A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead

by John le Carré

  Smiley leant over the bridge, his head throbbing wildly, blood pouring from his nose, the fingers of his right hand feeling broken and useless. His gloves were gone. He looked down into the fog and could see nothing.

  “Dieter!” he cried in anguish. “Dieter!”

  He shouted again, but his voice choked and tears sprang to his eyes. “Oh dear God what have I done, oh Christ, Dieter, why didn’t you stop me, why didn’t you hit me with the gun, why didn’t you shoot?” He pressed his clenched hands to his face, tasting the salt blood in the palms mixed with the salt of his tears. He leant against the parapet and cried like a child. Somewhere beneath him a cripple dragged himself through the filthy water, lost and exhausted, yielding at last to the stenching blackness till it held him and drew him down.

  He woke to find Peter Guillam sitting on the end of his bed pouring out tea.

  “Ah, George. Welcome home. It’s two in the afternoon.”

  “And this morning—?”

  “This morning, dear boy, you were carolling on Battersea Bridge with Comrade Mendel.”

  “How is he … Mendel, I mean?”

  “Suitably ashamed of himself. Recovering fast.”

  “And Dieter—?”

  “Dead.”

  Guillam handed him a cup of tea and some ratafia biscuits from Fortnum’s.

  “How long have you been here, Peter?”

  “Well, we came here in a series of tactical bounds, as it were. The first was to Chelsea Hospital where they licked your wounds and gave you a fairly substantial tranquillizer. Then we came back here and I put you to bed. That was disgusting. Then I did a spot of telephoning and, so to speak, went round with a pointed stick tidying up the mess. I looked in on you now and again. Cupid and Psyche. You were either snoring like a saddleback or reciting Webster.”

  “God.”

  “Duchess of Malfi, I think it was. ‘I bade thee, when I was distracted of my wits, go kill my dearest friend, and thou hast done it!’ Dreadful nonsense, George, I’m afraid.”

  “How did the police find us—Mendel and me?”

  “George, you may not know it but you were bellowing pejoratives at Dieter as if—”

  “Yes, of course. You heard.”

  “We heard.”

  “What about Maston? What does Maston say about all this?”

  “I think he wants to see you. I have a message from him asking you to drop in as soon as you feel well enough. I don’t know what he thinks about it. Nothing at all, I should imagine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Guillam poured out more tea.

  “Use your loaf, George. All three principals in this little fairy tale have now been eaten by bears. No secret information has been compromised for the last six months. Do you really think Maston wants to dwell on the details? Do you really think he is bursting to tell the Foreign Office the good tidings—and admit that we only catch spies when we trip over their dead bodies?”

  The front-door bell rang and Guillam went downstairs to answer it. In some alarm Smiley heard him admit the visitor to the hall, then the subdued sound of voices, footsteps coming up the stairs. There was a knock on the door and Maston came in. He was carrying an absurdly large bunch of flowers and looked as though he had just been to a garden party. Smiley remembered it was Friday: no doubt he was going to Henley this week-end. He was grinning. He must have been grinning all the way up the stairs.

  “Well, George, in the wars again!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so. Another accident.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed, leaning across it, one arm supporting him the other side of Smiley’s legs.

  There was a pause and then he said:

  “You got my note, George?”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause.

  “There has been talk of a new section in the Department, George. We (your Department, that is) feel we should devote more energy to technique research, with particular application to satellite espionage. That is also the Home Office view, I’m pleased to say. Guillam has agreed to advise on terms of reference. I wondered if you’d take it on for us. Running it. I mean, with the necessary promotion of course and the option of extending your service after the statutory retirement age. Our personnel people are right behind me on this.”

  “Thank you … perhaps I could think about it, may I?”

  “Of course … of course,” Maston looked slightly put out. “When will you let me know? It may be necessary to take on some new men and the question of space arises … Have the week-end to think about it, will you, and let me know on Monday. The Secretary was quite willing for you to—”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know. It’s very good of you.”

  “Not at all. Besides I am only the Adviser, you know, George. This is really an internal decision. I’m just the bringer of good news, George; my usual function of errand boy.”

  Maston looked at Smiley hard for a moment, hesitated and then said: “I’ve put the Ministers in the picture … as far as is necessary. We discussed what action should be taken. The Home Secretary was also present.”

  “When was this?”

  “This morning. Some very grave issues were raised. We considered a protest to the East Germans and an extradition order for this man Mundt.”

  “But we don’t recognize East Germany.”

  “Precisely. That was the difficulty. It is, however, possible to lodge a protest with an intermediary.”

  “Such as Russia?”

  “Such as Russia. In the event, however, certain factors militated against this. It was felt that publicity, whatever form it took, would ultimately rebound against the nation’s interests. There is already considerable popular hostility in this country to the rearmament of Western Germany. It was felt that any evidence of German intrigue in Britain—whether inspired by the Russians or not—might encourage this hostility. There is, you see, no positive evidence that Frey was operating for the Russians. It might well be represented to the public that he was operating on his own account or on behalf of a united Germany.”

