He hesitated, trying to remember what happened next. A block was forming in his mind. "PA—don't you know what PA stands for?" He set the meter switch to three to read the Power Amplifier grid current. . . TSR switch to T for tuning. It was coming back to him. Meter switch to six to ascertain total current … anode tuning for minimum reading.
Now he turned the TSR switch to S for send, pressed the key briefly, took a reading, manipulated the aerial matching control so that the meter reading rose slightly; hastily readjusted the anode tuning. He repeated the procedure until to his profound relief he saw the finger dip against the white background of the kidney-shaped dial and knew that the transmitter and aerial were correctly tuned, and that he could talk to John and Jack.
He sat back with a grunt of satisfaction, lit a cigarette, wished it were an English one because if they came in now they wouldn't have to bother about the brand of cigarette he was smoking. He looked at his watch, turning the winder until it was stiff, terrified lest it run down; it was matched with Avery's and in a simple way this gave him comfort. Like divided lovers, they were looking at the same star.
He had killed that boy.
Three minutes to schedule. He had unscrewed the Morse key from the spares box because he couldn't manage it properly while it was on that lid. Jack had said it was all right; he said it didn't matter. He had to hold the key base with his left hand so that it didn't slide about, but Jack said every operator had his quirks. He was sure it was smaller than the one they gave him in the war; he was sure of it. Traces of French chalk clung to the lever. He drew in his elbows and straightened his back. The third finger of his right hand crooked over the key. JAJ's my first call sign, he thought, Johnson's my name, they call me Jack, that's easy enough to remember. JA, John Avery; JJ, Jack Johnson. Then he was tapping it out. A dot and three dashes, dot dash, a dot and three dashes, and he kept thinking: It's like the house in Holland, but there's no one with me.
Say it twice, Fred, then get off the air. He switched over to receive, pushed the sheet of paper further toward the middle of the table and suddenly realized he had nothing to write with when Jack came through.
He stood up and looked around for his notebook and pencil, the sweat breaking out on his back. They were nowhere to be seen. Dropping hastily to his hands and knees he felt in the thick dust under the bed, found the pencil, groped vainly for his notebook. As he was getting up he heard a crackle from the earphones. He ran to the table, pressed one phone to his ear, at the same time trying to hold still the sheet of paper so that he could write in a corner of it beside his own message.
"QSA3: hearing you well enough," that's all they were saying. "Steady, boy, steady," he muttered. He settled into the chair, switched to transmit, looked at his own encoded message and tapped out four-two because there were forty-two groups. His hand was coated with dust and sweat, his right arm ached, perhaps from carrying the suitcase. Or struggling with the boy.
You've got all the time in the world, Johnson had said. We'll be listening: you're not passing an exam. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the grime from his hands. He was terribly tired; the tiredness was like a physical despair, like the moment of guilt before making love. Groups of four letters, Johnson had said, think of four-letter words, eh Fred? You don't need to do it all at once, Fred, have a little stop in the middle if you like; two and a half minutes on the first frequency, two and a half on the second, that's the way we go; Mrs. Hartbeck will wait, I'm sure. With his pencil he drew a heavy line under the ninth letter because that was where the safety device came. That was something he dared think of only in passing.
He put his face in his hands, summoning the last of his concentration, then reached for the key and began tapping. Keep the hand loose, first and second fingers on top of the key, thumb beneath the edge, no, putting the wrist on the table, Fred. Breathe regular, Fred, you'll find it helps you to relax.
God, why were his hands so slow? Once he took his fingers from the key and stared impotently at his open palm; once he ran his left hand across his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes, and he felt the key drifting across the table. His wrist was too stiff: the hand he killed the boy with. All the time he was saying it over to himself—dot, dot, dash, then a K, he always knew that one. A dot between two dashes—his lips were spelling out the letters, but his hand wouldn't follow, it was a kind of stammer that got worse the more he spoke, and always the boy in his mind, only the boy. Perhaps he was quicker than he thought. He lost all notion of time; the sweat was running into his eyes, he couldn't stop it anymore. He kept mouthing the dots and dashes, and he knew that Johnson would be angry because he shouldn't be thinking in dots and dashes at all but musically, de-dah dah, the way the professionals did, but Johnson hadn't killed the boy. The pounding of his heart outran the weary tapping of the key; his hand seemed to grow heavier and still he went on signaling because it was the only thing left to do, the only thing to hold on to while his body gave way. He was waiting for them now, wishing they'd come—take me, take it all—longing for the footsteps. Give us your hand, John; give us a hand.
