The Looking Glass War Part 6

"What are you trying to prove, Adrian?"

"What was that you said about putting a man in?"

LeClerc went to the basin and poured himself a gla.s.s of water from the tap. "You don't care for Avery, do you?" he asked.

"He's young. I'm tired of that cult."

"I get a sore throat, talking all the time. Have some yourself. Do your cough good."

"How old is Gorton?" Haldane accepted the gla.s.s, drank and handed it back.

"Fifty."

"He's more. He's our age. He was our age in the war."

"One forgets. Yes, he must be fifty-five or -six."

"Established?" Haldane persisted.

LeClerc shook his head. "He's not qualified. Broken service. He went to the Control Commission after the war. When that packed up he wanted to stay in Germany. German wife, I think. He came to us and we gave him a contract. We could never afford to keep him there if he were established." He took a sip of water, delicately, like a girl. "Ten years ago we'd thirty men in the field. Now we've nine. We haven't even got our own couriers, not clandestine ones. They all knew it this morning; why didn't they say so?"

"How often does he put in a refugee report?"

LeClerc shrugged. "I don't see all his stuff," he said. "Your people should know. The market's dwindling, I suppose, now they've closed the Berlin border."

"They only put the better reports up to me. This must be the first I've seen from Hamburg for a year. I always imagined he had some other function."

LeClerc shook his head. Haldane asked, "When does his contract come up for renewal?"

"I don't know. I just don't know."

"I suppose he must be fairly worried. Does he get a gratuity on retirement?"

"It's just a three-year contract. There's no gratuity. No frills. He has the chance of going on after sixty, of course, if we want him. That's the advantage of being a temporary."

"When was his contract last renewed?"

"You'd better ask Carol. It must be two years ago. Maybe longer."

Haldane said again, "You talked about putting a man in."

"I'm seeing the Minister again this afternoon."

"You've sent Avery already. You shouldn't have done that, you know."

"Somebody had to go. Did you want me to ask the Circus?"

"Avery was very impertinent," Haldane observed.

The rain was running in the gutters, tracing grey tracks on the dingy panes. LeClerc seemed to want Haldane to speak, but Haldane had nothing to say. "I don't know yet what the Minister thinks about Taylor's death. He'll ask me this afternoon and I shall give him my opinion. We're all in the dark, of course." His voice recovered its strength. "But he may instruct me-it's in the cards, Adrian-he may instruct me to get a man in."

"Well?"

"Suppose I asked you to form an operations section, make the research, prepare the papers and equipment; suppose I asked you to find, train and field the agent. Would you do it?"

"Without telling the Circus?"

"Not in detail. We may need their facilities from time to time. That doesn't mean we need tell them the whole story. There's the question of security: need to know."

"Then without the Circus?"

"Why not?"

Haldane shook his head. "Because it isn't our work. We're just not equipped. Give it to the Circus and help them out with the military stuff. Give it to an old hand, someone like Smiley or Leamas-"

"Leamas is dead."

"All right then-Smiley."

"Smiley is blown."

Haldane coloured "Then Guillam or one of the others. One of the pros. They've got a big enough stable these days. Go and see Control, let him have the case."

"No," LeClerc said firmly, putting his gla.s.s on the table. "No, Adrian. You've been in the Department as long as I have, you know our brief. Take all necessary steps-that's what it says-all necessary steps for the procurement, a.n.a.lysis and verification of military intelligence in those areas where the requirement cannot be met from conventional military resources." He beat out the words with his little fist as he spoke. "How else do you think I got authority for the overflight?"

"All right," Haldane conceded. "We have our brief. But things have changed. It's a different game now. In those days we were top of the tree-rubber boats on a moonless night; a captured enemy plane; wireless and all that. You and I know; we did it together. But it's changed. It's a different war; a different kind of fighting. They know that at the Ministry perfectly well." He added, "And don't place too much trust in the Circus; you'll get no charity from those people."

They looked at one another in surprise, a moment of recognition. LeClerc said, his voice scarcely above a whisper: "It began with the networks, didn't it? Do you remember how the Circus swallowed them up one by one? The Ministry would say: 'We're in danger of duplication on the Polish desks, LeClerc. I've decided Control should look after Poland.' When was that? July forty-eight. Year after year it's gone on. Why do you think they patronize your Research Section? Not just for your beautiful files; they've got us where they want us, don't you see? Satellites! Non-operational! It's a way of putting us to sleep! You know what they call us in Whitehall these days? The Grace and Favour boys."

