed him to be a detective. He shook their hands with an air of professional bereavement, sat them in modern chairs with teak arms and offered cigars out of a tin. They declined, so he lit one himself and used it thereafter both as a prolongation of his short fingers when making gestures of emphasis, and as a drawing instrument to describe in the smoke-filled air objects of which he was speaking. He deferred frequently to Avery's grief by thrusting his chin downward into his collar and casting from the shadow of his lowered eyebrows confiding looks of sympathy. First he related the circumstances of the accident, praised in tiresome detail the efforts of the police to track down the car, referred frequently to the personal concern of the President of Police, whose anglophilia was a byword, and stated his own conviction that the guilty man would be found out and punished with the full severity of Finnish law. He dwelt for some time on his own admiration of the British, his affection for the Queen and Sir Winston Churchill, the charms of Finnish neutrality, and finally he came to the body.

  The postmortem, he was proud to say, was complete, and Mr. Public Prosecutor (his own words) had declared that the circumstances of Mr. Malherbe's death gave no grounds for suspicion despite the presence of a considerable amount of alcohol in the blood. The barman at the airport accounted for five glasses of Steinhager. He turned to Sutherland.

  "Does he want to see his brother?" he inquired, thinking it apparently a delicacy to refer the question to a third party.

  Sutherland was embarrassed. "That's up to Mr. Avery," he said, as if the matter were outside his competence. They both looked at Avery.

  "I don't think so," Avery said.

  "There is one difficulty. About the identification," Peersen said.

  "Identification?" Avery repeated. "Of my brother?"

  "You saw his passport," Sutherland put in, "before you sent it up to me. What's the difficulty?"

  The policeman nodded. "Yes, yes." Opening a drawer, he took out a handful of letters, a wallet and some photographs.

  "His name was Malherbe," he said. He spoke fluent English with a heavy American accent which somehow suited the cigar. "His passport was Malherbe. It was a good passport, wasn't it?" Peersen glanced at Sutherland. For a second, Avery thought he detected in Sutherland's clouded face a certain honest hesitation.

  "Of course."

  Peersen began to sort through the letters, putting some in a file before him and returning others to the drawer.
Every now and then, as he added to the pile, he muttered: "Ah, so," or "Yes, yes." Avery could feel the sweat running down his body; it drenched his clasped hands.

  "And your brother's name was Malherbe?" he asked again, when he had finished his sorting.

  Avery nodded. "Of course."

  Peersen smiled. "Not of course," he said, pointing his cigar and nodding in a friendly way as if he were making a debating point. "All his possessions, his letters, his clothes, driving license, all belong to Mr. Taylor. You know anything of Taylor?"

  A dreadful block was forming in Avery's mind. The envelope, what should he do with the envelope? Go to the lavatory, destroy it now before it was too late? He doubted whether it would work: the envelope was stiff and shiny. Even if he tore it, the pieces would float. He was aware of Peersen and Sutherland looking at him, waiting for him to speak, and all he could think of was the envelope weighing so heavily in his inside pocket.

  He managed to say, "No, I don't. My brother and I…" Stepbrother or half brother? "My brother and I did not have much to do with one another. He was older. We didn't really grow up together. He had a lot of different jobs, he could never quite settle down to anything. Perhaps this Taylor was a friend of his … who …" Avery shrugged, bravely trying to imply that Malherbe had been something of a mystery to him also.

  "How old are you?" Peersen asked. His respect for the bereaved seemed to be dwindling.

  "Thirty-two."

  "And Malherbe?" he threw out conversationally. "He was how many years older, please?"

  Sutherland and Peersen had seen his passport and knew his age. One remembers the age of people who die. Only Avery, his brother, had no idea how old the dead man was.

  "Twelve," he hazarded. "My brother was forty-four." Why did he have to say so much?

  Peersen raised his eyebrows. "Only forty-four? Then the passport is wrong as well."

  Peersen turned to Sutherland, poked his cigar toward the door at the far end of the room and said happily, as if he had ended an old argument between friends, "Now you are seeing why I have a problem about identification."

  Sutherland was looking very angry.

  "It would be nice if Mr. Avery looked at the body," Peersen suggested. "Then we can be sure."

  Sutherland said, "Inspector Peersen. The identity of Mr. Malherbe has been established from his passport. The Foreign Office in London has ascertained that Mr. Avery's name was quoted by Mr. Malherbe as his next of kin. You tell me there is nothing suspicious about the circumstances of his death. The customary procedure is now for you to release his effects to me for custody pending the completion of formalities in the United Kingdom. Mr. Avery may presumably take charge of his brother's body."

  Peersen seemed to deliberate. He extracted the remainder of Taylor's papers from the steel drawer of his desk, added them to the pile already in front of him. He telephoned somebody and spoke in Finnish. After some minutes an orderly brought in an old leather suitcase with an inventory which Sutherland signed. Throughout all this, neither Avery nor Sutherland exchanged a word with the Inspector.

  Peersen accompanied them all the way to the front door. Sutherland insisted on carrying the suitcase and papers himself. They went to the car. Avery waited for Sutherland to speak, but he said nothing. They drove for about ten minutes. The town was poorly lit. Avery noticed there was chemical on the road, in two lanes. The crown and gutters were still covered with snow. He was reminded of riding in the Mall, a thing he had never done. The streetlamps were neon, shedding a sickly light which seemed to shrink before the gathering darkness. Now and then Avery was aware of steep timbered roofs, the clanging of a tram or the tall white hat of a policeman.

  Occasionally he stole a glance through the rear window.