When at last he had finished, he went back to the bed. Almost with detachment he caught sight of the line of crystals on the blanket, untouched, still and ready, dressed by the left and numbered, flat on their backs like dead sentries.
Avery looked at his watch. It was quarter past ten. "He should come on in five minutes," he said.
Leclerc announced suddenly: "That was Gorton on the telephone. He's received a telegram from the Ministry. They have some news for us apparently. They're sending out a courier."
"What could that be?" Avery asked.
"I expect it's the Hungarian thing. Fielden's report. I may have to go back to London." A satisfied smile. "But I think you people can get along without me."
Johnson was wearing earphones, sitting forward on a high-backed wooden chair carried up from the kitchen. The dark green receiver hummed gently from the mains transformer; the tuning dial, illuminated from within, glowed palely in the half light of the attic.
Haldane and Avery sat uncomfortably on a bench. Johnson had a pad and pencil in front of him. He lifted the phones above his ears and said to Leclerc who stood beside him, "I shall take him straight through the routine, sir; I'll do my best to tell you what's going on. I'm recording too, mind, for safety's sake."
"I understand."
They waited in silence. Suddenly—it was their moment of utter magic—Johnson had sat bolt upright, nodded sharply to them, switched on the tape recorder. He smiled, quickly turned to transmission and was tapping. "Come in, Fred," he said out loud. "Hearing you nicely."
"He's made it!" Leclerc hissed. "He's on target now!" His eyes were bright with excitement. "Do you hear that, John? Do you hear?"
"Shall we be quiet?" Haldane suggested.
"Here he comes," Johnson said. His voice was level, controlled. "Forty-two groups."
"Forty-two!" Leclerc repeated.
Johnson's body was motionless, his head inclined a little to one side, his whole concentration given to the earphones, his face impassive in the pale light.
"I'd like silence now, please."
For perhaps two minutes his careful hand moved briskly across the pad. Now and then he muttered inaudibly, whispered a letter or shook his head, until the message seemed to come more slowly, his pencil pausing while he listened, until it was tracing out each letter singly with agonizing care. He glanced at the clock.
"Come on, Fred," he urged, "come on, change over, that's nearly three minutes." But still the message was coming through, letter by letter, and Johnson's simple face assumed an expression of alarm.
"What's going on?" Leclerc demanded. "Why hasn't he changed his frequency?"
But Johnson only said, "Get off the air, for Christ's sake, Fred, get off the air."
Leclerc touched him impatiently 6n the arm. Johnson raised one earphone.
"Why's he not changed frequency? Why's he still talki
ng?"
"He must have forgotten! He never forgot on training. I know he's slow, but Christ!" He was still writing automatically. "Five minutes," he muttered. "Five bloody minutes. Change the bloody crystal!"
"Can't you tell him?" Leclerc said.
"Of course I can't. How can I? He can't receive and send at the same time!"
They sat or stood in dreadful fascination. Johnson had turned to them, his voice beseeching. "I told him; if I told him once I told him a dozen times. It's bloody suicide, what he's doing!" He looked at his watch. "He's been on damn near six minutes. Bloody, bloody, bloody fool."
"What will they do?" said Haldane.
"If they pick up the signal? Call in another station, take a fix. Then it's simple trigonometry when he's on this long." He banged his open hands helplessly on the table, indicated the set as if it were an affront. "A kid could do it. Do it with a pair of compasses. Christ Almighty! Come on, Fred, for Jesus' sake, come on!" He wrote down a handful of letters, then threw his pencil aside. "It's on tape, anyway," he said.
