The Spy Who Came In From The Cold Part 5

"Around the place. Roughing it a bit. I haven't got a job. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds wouldn't give me a proper pension."

Ashe looked horrified.

"But Alec, that's awful, why didn't you _tell_ me? Look, why not come and stay at my place? It's only tiny but there's room for one more if you don't mind a camp bed. You can't just live in the trees, my dear chap!"

"I'm all right for a bit," Leamas replied, tapping at the pocket which contained the envelope. "I'm going to get a job." He nodded with determination. "Get one in a week or so. Then I'll be all right."

"What sort of job?"

"Oh, I don't know. Anything."

"But you can't just throw yourself away, Alec! You speak German like a native, I remember you do. There must be all sorts of things you can do!"

"I've done all sorts of things. Selling encyclopedias for some b.l.o.o.d.y American firm, sorting books in a psychic library, punching work tickets in a stinking glue factory. What the h.e.l.l _can_ I do?" He wasn't looking at Ashe but at the table before him, his agitated lips moving quickly. Ashe responded to his animation, leaning forward across the table, speaking with emphasis, almost triumph.

"But Alec, you need _contacts_, don't you see? I know what it's like, I've been on the breadline myself. That's when you need to _know_ people. I don't know what you were doing in Berlin, I don't want to know, but it wasn't the sort of job where you could meet people who matter, was it? If I hadn't met Sam at Poznan five years ago I'd _still_ be on the breadline. Look, Alec, come and stay with me for a week or so. We'll ask Sam around and perhaps one or two of the old press boys from Berlin if any of them are in town."

"But I can't write," said Leamas. "I couldn't write a b.l.o.o.d.y thing."

Ashe had his hand on Leamas' arm. "Now don't fuss," he said soothingly. "Let's just take things one at a time. Where are your bits and pieces?"

"My what?"

"Your things: clothes, baggage and what not?"

"I haven't got any. Fve sold what I had--except the parcel."

"What parcel?"

"The brown paper parcel you picked up in the park. The one I was trying to throw away."

Ashe had a flat in Dolphin Square. It was just what Leamas had expected--small and anonymous with a few hastily a.s.sembled curios from Germany: beer mugs, a peasant's pipe and a few pieces of second-rate Nymphenburg.

"I spend the weekends with my mother in Cheltenham," he said. "I just use this place midweek. It's pretty handy," he added deprecatingly. They fixed the camp bed up in the tiny drawing room. It was about four-thirty.

"How long have you been here?" asked Leamas.

"Oh--about a year or more."

"Find it easily?"

"They come and go, you know, these flats. You put your name down and one day they ring you up and tell you you've made it."

Ashe made tea and they drank it, Leamas sullen, like a man not used to comfort. Even Ashe seemed a little subdued. After tea Ashe said, "I'll go out and do a spot of shopping before the shops close, then we'll decide what to do about everything. I might give Sam a tinkle later this evening--I think the sooner you two get together the better. Why don't you get some sleep-- you look all in."

Leamas nodded. "It's b.l.o.o.d.y good of you"--he made an awkward gesture with his hand--"all this." Ashe gave him a pat on the shoulder, picked up his army mackintosh and left.

As soon as Leamas reckoned Ashe was safely out of the building he left the front door of the flat slightly ajar and made his way downstairs to the center hail, where there were two telephone booths. He dialed a Maida Vale number and asked for Mr. Thomas' secretary. Immediately a girl's voice said, "Mr. Thomas' secretary speaking."

"I'm ringing on behalf of Mr. Sam Kiever," Leamas said. "He has accepted the invitation and hopes to contact Mr. Thomas personally this evening."

"I'll pa.s.s that on to Mr. Thomas. Does he know where to get in touch with you?"

"Dolphin Square," Leamas replied, and gavethe address. "Good-bye."

After making some inquiries at the reception desk, he returned to Ashe's flat and sat on the camp bed looking at his clasped hands. After a while he lay down. He decided to accept Ashe's advice and get some rest. As he closed his eyes he remembered Liz lying beside him in the flat in Bayswater, and he wondered vaguely what had become of her.

He was wakened by Ashe, accompanied by a small, rather plump man with long, graying hair swept back and a double-breasted suit. He spoke with a slight central European accent; German perhaps, it was hard to tell. He said his name was Kiever--Sam Kiever.

They had a gin and tonic, Ashe doing most of the talking. It was just like old times, he said, in Berlin: the boys together and the night their oyster. Kiever said he didn't want to be too late; he had to work tomorrow. They agreed to eat at a Chinese restaurant that Ashe knew of--it was opposite Limehouse police station and you brought your own wine. Oddly enough, Ashe had some Burgundy in the kitchen, and they took that with them in the taxi.

