On one report he found a flag with Gladstone’s initials; written above them in his cautious, rounded hand were the words: ‘Could be of interest to you.’
It was a refugee report of Soviet tank trials near Gustweiler. It was marked: ‘Should not issue. Fabrication.’ There followed a long justification citing passages in the report which had been abstracted almost verbatim from a 1949 Soviet military manual. The originator appeared to have enlarged every dimension by a third, and added some ingenious flavouring of his own. Attached were six photographs, very blurred, purporting to have been taken from a train with a telephoto lens. On the back of the photographs was written in McCulloch’s careful hand: ‘Claims to have used Exa-two camera, East German manufacture. Cheap housing. Exakta-range lens. Low shutter speed. Negatives very blurred owing to camera shake from train. Fishy.’ It was all very inconclusive. The same make of camera, that was all. He locked up the Registry and went home. Not his duty, Leclerc had said, to prove that Christ was born on Christmas Day; any more, Haldane reflected, than it was his business to prove that Taylor had been murdered.
Woodford’s wife added a little soda to her Scotch, a splash: it was habit rather than taste.
‘Sleep in the office, my foot,’ she said. ‘Do you get operational subsistence?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Well, it isn’t a conference then, is it? A conference isn’t operational. Not unless,’ she added with a giggle, ‘you’re having it in the Kremlin.’
‘All right, it’s not a conference. It’s an operation. That’s why I’m getting subsistence.’
She looked at him cruelly. She was a thin, childless woman, her eyes half shut from the smoke of the cigarette in her mouth.
‘There’s nothing going on at all. You’re making it up.’ She began laughing, a hard false laugh. ‘You poor sod,’ she said and laughed again, derisively. ‘How’s little Clarkie? You’re all scared of him, aren’t you? Why don’t you ever say anything against him? Jimmy Gorton used to: he saw through him.’
‘Don’t mention Jimmy Gorton to me!’
‘Jimmy’s lovely.’
‘Babs, I warn you!’
‘Poor Clarkie. Do you remember,’ his wife asked reflectively, ‘that nice little dinner he gave us in his club? The time he remembered it was our turn for welfare? Steak and kidney and frozen peas.’ She sipped her whisky. ‘And warm gin.’ Something struck her. ‘I wonder if he’s ever had a woman,’ she said. ‘Christ, I wonder why I never thought of that before?’
Woodford returned to safer ground.
‘All right, so nothing’s going on.’ He got up, a silly grin on his face, collected some matches from the desk.
‘You’re not smoking that damn pipe in here,’ she said automatically.
‘So nothing’s going on,’ he repeated smugly, and lit his pipe, sucking noisily.
‘God, I hate you.’
Woodford shook his head, still grinning. ‘Never mind,’ he urged, ‘just never mind. You said it, my dear, I didn’t. I’m not sleeping in the office so everything’s fine, isn’t it? So I didn’t go to Oxford either; I didn’t even go to the Ministry; I haven’t got a car to bring me home at night.’
She leant forward, her voice suddenly urgent, dangerous. ‘What’s happening?’ she hissed. ‘I’ve got a right to know, haven’t I? I’m your wife, aren’t I? You tell those little tarts in the office, don’t you? Well, tell me!’
‘We’re putting a man over the border,’ Woodford said. It was his moment of victory. ‘I’m in charge of the London end. There’s a crisis. There could even be a war. It’s a damn ticklish thing.’ The match had gone out, but he was still swinging it up and down with long movements of his arm, watching her with triumph in his eyes.
‘You bloody liar,’ she said. ‘Don’t give me that.’
Back in Oxford, the pub at the corner was three-quarters empty. They had the saloon bar to themselves. Leiser sipped a White Lady while the wireless operator drank best bitter at the Department’s expense.
‘Just take it gently, that’s all you got to do, Fred,’ he urged kindly. ‘You came up lovely on the last run through. We’ll hear you, don’t worry about that – you’re only eighty miles from the border. It’s a piece of cake as long as you remember your procedure. Take it gently on the tuning or we’re all done for.’
‘I’ll remember. Not to worry.’