Leclerc turned to Haldane. "Surely there's something we can do!"
"Be quiet," Haldane said.
The message stopped. Johnson tapped an acknowledgment fast, a stab of hatred. He wound back the tape recorder and began transcribing. Putting the coding sheet in front of him he worked without interruption for perhaps a quarter of an hour, occasionally making simple sums on the rough paper at his elbow. No one spoke. When he had finished he stood up, a half-forgotten gesture of respect. "Message reads: Area Kalkstadt closed three days mid-November when fifty unidentified Soviet troops seen in town. No special equipment. Rumors of Soviet maneuvers farther north. Troops believed moved to Rostock. Fritsche not repeat not known Kalkstadt railway station. No road check on Kalkstadt road." He tossed the paper onto the desk. "There are fifteen groups after that which I can't unbutton. I think he's muddled his coding."
The Vopo sergeant in Rostock picked up the telephone; he was an elderly man, graying and thoughtful. He listened for a moment, then began dialing on another line. "It must be a child," he said, still dialing. "What frequency did you say?" He put the other telephone to his ear and spoke into it fast, repeating the frequency three times. He walked into the adjoining hut. "Witmar will be through in a minute," he said. "They're taking a fix. Are you still hearing him?" The corporal nodded. The sergeant held a spare headphone to his ear.
"It couldn't be an amateur," he muttered. "Breaking the regulations. But what is it? No agent in his right mind would put out a signal like that. What are the neighboring frequencies? Military or civilian?"
"It's near the military. Very near."
"That's odd," the sergeant said. "That would fit, wouldn't it? That's what they did in the war."
The corporal was staring at the tapes slowly revolving on their spindles. "He's still transmitting. Groups of four."
"Four?" The sergeant was searching in his memory for something that had happened long ago.
"Let me hear again. Listen, listen to the fool! He's as slow as a child."
The sound struck some chord in his memory—the slurred gaps, the dots so short as to be little more than clicks. He could swear he knew that hand . . . from the war, in Norway . . . but not so slow: nothing had ever been as slow as this. Not Norway . . . France. Perhaps it was only imagination. Yes, it was imagination.
"Or an old man," the corporal said.
The telephone rang. The sergeant listened for a moment, then ran, ran as fast as he could, through the hut to the officers' mess across the tarmac path.
The Russian captain was drinking beer; his jacket was slung over the back of his chair and he looked very bored.
"You wanted something, Sergeant?" He affected the languid style.
"He's come. The man they told us about. The one who killed the boy."
The captain put down his beer quickly.
"You heard him?"
"We've taken a fix. With Witmar. Groups of four. A slow hand. Area Kalkstadt. Close to one of our own frequencies. Sommer recorded the transmission."
"Christ," he said quietly. The sergeant frowned.
"What's he looking for? Why should they send him here?" the sergeant asked.
The captain was buttoning his jacket. "Ask them in Leipzig. Perhaps they know that too."
Twenty-One
It was very late.
The fire in Control's grate was burning nicely, but he poked at it with effeminate discontent. He hated working at night.
"They want you at the Ministry," he said irritably. "Now, of all hours. It really is too bad. Why does everyone get so agitato on a Thursday? It will ruin the weekend." He put down the poker and returned to his desk. "They're in a dreadful state. Some idiot talking about ripples in a pond. It's extraordinary what the night does to people. I do detest the telephone." There were several in front of him.
Smiley offered him a cigarette and he took one without looking at it, as if he could not be held responsible for the actions of his limbs.
"What Ministry?" Smiley asked.
"Leclerc's. Have you any idea what's going on?"
Smiley said, "Yes. Haven't you?"
"Leclerc's so vulgar. I admit, I find him vulgar. He thinks we compete. What on earth would I do with his dreadful militia? Scouring Europe for mobile laundries. He thinks I want to gobble him up."
"Well don't you? Why did we cancel that passport?"
