The Looking Glass War by John le Carré
Berry, the cypher clerk, came into the corridor, stooped and put on his bicycle clips.
‘How’s the missus, Berry?’ Woodford asked. A man must keep his finger on the pulse.
‘Doing very nicely, thank you, sir.’ He stood up, ran a comb through his hair. ‘Shocking about Wilf Taylor, sir.’
‘Shocking. He was a good scout.’
‘Mr Haldane’s locking up Registry, sir. He’s working late.’
‘Is he? Well, we all have our hands full now.’
Berry lowered his voice. ‘And the Boss is sleeping in, sir. Quite a crisis, really. I hear he’s gone to see the Minister. They sent a car for him.’
‘Goodnight, Berry.’ They hear too much, Woodford reflected with satisfaction, and began sauntering along the passage.
The illumination in Haldane’s room came from an adjustable reading-lamp. It threw a brief, intense beam on to the file in front of him, touching the contours of his face and hands.
‘Working late?’ Woodford inquired.
Haldane pushed one file into his out-tray and picked up another.
‘Wonder how young Avery’s faring; he’ll do well, that boy. I hear the Boss isn’t back yet. Must be a long session.’ As he spoke Woodford settled himself in the leather armchair. It was Haldane’s own, he had brought it from his flat and sat in it to do his crossword after luncheon.
‘Why should he do well? There is no particular precedent,’ Haldane said, without looking up.
‘How did Clarkie get on with Taylor’s wife?’ Woodford now asked. ‘How’d she take it?’
Haldane sighed and put his file aside.
‘He broke it to her. That’s all I know.’
‘You didn’t hear how she took it? He didn’t tell you?’
Woodford always spoke a little louder than necessary, for he was used to competing with his wife.
‘I’ve really no idea. He went alone, I understand. Leclerc prefers to keep these things to himself.’
‘I thought perhaps with you …’
Haldane shook his head. ‘Only Avery.’
‘It’s a big thing, this, isn’t it, Adrian … could be?’
‘It could be. We shall see,’ Haldane said gently. He was not always unkind towards Woodford.
‘Anything new on the Taylor front?’
‘The Air Attaché at Helsinki has located Lansen. He confirms that he handed Taylor the film. Apparently the Russians intercepted him over Kalkstadt; two MIGs. They buzzed him, then let him go.’
‘God,’ said Woodford stupidly. ‘That clinches it.’
‘It does nothing of the kind; it’s consistent with what we know. If they declare the area closed why shouldn’t they patrol it? They probably closed it for manoeuvres, ground-air exercises. Why didn’t they force Lansen down? The whole thing is entirely inconclusive.’
Leclerc was standing in the doorway. He had put on a clean collar for the Minister and a black tie for Taylor.
‘I came by car,’ he said. ‘They’ve given us one from the Ministry pool on indefinite loan. The Minister was quite distressed to hear we hadn’t one. It’s a Humber, chauffeur-driven like Control’s. They tell me the chauffeur is a secure sort of person.’ He looked at Haldane. ‘I’ve decided to form Special Section, Adrian. I want you to take it over. I’m giving Research to Sandford for the time being. The change will do him good.’ His face broke into a smile as if he could contain himself no longer. He was very excited. ‘We’re putting a man in. The Minister’s given his consent. We go to work at once. I want to see Heads of Sections first thing tomorrow. Adrian, I’ll give you Woodford and Avery. Bruce, you keep in touch with the boys; get on to the old training people. The Minister will support three-month contracts for temporary staff. No peripheral liabilities, of course. The usual programme: wireless, weapon training, cyphers, observation, unarmed combat and cover. Adrian, we’ll need a house. Perhaps Avery could go into that when he comes back. I’ll approach Control about documentation; the forgers all went over to him. We’ll want frontier records for the Lübeck area, refugee reports, details of minefields and obstructions.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Adrian, shall we have a word?’
‘Tell me one thing,’ Haldane said. ‘How much does the Circus know about this?’
‘Whatever we choose to tell them. Why?’
‘They know Taylor is dead. It’s all over Whitehall.’
‘Possibly.’
‘They know Avery’s picking up a film in Finland. They may very well have noticed the Air Safety Centre report on Lansen’s plane. They have a way of noticing things …’
‘Well?’