‘Don’t get all bothered about the Jerries picking it up; you’re not sending love letters, just a handful of groups. Then a new call sign and a different frequency. They’ll never home in on that, not for the time you’re there.’
‘Perhaps they can, these days,’ Leiser said. ‘Maybe they got better since the war.’
‘There’ll be all sorts of other traffic getting in their hair; shipping, military, air control, Christ knows what. They’re not supermen, Fred; they’re like us. A dozy lot. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried. They didn’t get me in the war; not for long.’
‘Now listen, Fred, how about this? One more drink and we’ll slip home and just have a nice run through with Mrs Hartbeck. No lights, mind. In the dark: she’s shy, see? Get it a hundred per cent before we turn in. Then tomorrow we’ll take it easy. After all, it’s Sunday tomorrow, isn’t it?’ he added solicitously.
‘I want to sleep. Can’t I sleep a little, Jack?’
‘Tomorrow, Fred. Then you can have a nice rest.’ He nudged Leiser’s elbow. ‘You’re married now, Fred. Can’t always go to sleep, you know. You’ve taken the vow, that’s what we used to say.’
‘All right, forget about it, will you?’ Leiser sounded on edge. ‘Just leave it alone, see?’
‘Sorry, Fred.’
‘When do we go to London?’
‘Monday, Fred.’
‘Will John be there?’
‘We meet him at the airport. And the Captain. They wanted us to have a bit more practice … on the routine and that.’
Leiser nodded, drumming his second and third fingers lightly on the table as if he were tapping the key.
‘Here – why don’t you tell us about one of those girls you had on your weekend in London?’ Johnson suggested.
Leiser shook his head.
‘Come on, then, let’s have the other half and you give us a nice game of billiards.’
Leiser smiled shyly, his irritation forgotten. ‘I got a lot more money than you, Jack. White Lady’s an expensive drink. Not to worry.’
He chalked his cue and put in the sixpence. ‘I’ll play you double or quits; for last night.’
‘Look, Fred,’ Johnson pleaded gently. ‘Don’t always go for the big money, see, trying to put the red into the hundred slot. Just take the twenties and fifties – they mount up, you know. Then you’ll be home and dry.’
Leiser was suddenly angry. He put his cue back in the cradle and took down his camel-hair coat from its peg.
‘What’s the matter, Fred, what the hell’s the matter now?’
‘For Christ’s sake let me loose! Stop behaving like a bloody gaoler. I’m going on a job, like we all did in the war. I’m not sitting in the hanging cell.’
‘Don’t you be daft,’ Johnson said gently, taking his coat and putting it back on the peg. ‘Anyway we don’t say hanging, we say condemned.’
Carol put the coffee on the desk in front of Leclerc. He looked up brightly and said thank you, tired but well drilled, like a child at the end of a party.
‘Adrian Haldane’s gone home,’ Carol observed. Leclerc went back to the map.
‘I looked in his room. He might have said goodnight.’
‘He never does,’ Leclerc said proudly.
‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘I never remember how you turn yards into metres.’
‘Neither do I.’
‘The Circus say this gully is two hundred metres long. That’s about two hundred and fifty yards, isn’t it?’
‘I think so. I’ll get the book.’
She went
to her room and took a ready-reckoner from the bookcase.
‘One metre is thirty-nine point three seven inches,’ she read. ‘A hundred metres is a hundred and nine yards and thirteen inches.’
Leclerc wrote it down.
‘I think we should make a confirmatory telegram to Gorton. Have your coffee first, then come in with your pad.’
‘I don’t want any coffee.’
‘Routine Priority will do, we don’t want to haul old Jimmy out of bed.’ He ran his small hand briskly over his hair. ‘One. Advance party, Haldane, Avery, Johnson and Mayfly arrive BEA flight so and so, such and such a time December nine.’ He glanced up. ‘Get the details from Administration. Two. All will travel under their own names and proceed by train to Lübeck. For security reasons you will not repeat not meet party at airport but you may discreetly contact Avery by telephone at Lübeck base. We can’t put him on to old Adrian,’ he observed with a short laugh. ‘The two of them don’t hit it off at all …’ He raised his voice: ‘Three. Party number two consisting of Director only arriving morning flight December ten. You will meet him at airport for short conference before he proceeds to Lübeck. Four. Your role is discreetly to provide advice and assistance at all stages in order to bring operation Mayfly to successful conclusion.’