  “I see.”

  “So far very few people indeed are aware of the facts at all. That is most fortunate. On behalf of the police the Home Secretary has tentatively agreed that they will do their part in playing the affair down as far as possible … Now this man Mendel, what’s he like? Is he trustworthy?”

  Smiley hated Maston for that.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Maston got up. “Good,” he said, “good. Well, I must get along. Anything you want at all, anything I can do?”

  “No, thank you. Guillam is looking after me admirably.”

  Maston reached the door. “Well, good luck, George. Take the job if you can.” He said this quickly in a subdued voice with a pretty, sidelong smile as if it meant rather a lot to him.

  “Thank you for the flowers,” said Smiley.

  Dieter was dead, and he had killed him. The broken fingers of his right hand, the stiffness of his body and the sickening headache, the nausea of guilt, all testified to this. And Dieter had let him do it, had not fired the gun, had remembered their friendship when Smiley had not. They had fought in a cloud, in the rising stream of the river, in a clearing in a timeless forest; they had met, two friends rejoined, and fought like beasts. Dieter had remembered and Smiley had not. They had come from different hemispheres of the night, from different worlds of thought and conduct. Dieter, mercurial, absolute, had fought to build a civilization. Smiley, rationalistic, protective, had fought to prevent him. “Oh God,” said Smiley aloud, “who was then the gentleman …?”

  Laboriously he got out of bed and began to dress. He felt better standing up.

  17

  DEAR ADVISER

  Dear Adviser,

  I am at last able to reply to Personnel’s offer of a higher appointment in the Department. I am sorry that I have taken so long to do this, but as you know, I have not been well recently, and have also had to contend with a number of personal
problems outside the scope of the Department.

  As I am not entirely free of my indisposition, I feel it would be unwise for me to accept their offer. Kindly convey this decision to Personnel.

  I am sure you will understand.

  Yours,

  George Smiley

  Dear Peter,

  I enclose a note on the Fennan Case. This is the only copy. Please pass it to Maston when you have read it. I thought it would be valuable to record the events—even if they did not take place.

  Ever,

  George

  The Fennan Case

  On Monday, 2 January, I interviewed Samuel Arthur Fennan, a senior member of the Foreign Office, in order to clarify certain allegations made against him in an anonymous letter. The interview was arranged in accordance with the customary procedure, that is to say with the consent of the FO. We knew of nothing adverse to Fennan beyond communist sympathy while at Oxford in the thirties, to which little significance was attached. The interview was therefore in a sense a strictly routine affair.

  Fennan’s room at the Foreign Office was found to be unsuitable and we agreed to continue our discussion in St James’s Park, availing ourselves of the good weather.

  It has subsequently transpired that we were recognized and observed in this by an agent of the East German Intelligence Service, who had cooperated with me during the war. It is not certain whether he had placed Fennan under some kind of surveillance, or whether his presence in the park was coincidental.

  On the night of 3 January it was reported by Surrey police that Fennan had committed suicide. A typewritten suicide note signed by Fennan claimed that he had been victimized by the security authorities.

  The following facts, however, emerged during investigation, and suggested foul play:

  1. At 7.55 p.m. on the night of his death Fennan had asked the Walliston exchange to call him at 8.30 the following morning.

  2. Fennan had made himself a cup of cocoa shortly before his death, and had not drunk it.

  3. He had supposedly shot himself in the hall, at the bottom of the stairs. The note was beside the body.

  4. It seemed inconsistent that he should type his last letter, as he seldom used a typewriter, and even more remarkable that he should come downstairs to the hall to shoot himself.

  5. On the day of his death he posted a letter inviting me in urgent terms to lunch with him at Marlow the following day.

  6. Later it also transpired that Fennan had requested a day’s leave for Wednesday, 4 January. He did not apparently mention this to his wife.

  7. It was also noted that the suicide letter had been typed on Fennan’s own machine—and that it contained certain peculiarities in the typescript similar to those in the anonymous letter. The laboratory report concluded, however, that the two letters had not been typed by the same hand, though originating from the same machine.

  Mrs Fennan, who had been to the theatre on the night her husband died, was invited to explain the 8.30 call from the exchange and falsely claimed to have requested it herself. The exchange was positive that this was not the case. Mrs Fennan claimed that her husband had been nervous and depressed since his security interview, which corroborated the evidence of his final letter.

  On the afternoon of 4 January, having left Mrs Fennan earlier in the day, I returned to my house in Kensington. Briefly observing somebody at the window, I rang the front-door bell. A man opened the door who has since been identified as a member of the East German Intelligence Service. He invited me into the house but I declined his offer and returned to my car, noting at the same time the numbers of cars parked nearby.

  That evening I visited a small garage in Battersea to inquire into the origin of one of these cars which was registered in the name of the proprietor of the garage. I was attacked by an unknown assailant and beaten senseless. Three weeks later the proprietor himself, Adam Scarr, was found dead in the Thames near Battersea Bridge. He had been drunk at the time of drowning. There were no signs of violence and he was known as a heavy drinker.