‘So it isn’t only a question of what we tell them, is it?’
‘You’ll come to tomorrow’s meeting?’ Leclerc asked a little pathetically.
‘I think I have the meat of my instructions. If you have no objection I would like to make one or two inquiries. This evening and tomorrow perhaps.’
Leclerc, bewildered, said, ‘Excellent. Can we help you?’
‘Perhaps I might have the use of your car for an hour?’
‘Of course. I want us all to use it – to our common benefit. Adrian – this is for you.’
He handed him a green card in a Cellophane folder.
‘The Minister signed it, personally.’ He implied that, like a Papal blessing, there were degrees of authenticity in a Ministerial signature. ‘Then you’ll do it, Adrian? You’ll take the job?’
Haldane might not have heard. He had reopened the file and was looking curiously at the photograph of a Polish boy who had fought the Germans twenty years ago. It was a young, strict face; humourless. It seemed to be concerned not with living but with survival.
‘Why, Adrian,’ Leclerc cried with sudden relief, ‘you’ve taken the second vow!’
Reluctantly Haldane smiled, as if the phrase had called to mind something he thought he had forgotten. ‘He seems to have a talent for survival,’ he observed, finally indicating the file. ‘Not an easy man to kill.’
‘As next of kin,’ Sutherland began, ‘you have the right to state your wishes concerning the disposal of your brother’s body.’
‘Yes.’
Sutherland’s house was a small building with a picture window full of potted plants. Only these distinguished it, either externally or internally, from its model in the dormitory areas of Aberdeen. As they walked down the drive, Avery caught sight of a middle-aged woman in the window. She wore an apron and was dusting something. She reminded him of Mrs Yates and her cat.
‘I have an office at the back,’ said Sutherland, as if to emphasise that the place was not wholly given over to luxury. ‘I suggest we tie up the rest of the details now. I shan’t keep you long.’ He was telling Avery he needn’t expect to stay to supper. ‘How do you propose to get him back to England?’
They sat down either side of the desk. Behind Sutherland’s head hung a watercolour of mauve hills reflected in a Scottish loch.
‘I should like it flown home.’
‘You know that is an expensive business?’
‘I should like him flown all the same.’
‘For burial?’
‘Of course.’
‘It isn’t “of course” at all,’ Sutherland countered with distaste. ‘If your brother’ – he said it in inverted commas now, but he would play the game to the end – ‘were to be cremated, the flight regulations would be totally different.’
‘I see. I’m sorry.’
‘There is a firm of undertakers in the town, Barford and Company. One of the partners is English, married to a Swedish girl. There is a substantial Swedish minority here. We do our best to support the British community. In the circumstances I would prefer you to return to London as soon as you can. I suggest you empower me to use Barford.’
‘All right.’
‘As soon as he has taken over the body, I will provide him with your brother’s passport. He will have to obtain a medical certificate regarding the cause of death. I’ll put him in tou
‘Yes.’
‘He will also require a death certificate issued by a local registrar. It is cheaper if one attends to that side of things oneself. If money matters to your people.’
Avery said nothing.
‘When he has found out a suitable flight he will look after the freight warrant and bill of lading. I understand these things are usually moved at night. The freight rate is cheaper and …’
‘That’s all right.’
‘I’m glad. Barford will make sure the coffin is airtight. It may be of metal or wood. He will also append his own certificate that the coffin contains nothing but the body – and the same body as that to which the passport and the death certificate refer. I mention this for when you take delivery in London. Barford will do all this very quickly. I shall see to that. He has some pull with the charter companies here. The sooner he—’
‘I understand.’
‘I’m not sure you do.’ Sutherland raised his eyebrows, as if Avery had been impertinent. ‘Peersen has been very reasonable. I don’t wish to test his patience. Barford will have a correspondent firm in London – it is London, isn’t it?’
‘London, yes.’
‘I imagine he will expect some payment in advance. I suggest you leave the money with me against a receipt. As regards your brother’s effects, I take it that whoever sent you wished you to recover these letters?’ He pushed them across the table.
Avery muttered, ‘There was a film, an undeveloped film.’ He put the letters in his pocket.
Deliberately Sutherland extracted a copy of the inventory which he had signed at the police station, spread it out before him and ran his finger down the left-hand column, suspiciously, as if he were checking someone else’s figures.