There was a long silence.

Haldane said, "I'm a collator, not an operational man."

"You used to be operational, Adrian."

"So did we all."

"You know the target. You know the whole background. There's no one else. Take whom you want-Avery, Woodford, whomever you want."

"We're not used to people anymore. Handling them, I mean." Haldane had become unusually diffident. "I'm a Research man. I work with files."

"We've had nothing else to give you until now. How long is it? Twenty years."

"Do you know what it means, a rocket site?" Haldane demanded. "Do you know how much mess it makes? They need launch pads, blast s.h.i.+elds, cable troughs, control buildings; they need bunkers for storing the warheads, trailers for fuel and oxidizers. All those things come first. Rockets don't creep about in the night, they move like a travelling fair; we'd have other indicators before now; or the Circus would. As for Taylor's death-"

"For heaven's sake, Adrian, do you think intelligence consists of una.s.sailable philosophical truths? Does every priest have to prove that Christ was born on Christmas Day?"

His little face was thrust forward as he tried to draw from Haldane something he seemed to know was there. "You can't do it all by sums, Adrian. We're not academics, we're Civil Servants. We have to deal with things as they are. We have to deal with people, with events!"

"Very well, events then: if he swam the river, how did he preserve the film? How did he really take the pictures? Why isn't there any trace of camera shake? He'd been drinking, he was balancing on tiptoe; they're long enough exposures, you know, time exposures," he said. Haldane seemed afraid, not of LeClerc, not of the operation, but of himself. "Why did he give Gorton for nothing what he'd offered elsewhere for money? Why did he risk his life at all, taking those photographs? I sent Gorton a list of supplementaries. He's still trying to find the man, he says."

His eyes drifted to the model airplane and the files on LeClerc's desk. "You're thinking of Peenemunde, aren't you?" he continued. "You want it to be like Peenemunde."

"You haven't told me what you'll do if I get those instructions."

"You never will. You never, never will." He spoke with great finality, almost triumph. "We're dead, don't you see? You said it yourself. They want us to go to sleep, not go to war." He stood up. "So it doesn't matter. It's all academic after all. Can you really imagine Control would help us?"

"They've agreed to help us with a courier."

"Yes. I find that most odd."

Haldane stopped before a photograph by the door. "That's Malherbe, isn't it? The boy who died. Why did you choose that name?"

"I don't know. It just came into my head. One's memory plays odd tricks."

"You shouldn't have sent Avery. We've no business to use him for a job like that."

LeClerc said, "I went through the cards last night. We've got a man who'd do. Trained wireless operator, German speaker, unmarried." Haldane stood quite still.

"Age?" he asked at last.

"Forty. A bit over."

"He must have been very young."

"He put up a good show. They caught him in Holland and he got away."

"How did he get caught?"

The slightest pause. "It isn't recorded."

"Intelligent?"

"He seems quite well qualified."

The same long silence.

"So am I. Let's see what Avery brings back."

"Let's see what the Ministry says."

LeClerc waited till the sound of coughing had faded down the corridor before he put on his coat. He would go for a walk, take some fresh air and have lunch at his club; the best they had. He wondered what it would be; the place had gone off badly in the last few years. After lunch he would go round to Taylor's widow. Then to the Ministry.

Woodford, lunching with his wife at Gorringe's, said, "Young Avery's on his first run. Clarkie sent him. He should make a good job of it."

"Perhaps he'll get himself killed, too," she said nastily. She was off the drink, doctor's orders. "Then you can have a real ball. Christ, that would be a party and a half! Come to the Blackfriars' Ball!" Her lower lip was quivering. "Why are the young ones so b.l.o.o.d.y marvellous? We were young, weren't we ... ? Christ, we still are. What's wrong with us? We can't wait to get old, can we? We can't..."

"All right, Babs," he said. He was afraid she might cry.

Six.

Takeoff Avery sat in the airplane remembering the day when Haldane failed to appear. It was, by coincidence, the first of the month, July it must have been, and Haldane did not come to the office. Avery knew nothing of it until Woodford rang him on the internal telephone to tell him. Haldane was probably ill, Avery had said; some personal matter had cropped up. But Woodford was adamant. He had been to LeClerc's room, he said, and had looked at the leave roster: Haldane was not due for leave till August.