Dinner was very good and they drank both bottles of wine. Kiever opened up a little on the second: he'd just come back from a tour of West Germany and France. France was in a h.e.l.l of a mess, de Gaulle was on the way out, and G.o.d alone knew what would happen then. With a hundred thousand demoralized colons returning from Algeria he reckoned fascism was in the cards.

"What about Germany?" asked Ashe, prompting him.

"It's just a question of whether the Yanks can hold them." Kiever looked invitingly at Leamas.

"What do you mean?" asked Leamas.

"What I say. Dulles gave them a foreign policy with one hand, Kennedy takes it away with the other. They're getting waspish."

Leamas nodded abruptly and said, "b.l.o.o.d.y typical Yank."

"Alec doesn't seem to like our American cousins," and Ashe, stepping in heavily, and Kiever, with complete disinterest, murmured, "Oh really?"

Kiever played it, Leamas reflected, very long. Like someone used to horses, he let you come to him. He conveyed to perfection a man who suspected that he was about to be asked a favor, and was not easily won.

After dinner Ashe said, "I know a place in Wardour Street--you've been there, Sam. They do you all right there. Why don't we summon a cab and go along?"

"Just a minute," said Leamas, and there was something in his voice which made Ashe look at him quickly. "Just tell me something, will you? Who's paying for this jolly?"

"I am," said Ashe quickly. "Sam and I."

"Have you discussed it?"

"Well--no."

"Because I haven't got any b.l.o.o.d.y money; you know that, don't you? None to throw about, anyway."

"Of course, Alec. Fve looked after you up till now, haven't I?"

"Yes," Leamas replied. "Yes, you have."

He seemed to be going to say something else, and then to change his mind. Ashe looked worried, not offended, and Kiever as inscrutable as before.

Leamas refused to speak in the taxi. Ashe attempted some conciliatory remark and he just shrugged irritably. They arrived at Wardour Street and dismounted, neither Leamas nor Kiever making any attempt to pay for the cab. Ashe led them past a shop window full of "girlie" magazines, down a narrow alley, at the far end of which shone a tawdry neon sign: p.u.s.s.yWILLOW CLUB--MEMBERS ONLY. On either side of the door were photographs of girls, and pinned across each was a thin, hand-printed strip of paper which read _Nature Study. Members Only_.

Ashe pressed the bell. The door was at once opened by a very large man in a white s.h.i.+rt and black trousers.

"I'm a member," Ashe said. "These two gentlemen are with me."

"See your card?"

Ashe took a buff card from his wallet and handed it over.

"Your guests pay a quid a head, temporary members.h.i.+p. Your recommendation, right?" He held out the card and as he did so, Leamas stretched past Ashe and took it. He looked at it for a moment, then handed it back to Ashe.

Taking two pounds from his hip pocket, Leamas put them into the waiting hand of the man at the door.

"Two quid," said Leamas, "for the guests," and ignoring the astonished protests of Ashe he guided them through the curtained doorway into the dim hallway of the club. He turned to the doorman.

"Find us a table," said Leamas, "and a bottle of Scotch. And see we're left alone."

The doorman hesitated for a moment, decided not to argue, and escorted them downstairs. As they descended they heard the subdued moan of unintelligible music. They got a table on their own at the back of the room. A two-piece band was playing and girls sat around in twos and threes. Two got up as they came in but the big doorman shook his head.

Ashe glanced at Leamas uneasily while they waited for the whisky. Kiever seemed slightly bored. The waiter brought a bottle and three tumblers and they watched in silence as he poured a little whisky into each gla.s.s. Leamas took the bottle from the waiter and added as much again to each. This done, he leaned across the table and said to Ashe, "Now perhaps you'll tell me what the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l's going on."

"What do you mean?" Ashe sounded uncertain. "What _do_ you mean, Alec?"

"You followed me from prison the day I was released," he began quietly, "with some b.l.o.o.d.y silly story of meeting me in Berlin. You gave me money you didn't owe me. You've bought me expensive meals and you're putting me up in your flat."

Ashe colored and said, "If that's the--"

"Don't interrupt," said Leamas fiercely. "Just d.a.m.n well wait till I've finished, do you mind? Your members.h.i.+p card for this place is made out for someone called Murphy. Is that your name?"

"No, it is not."

"I suppose a friend called Murphy lent you his members.h.i.+p card?"

"No, he didn't as a matter of fact. If you must know, I come here occasionally to find a girl. I used a phony name to join the club."

"Then why," Leamas persisted ruthlessly, "is Murphy registered as the tenant of your flat?"

It was Kiever who finally spoke.

"You run along home," he said to Ashe. "I'll look after this."