  It is relevant that Scarr had for the last four years provided an anonymous foreigner with the use of a car, and had received generous rewards for doing so. Their arrangements were designed to conceal the identity of the borrower even from Scarr himself, who only knew his client by the nickname “Blondie” and could only reach him through a telephone number. The telephone number is of importance: it was that of the East German Steel Mission.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Fennan’s alibi for the evening of the murder had been investigated and significant information came to light:

  1. Mrs Fennan attended the Weybridge Repertory Theatre twice a month, on the first and third Tuesdays. (N.B. Adam Scarr’s client had collected his car on the first and third Tuesdays of each month.)

  2. She always brought a music case and left it in the cloakroom.

  3. When visiting the theatre she was always joined by a man whose description corresponded with that of my assailant and Scarr’s client. It was even mistakenly assumed by a member of the theatre staff that this man was Mrs Fennan’s husband. He too brought a music case and left it in the cloakroom.

  4. On the evening of the murder Mrs Fennan had left the theatre early after her friend had failed to arrive and had forgotten to reclaim her music case. Late that night she telephoned the theatre to ask if the case could be called for at once. She had lost her cloakroom ticket. The case was collected—by Mrs Fennan’s usual friend.

  At this point the stranger was identified as an employee of the East German Steel Mission named Mundt. The principal of the Mission was Herr Dieter Frey, a wartime collaborator of our Service, with extensive operational experience. After the war he had entered Government service in the Soviet zone of Germany. I should mention that Frey had operated with me during the war in enemy territory and had shown himself to be a brilliant and resourceful agent.

  I now decided to conduct a third interview with Mrs Fennan. She broke down and confessed to having acted as an intelligence courier for her husband, who had been recruited by Frey on a skiing holiday five years ago. She herself had cooperated unwillingly, partly in loyalty to her husband and partly to protect him from his own carelessness in performing his espionage role. Frey had seen Fennan talking to me in the park. Assuming I was still operationally employed, he had concluded that Fennan was either under suspicion or a double agent. He instructed Mundt to liquidate Fennan, and his wife had been compelled into silence by her own complicity. She had even typed the text of the suicide letter on Fennan’s typewriter over a specimen of her husband’s signature.

  The means whereby she passed to Mundt the intelligence procured by her husband is relevant. She placed notes and copied documents in a music case, which she took to the theatre. Mundt brought a similar case containing money and instructions and, like Mrs Fennan, left it in the cloakroom. They had only to exchange cloakroom tickets. When Mundt failed to appear at the theatre on the night in question, Mrs Fennan obeyed standing instructions and posted the ticket to an address in Highgate. She left the theatre in order to catch the last post from Weybridge. When later that night Mundt demanded the music case she told him what she had done. Mundt insisted on collecting the case that night, for he did not wish to make another journey to Weybridge.

  When I interviewed Mrs Fennan the following morning, one of my questions (about the 8.30 call) alarmed her so much that she telephoned Mundt. This accounts for the assault upon me later that day.

  Mrs Fennan provided me with the address and telephone number she used when contacting Mundt—whom she knew by the cover name of Freitag. Both led to the apartment of a “Lufteuropa” pilot who often entertained Mundt and provided accommodation for him when he required it. The pilot (presumably a courier of the East German Intelligence Service) has not returned to this country since 5 January.

  This, then, was the sum of Mrs Fennan’s revelations, and in a sense they led nowhere. The spy was dead, his murderers had vanished. It only remained to assess the extent
of the damage. An official approach was now made to the Foreign Office and Mr Felix Taverner was instructed to calculate from Foreign Office schedules what information had been compromised. This involved listing all files to which Fennan had had access since his recruitment by Frey. Remarkably, this revealed no systematic acquisition of secret files. Fennan had drawn no secret files except those which directly concerned him in his duties. During the last six months, when his access to sensitive papers was substantially increased, he had actually taken home no files of secret classification. The files he took home over this period were of universally low grade, and some treated subjects actually outside the scope of his section. This was not consistent with Fennan’s role as a spy. It was, however, possible that he had lost heart for his work, and that his luncheon invitation to me was a first step to confession. With this in mind he might also have written the anonymous letter which could have been designed to put him in touch with the Department.

  Two further facts should be mentioned at this point. Under an assumed name and with a fake passport, Mundt left the country by air on the day after Mrs Fennan made her confession. He evaded the notice of the airport authorities, but was retrospectively identified by the air hostess. Secondly, Fennan’s diary contained the full name and official telephone number of Dieter Frey—a flagrant breach of the most elementary rule of espionage.

  It was hard to understand why Mundt had waited three weeks in England after murdering Scarr, and even harder to reconcile Fennan’s activities as described by his wife with the obviously unplanned and unproductive selection of files. Re-examination of the facts led repeatedly to this conclusion: the only evidence that Fennan was a spy came from his wife. If the facts were as she described them, why had she been allowed to survive the determination of Mundt and Frey to eliminate those in possession of dangerous knowledge?