"Telephone his flat, John, telephone his flat," he had urged. "Speak to his wife. Find out what's become of him." Avery was so astonished that he did not know what to say: these two had worked together for twenty years, and even he knew Haldane was a bachelor.

"Find out where he is," Woodford had persisted. "Go on, I order you: ring his flat."

So he did. He might have told Woodford to do it himself, but he hadn't the heart. Haldane's sister answered. Haldane was in bed, his chest was playing him up; he had refused to tell her the Department's telephone number. As Avery's eye caught the calendar, he realized why Woodford had been so agitated: it was the beginning of a quarter. Haldane might have got a new job and left the Department without telling Woodford. A day or two later, when Haldane returned, Woodford was uncommonly warm toward him, bravely ignoring his sarcasm; he was grateful to him for coming back. For some time after that, Avery had been frightened. His faith shaken, he examined more closely its object.

He noticed that they ascribed-it was a plot in which all but Haldane compounded-legendary qualities to one another. LeClerc, for instance, would seldom introduce Avery to a member of his parent Ministry without some catchword. "Avery is the brightest of our new stars"-or, to more senior men, "John is my memory. You must ask John." For the same reason they lightly forgave one another their trespa.s.ses, because they dared not think, for their own sakes, that the Department had room for fools. He recognized that it provided shelter from the complexities of modern life, a place where frontiers still existed. For its servants, the Department had a religious quality. Like monks, they endowed it with a mystical ident.i.ty far away from the hesitant, sinful band which made up its ranks. While they might be cynical of the qualities of one another, contemptuous of their own hierarchical preoccupations, their faith in the Department burned in some separate chapel and they called it patriotism.

For all that, as he glanced at the darkening sea beneath him, at the cold sunlight slanting on the waves, he felt his heart thrilling with love. Woodford with his pipe and his plain way became part of that secret elite to which Avery now belonged; Haldane, Haldane above all, with his crosswords and his eccentricities, fitted into place as the uncompromising intellectual, irritable and aloof. He was sorry he had been rude to Haldane. He saw Dennison and McCulloch as the matchless technicians, quiet men, not articulate at meetings, but tireless and in the end, right. He thanked LeClerc, thanked him warmly, for the privilege of knowing these men, for the excitement of this mission; for the opportunity to advance from the uncertainty of the past toward experience and maturity, to become a man, shoulder to shoulder with the others, tempered in the fire of war; he thanked him for the precision of command, which made order out of the anarchy of his heart. He imagined that when Anthony grew up, he too might be led into those dowdy corridors and be presented to old Pine, who with tears in his eyes would stand up in his box and warmly grasp the child's tender hand.

It was a scene in which Sarah played no part.

Avery lightly touched a corner of the long envelope in his inside pocket. It contained his money: two hundred pounds in a blue envelope with the Government crest. He had heard of people in the war sewing such things into the lining of their clothes, and he rather wished they had done that for him. It was a childish conceit, he knew; he even smiled to discover himself given to such fancies.

He remembered Smiley that morning; in retrospect he was just a little frightened of Smiley. And he remembered the child at the door. A man must steel himself against sentiment.

"Your husband did a very good job," LeClerc was saying. "I cannot tell you the details. I am sure that he died very gallantly."

Her mouth was stained and ugly. LeClerc had never seen anyone cry so much; it was like a wound that would not close.

"What do you mean, gallantly?" She blinked. "We're not fighting a war. That's finished, all that fancy talk. He's dead," she said stupidly, and buried her face in her crooked arm, slouching across the dining room table like a puppet abandoned. The child was staring from a corner.

"I trust," LeClerc said, "that I have your permission to apply for a pension. You must leave all that to us. The sooner we take care of it the better. A pension," he declared, as if it were the maxim of his house, "can make a lot of difference."

The Consul was waiting beside the Immigration Officer; he came forward without a smile as if he were doing his duty. "Are you Avery?" he asked. Avery had the impression of a tall man in a trilby and a dark overcoat, red-faced and severe. They shook hands.

"You're the British Consul. Mr. Sutherland."

"H. M. Consul, actually," he replied a little tartly. "There's a difference, you know." He spoke with a Scottish accent. "How did you know my name?"

They walked together toward the main entrance. It was all very simple. Avery noticed the girl at the desk; fair and rather pretty.

"It's kind of you to come all this way," Avery said.

"It's only three miles from the town." They got into the car.

"He was killed just up the road," said Sutherland. "Do you want to see the spot?"

"I might as well. To tell my mother." He was wearing a black tie.