She stood up.
‘Does John Avery have to go? His poor wife hasn’t seen him for weeks.’
‘Fortunes of war,’ Leclerc replied without looking at her. ‘How long does a man take to crawl two hundred and twenty yards?’ he muttered. ‘Oh, Carol – put another sentence on to that telegram: Five. Good Hunting. Old Jimmy likes a bit of encouragement, stuck out there all on his own.’
He picked a file from the in-tray and looked critically at the cover, aware perhaps of Carol’s eyes upon him.
‘Ah.’ A controlled smile. ‘This must be the Hungarian report. Did you ever meet Arthur Fielden in Vienna?’
‘No.’
‘A nice fellow. Rather your type. One of our best chaps … knows his way around. Bruce tells me he’s done a very good report on unit changes in Budapest. I must get Adrian to look at it. Such a lot going on just now.’ He opened the file and began reading.
Control said: ‘Did you speak to Hyde?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what did he say? What have they got down there?’
Smiley handed him a whisky and soda. They were sitting in Smiley’s house in Bywater Street. Control was in the chair he preferred, nearest the fire.
‘He said they’d got first-night nerves.’
‘Hyde said that? Hyde used an expression like that? How extraordinary.’
‘They’ve taken over a house in North Oxford. There was just this one agent, a Pole of about forty, and they wanted him documented as a mechanic from Magdeburg, a name like Freiser. They wanted travel papers to Rostock.’
‘Who else was there?’
‘Haldane and that new man, Avery. The one who came to me about the Finnish courier. And a wireless operator, Jack Johnson. We had him in the war. No one else at all. So much for their big team of agents.’
‘What are they up to? And whoever gave them all that money just for training? We lent them some equipment, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, a B2.’
‘What on earth’s that?’
‘A wartime set,’ Smiley replied with irritation. ‘You said it was all they could have. That and the crystals. Why on earth did you bother with the crystals?’
‘Just charity. A B2 was it? Oh well,’ Control observed with apparent relief. ‘They wouldn’t get far with that, would they?’
‘Are you going home tonight?’ Smiley asked impatiently.
‘I thought you might give me a bed here,’ Control suggested. ‘Such a fag always traipsing home. It’s the people … They seem to get worse every time.’
Leiser sat at the table, the taste of the White Ladies still in his mouth. He stared at the luminous dial of his watch, the suitcase open in front of him. It was eleven eighteen; the second hand struggled jerkily towards twelve. He began tapping, JAJ, JAJ, – you can remember that, Fred, my name’s Jack Johnson, see? – he switched over to receive, and there was Johnson’s reply, steady as a rock.
Take your time, Johnson had said, don’t rush your fences. We’ll be listening all night, there are plenty more schedules. By the beam of a small torch he counted the encoded groups. There were thirty-eight. Putting out the torch he tapped a three and an eight; numerals were easy but long. His mind was very clear. He could hear Jack’s gentle repetitions all the time: You’re too quick on your shorts, Fred, a dot is one third of a dash, see? That’s longer than you think. Don’t rush the gaps, Fred; five dots between each word, three dots between each letter. Forearm horizontal, in a straight line with the key lever; elbow just clear of the body. It’s like knife-fighting, he thought with a little smile, and began keying. Fingers loose, Fred, relax, wrist clear of the table. He tapped out the first two groups, slurring a little on the gaps, but not as much as he usually did. Now came the third group: put in the safety signal. He tapped an S, cancelled it and tapped the next ten groups, glancing now and then at the dial of his watch. After two and a half minutes he went off the air, groped for the small capsule which contained the crystal, discovered with the tips of his fingers the twin sockets of the housing, inserted it, then stage by stage followed the tuning procedure, moving the dials, flashing his torch on the crescent window to watch the black tongue tremble across it.