"What a silly man. A silly, vulgar man. However did Haldane fall for it?"
"He had a conscience once. He's like all of us. He's learnt to live with it."
"Oh dear. Is that a dig at me?"
"What does the Ministry want?" Smiley asked sharply.
Control held up some papers, flapping them. "You've seen these from Berlin?"
"They came in an hour ago. The Americans have taken a fix. Groups of four; a primitive letter code. They say it comes from the Kalkstadt area."
"Where on earth's that?"
"South of Rostock. The message ran six minutes on the same frequency. They said it sounded like an amateur on a first run-through. One of the old wartime sets: they wanted to know if it was ours."
"And you replied?" Control asked quickly.
"I said no."
"So I should hope. Good Lord."
"You don't seem very concerned," Smiley said.
Control seemed to remember something from long ago. "I hear Leclerc's in Lubeck. Now there's a pretty town. I adore Lubeck. The Ministry wants you immediately. I said you'd go. Some meeting." He added in apparent earnest, "You must, George. We've been the most awful fools. It's in every East German newspaper; they're screaming about peace conferences and sabotage." He prodded at a telephone. "So is the Ministry. God, how I loathe Civil Servants."
Smiley watched him with skepticism. "We could have stopped them," he said. "We knew enough."
"Of course we could," Control said blandly. "Do you know why we didn't? Plain, idiot Christian charity. We let them have their war game. You'd better go now. And Smiley …"
"Yes?"
"Be gentle." And in his silly voice: "I do envy them Lubeck all the same. There's that restaurant, isn't there; what do they call it? Where Thomas Mann used to eat. So interesting."
"He never did," Smiley said. "The place you're thinking of was bombed."
Smiley still did not go. "I wonder," he said. "You'll never tell me, will you? I just wonder." He was not looking at Control.
"My dear George, what has come over you?"
"We handed it to them. The passport that was canceled … a courier service they never needed … a clapped-out wireless set … papers, frontier reports … who told Berlin to listen for him? Who told them what frequencies? We even gave Leclerc the crystals, didn't we? Was that just Christian charity too? Plain, idiot Christian charity?"
Control was shocked.
"What are you suggesting? How very distasteful. Whoever would do a thing like that?"
Smiley was putting on his coat.
; "Good night, George," Control said; and fiercely, as if he were tired of sensibility: "Run along. And preserve the difference between us: your country needs you. It's not my fault they've taken so long to die."
The dawn came and Leiser had not slept. He wanted to wash but dared not go into the corridor. He dared not move. If they were looking for him, he knew he must leave normally, not bolt from the hostel before the morning came. Never run, they used to say: walk like the crowd. He could go at six: that was late enough. He rubbed his chin against the back of his hand: it was sharp and rough, marking the brown skin.
He was hungry and no longer knew what to do, but he would not run.
He half turned on the bed, pulled the knife from inside the waistband of his trousers and held it before his eyes. He was shivering. He could feel across his brow the unnatural heat of incipient fever. He looked at the knife, and remembered the clean, friendly way they had talked: thumb on top, blade parallel to the ground, forearm stiff. "Go away," the old man had said. "You are either good or bad and both are dangerous." How should he hold the knife when people spoke to him like that? The way he held it for the boy?
It was six o'clock. He stood up. His legs were heavy and stiff. His shoulders still ached from carrying the rucksack. His clothes, he noticed, smelled of pine and leaf-mold. He picked the half-dried mud from his trousers and put on his second pair of shoes.
He went downstairs, looking for someone to pay, the new shoes squeaking on the wooden steps. There was an old woman in white overalls sorting lentils into a bowl, talking to a cat.
"What do I owe?"
"You fill in the form," she said sourly. "That's the first thing you owe. You should have done it when you came."
"I'm sorry."
She rounded on him, muttering but not daring to raise her voice. "Don't you know it's forbidden, staying in town and not reporting your presence to the police?" She looked at his new shoes. "Or are you so rich that you think you need not trouble?"
Le Carre, John - The Looking Glass War (v1.0) Page 23