A girl performed a striptease, a young, drab girl with a dark bruise on her thigh. She had that pitiful, spindly nakedness which is embarra.s.sing because it is not erotic; because it is artless and undesiring. She turned slowly, jerking sporadically with her arms and legs as if she only heard the music in s.n.a.t.c.hes, and all the time she looked at them with the precocious interest of a child in adult company. The tempo of the music increased abruptly, and the girl responded like a dog to the whistle, scampering back and forth. Removing her bra.s.siere on the last note, she held it above her head, displaying her meager body with its three tawdry patches of tinsel hanging from it like old Christmas tree decorations.

They watched in silence, Leamas and Kiever.

"I suppose you're going to tell me that we've seen better in Berlin," Leamas suggested at last, and Kiever saw that he was stifi very angry.

"I expect _you_ have," Kiever replied pleasantly. "I have often been to Berlin, but I am afraid I dislike night clubs."

Leamas said nothing.

"I'm no prude, mind, just rational. If I want a woman I know cheaper ways of finding one; if I want to dance I know better places to do it."

Leamas might not have been listening. "Perhaps you'll tell me why that sissy picked me up," he suggested. Kiever nodded.

"By all means. I told him to."

"Why?"

"I am interested in you. I want to make you a proposition, a journalistic proposition."

There was a pause.

"Journalistic," Leamas repeated. "I see."

"I run an agency, an international feature service. It pays well--very well--for interesting material."

"Who publishes the material?"

"It pays so well, in fact, that a man with your kind of experience of . . . the international scene, a man with your background, you understand, who provided convincing, factual material, could free himself in a comparatively short time from further financial worry."

"Who publishes the material, Kiever?" There was a threatening edge to Leamas' voice, and for a moment, just for a moment, a look of apprehension seemed to pa.s.s across Kiever's smooth face.

"International clients. I have a correspondent in Paris who disposes of a good deal of my stuff. Often I don't even know who _does_ publish. I confess," he added with a disarming smile, "that I don't awfully care. They pay and they ask for more. They're the kind of people, you see, Leamas, who don't fuss about awkward details; they pay promptly, and they're happy to pay into foreign banks, for instance, where no one bothers about things like tax."

Leamas said nothing. He was holding his gla.s.s with both hands, staring into it.

Christ, they're rus.h.i.+ng their fences, Leamas thought; it's indecent. He remembered some silly music hail joke--"ThIs is an offer no respectable girl could accept--and besides, I don't know what it's worth." Tactically, he reflected, they're right to rush it. I'm down and out, prison experience still fresh, social resentment strong. Fm an old horse, I don't need breaking in; I don't have to pretend they've offended my honor as an English gentleman.

On the other hand they would expect _practical_ objections. They would expect him to be afraid; for his Service pursued traitors as the eye of G.o.d followed Cain across the desert. And finally, they would know it was a gamble. They would know that inconsistency in human decision can make nonsense of the bestplanned espionage approach; that cheats, liars and criminals may resist every blandishment while respectable gentlemen have been moved to appalling treasons by watery cabbage in a departmental canteen.

"They'd have to pay a h.e.l.l of a lot," Leamas muttered at last. Kiever gave him some more whisky.

"They are offering a down payment of fifteen thousand pounds. The money is already lodged at the Banque Cantonale in Bern. On production of a suitable identification, with which my clients will provide you, you can draw the money. My clients reserve the right to put questions to you over the period of one year on payment of another five thousand pounds. They will a.s.sist you with any . . . resettlement problems that may arise."

"How soon do you want an answer?"

"Now. You are not expected to commit all your reminiscences to paper. You will meet my client and he will arrange to have the material.. . ghost written."

"Where am I supposed to meet him?"

"We felt for everybody's sake it would be simplest to meet outside the United Kingdom. My client suggested Holland."

"I haven't got my pa.s.sport," Leamas said dully.

"I took the liberty of obtaining one for you," Kiever replied suavely; nothing in his voice or his manner indicated that he had done other than negotiate an adequate business arrangement. "We're flying to* The Hague tomorrow morning at nine forty-five. Shall we go back to my flat and discuss any other details?"

Kiever paid and they took a taxi to a rather good address not far from St. James's Park.

Kiever's flat was luxurious and expensive, but its contents somehow gave the impression of having been hastily a.s.sembled. It is said there are shops in London which will sell you bound books by the yard, and interior decorators who will harmonize the color scheme of the walls with that of a painting. Leamas, who was not particularly receptive to such subtleties, found it hard to remember that he was in a private flat and not a hotel. As Kiever showed him to his room (which looked onto a dingy inner courtyard and not onto the street) Leamas asked him: "How long have you been here?"

"Oh, not long," Kiever replied lightly, "a few months, not more."