He tapped out the second call sign, PRE, PRE, switched quickly to receive and there was Johnson again, QRK4, your signal readable. For the second time he began transmitting, his hand moving slowly but methodically as his eye followed the meaningless letters, until with a nod of satisfaction he heard Johnson’s reply: Signal received. QRU: I have nothing for you.
When they had finished Leiser insisted on a short walk. It was bitterly cold. They followed Walton Street as far as the main gates of Worcester, thence by way of Banbury Road once more to the respectable sanctuary of their dark North Oxford house.
16
Take-Off
It was the same wind. The wind that had tugged at Taylor’s frozen body and drove the rain against the blackened walls of Blackfriars Road, the wind that flailed the grass of Port Meadow now ran headlong against the shutters of the farmhouse.
The farmhouse smelt of cats. There were no carpets. The floors were of stone: nothing would dry them. Johnson lit the tiled oven in the hall as soon as they arrived but the damp still lay on the flagstones, collecting in the dips like a tired army. They never saw a cat all the time they were there, but they smelt them in every room. Johnson left corned beef on the doorstep: it was gone in ten minutes.
It was built on one floor with a high granary roof, of brick, and lay against a small coppice beneath a vast Flemish sky, a long, rectangular building with cattle sheds on the sheltered side. It was two miles north of Lübeck. Leclerc had said they were not to enter the town.
A ladder led to the loft, and there Johnson installed his wireless, stretching the aerial between the beams, thence through a skylight to an elm tree beside the road. He wore plimsolls in the house, brown ones of military issue, and a blazer with a squadron crest. Gorton had had food delivered from the Naafi in Celle. It covered the kitchen floor in old cardboard boxes, with an invoice marked ‘Mr Gorton’s party’. There were two bottles of gin and three of whisky. They had two bedrooms; Gorton had sent Army beds, two to each room, and reading lights with standard green shades. Haldane was very angry about the beds. ‘He must have told every damned department in the area,’ he complained. ‘Cheap whisky, Naafi food, army beds. I suppose we shall find he requisitioned the house next. God, what a way to mount an operation.’
It was late afternoon when they arrived. Johnson, having put up his set, busied himself in the kitchen. He was a domesticated man; he cooked and washed up without complaint, treading lightly over the flagstones in his neat plimsolls. He assembled a hash of bully beef and egg,
and gave them cocoa with a great deal of sugar. They ate in the hall in front of the stove. Johnson did most of the talking; Leiser, very quiet, scarcely touched his food.
‘What’s the matter, Fred? Not hungry, then?’
‘Sorry, Jack.’
‘Too many sweets on the plane, that’s your trouble.’ Johnson winked at Avery. ‘I saw you giving that air hostess a look. You shouldn’t do it, Fred, you know, you’ll break her heart.’ He frowned round the table in mock disapproval. ‘He really looked her over, you know. A proper tip-to-toe job.’
Avery grinned dutifully. Haldane ignored him.
Leiser was concerned about the moon, so after supper they stood at the back door in a small shivering group, staring at the sky. It was strangely light; the clouds drifted like black smoke, so low that they seemed to mingle with the swaying branches of the coppice and half obscure the grey fields beyond.
‘It will be darker at the border, Fred,’ said Avery. ‘It’s higher ground; more hills.’
Haldane said they should have an early night; they drank another whisky and at quarter past ten they went to bed, Johnson and Leiser to one room, Avery and Haldane to the other. No one dictated the arrangement. Each knew, apparently, where he belonged.
It was after midnight when Johnson came into their room. Avery was woken by the squeak of his rubber shoes.
‘John, are you awake?’
Haldane sat up.
‘It’s about Fred. He’s sitting alone in the hall. I told him to try and sleep, sir; gave him a couple of tablets, the kind my mother takes; he wouldn’t even get into bed at first, now he’s gone along to the hall.’
Haldane said, ‘Leave him alone. He’s all right. None of us can sleep with this damned wind.’
Johnson went back to his room. An hour must have passed; there was still no sound from the hall. Haldane said, ‘You’d better go and see what he’s up to.’
The Looking Glass War Page 19