  Seven

  Woodford stood in the corridor smoking his pipe, grinning at the staff as they left. It was his hour of magic. The mornings were different. Tradition demanded that the junior staff arrive at half past nine; officer grades at ten or quarter past. Theoretically, senior members of the Department stayed late in the evening, clearing their papers. A gentleman, Leclerc would say, never watched the clock. The custom dated from the war, when officers spent the early hours of the morning debriefing reconnaissance pilots back from a run, or the late hours of the night dispatching an agent. The junior staff had worked shift in those days, but not the officers, who came and went as their work allowed. Now tradition fulfilled a different purpose. Now there were days, often weeks, when Woodford and his colleagues scarcely knew how to fill the time until five-thirty; all but Haldane, who supported on his stooping shoulders the Department's reputation for research. The rest would draft projects which were never submitted, bicker gently among themselves about leave, duty rosters and the quality of their official furniture; give excessive attention to the problems of their section staff.

  Berry, the cipher clerk, came into the corridor, stooped and put on his bicycle clips.

  "How's the missus, Berry?" Woodford asked. A man must keep his finger on the pulse.

  "Doing very nicely, thank you, sir." He stood up, ran a comb through his hair. "Shocking about Wilf Taylor, sir."

  "Shocking. He was a good scout."

  "Mr. Haldane's locking up Registry, sir. He's working late."

  "Is he? Well, we all have our hands full just now."

  Berry lowered his voice. "And the Boss is sleeping in, sir. Quite a crisis, really. I hear he's gone to see the Minister. They sent a car for him."

  "Good night, Berry." They hear too much, Woodford reflected with satisfaction, and began sauntering along the passage.

  The illumination in Haldane's room came from an adjustable reading lamp. It threw a brief, intense beam on to the file in front of him, touching the contours of his face and hands.

  "Working late?" Woodford inquired.

  Haldane pushed one file into his out-tray and picked up another.

  "Wonder how young Avery's faring; he'll do well, that boy. I hear the Boss isn't back yet. Must be a long session." As he spoke, Woodford settled himself in the leather armchair. It was Haldane's own, he had brought it from his flat and sat in it to do his crossword puzzle after luncheon.

  "Why should he do well? There is no particular precedent," Haldane said, without looking up.

  "How did Clarkie get on with Taylor's wife?" Woodford now asked. "How'd she take it?"

  Haldane sighed and put his file aside.

  "He broke it to her. That's all I know," he said.

  "You didn't hear how she took it? He didn't tell you?"

  Woodford always spoke a little louder than necessary, for he was used to competing with his wife.

  "I've really no idea. He went alone, I understand. Leclerc prefers to keep these things to himself."

  "I thought perhaps with you …"

  Haldane shook his head. "Only Avery," he muttered.

  "It's a big thing, this, isn't it, Adrian . . . could be?"

  "It could be. We shall see," Haldane said gently. He was not always unkind toward Woodford.

  "Anything new on the Taylor front?" Woodford inquired.

  "The Air Attache at Helsinki has located Lansen. He confirms that he handed Taylor the film. Apparently the Russians intercepted him over Kalkstadt; two MIGs. They buzzed him, then let him go."

  "God," said Woodford stupidly. "That clinches it."

  "It does nothing of the kind; it's consistent with what we know. If they declare the area closed why shouldn't they patrol it? They probably closed it for maneuvers, ground-air exercises. Why didn't they force Lansen down? The whole thing is entirely inconclusive."

  Leclerc was standing in the doorway. He had put on a clean collar for the Minister and a black tie for Taylor.

  "I came by car," he said. "They've given us one from the Ministry pool on indefinite loan. The Minister was quite distressed to hear we hadn't one. It's a Humber, chauffeur-driven like Control's. They tell me the chauffeur is a secure sort of person." He looked at Haldane. "I've decided to for
m Special Section, Adrian. I want you to take it over. I'm giving Research to Sandford for the time being. The change will do him good." His face broke into a smile as if he could contain himself no longer. He was very excited. "We're putting a man in. The Minister's given his consent. We go to work at once. I want to see Heads of Sections first thing tomorrow. Adrian, I'll give you Woodford and Avery. Bruce, you keep in touch with the boys; get on to the old training people. The Minister will support three-month contracts for temporary staff. No peripheral liabilities, of course. The usual program: wireless, weapon training, ciphers, observation, unarmed combat and cover. Adrian, we'll need a house. Perhaps Avery could go into that when he comes back. I'll approach Control about documentation; the forgers all went over to him. We'll want frontier records for the Lubeck area, refugee reports, details of minefields and obstructions." He glanced at his watch. "Adrian, shall we have a word?"

  "Tell me one thing," Haldane said. "How much does the Circus know about this?"

  "Whatever we choose to tell them. Why?"

  "They know Taylor is dead. It's all over Whitehall."

  "Possibly."

  "They know Avery's picking up a film in Finland. They may very well have noticed the Air Safety Center report on Lansen's plane. They have a way of noticing things.. . ."

  "Well?"

  "So it isn't only a question of what we tell them, is it?"

  "You'll come to tomorrow's meeting?" Leclerc asked a little pathetically.

  "I think I have the meat of my instructions. If you have no objection I would like to make one or two inquiries. This evening and tomorrow perhaps."

  Leclerc, bewildered, said, "Excellent. Can we help you?"

  "Perhaps I might have the use of your car for an hour?"

  "Of course. I want us all to use it—to our common benefit. Adrian—this is for you."

  He handed him a green card in a cellophane folder.

  "The Minister signed it, personally." He implied that, like a Papal blessing, there were degrees of authenticity in a Ministerial signature. "Then you'll do it, Adrian? You'll take the job?"