‘There is no film entered here. Was there a camera too?’
‘No.’
‘Ah.’
He saw Avery to the door. ‘You’d better tell whoever sent you that Malherbe’s passport was not valid. The Foreign Office sent out a circular about a group of numbers, twenty-odd. Your brother’s was one of them. There must have been a slip-up. I was about to report it when a Foreign Office teleprint arrived empowering you to take over Malherbe’s effects.’ He gave a short laugh. He was very angry. ‘That was nonsense, of course. The Office would never have sent that on their own. They’ve no authority, not unless you’d Letters of Administration, and you couldn’t have got those in the middle of the night. Have you somewhere to stay? The Regina’s quite good, near the airport. Out of town, too. I assume you can find your own way. I gather you people get excellent subsistence.’
Avery made his way quickly down the drive, carrying in his memory the indelible image of Sutherland’s thin, bitter face set angrily against the Scottish hills. The wooden houses beside the road shone half white in the darkness like shadows round an operating table.
Somewhere not far from Charing Cross, in the basement of one of those surprising eighteenth-century houses between Villiers Street and the river, is a club with no name on the door. You reach it by descending a curving stone staircase. The railing, like the woodwork of the house in Blackfriars Road, is painted dark green and needs replacing.
Its members are an odd selection. Some of a military kind, some in the teaching profession, others clerical; others again from that no-man’s-land of London society which lies between the bookmaker and the gentleman, presenting to those around them, and perhaps even to themselves, an image of vacuous courage; conversing in codes and phrases which a man with a sense of language can only listen to at a distance. It is a place of old faces and young bodies; of young faces and old bodies; where the tensions of war have become the tensions of peace, and voices are raised to drown the silence, and glasses to drown the loneliness; it is the place where the searchers meet, finding no one but each other and the comfort of a shared pain; where the tired watchful eyes have no horizon to observe. It is their battlefield still; if there is love, they find it here in one another, shyly like adolescents, thinking all the time of other people.
From the war, none but the dons were missing.
It is a small place, run by a thin, dry man called Major Dell; he has a moustache and a tie with blue angels on a black background. He stands the first drink, and they buy him the others. It is called the Alias Club, and Woodford was a member.
It is open in the evenings. They come at about six, detaching themselves with pleasure from the moving crowd, furtive but determined, like men from out of town visiting a disreputable theatre. You notice first the things that are not there: no silver cups behind the bar, no visitors’ book nor list of membership; no insignia, crest or title. Only on the whitewashed brick walls a few photographs hang, framed in passe-partout, like the photographs in Leclerc’s room. The faces are indistinct, some enlarged, apparently from a passport, taken from the front with both ears showing according to the regulation; some are of women, a few of them attractive, with high square shoulders and long hair after the fashion of the war years. The men are wearing a variety of uniforms; Free French and Poles mingle with their British comrades. Some are fliers. Of the English faces one or two, grown old, still haunt the club.
When Woodford came in everyone looked round and Major Dell, much pleased, ordered his pint of beer. A florid, middle-aged man was talking about a sortie he once made over Belgium but he stopped when he lost the attention of his audience.
‘Hello, Woodie,’ somebody said in surprise. ‘How’s the lady?’
‘Fit,’ Woodford smiled genially. ‘Fit.’ He drank some beer. Cigarettes were passed round. Major Dell said, ‘Woodie’s jolly shifty tonight.’
‘I’m looking for someone. It’s all a bit top secret.’
‘We know the form,’ the florid man replied. Woodford glanced round the bar and asked quietly, a note of mystery in his voice, ‘What did Dad do in the war?’
A bewildered silence. They had been drinking for some time.
‘Kept Mum, of course,’ said Major Dell uncertainly and they all laughed.
Woodford laughed with them, savouring the conspiracy, reliving the half-forgotten ritual of secret mess nights somewhere in England.
‘And where did he keep her?’ he demanded, still in the same confiding tone: this time two or three voices called in unison, ‘Under his blooming hat!’
They were louder, happier.
‘There was a man called Johnson,’ Woodford continued quickly, ‘Jack Johnson. I’m trying to find out what became of him. He was a trainer in wireless transmission; one of the best. He was at Bovingdon first with Haldane until they moved him up to Oxford.’
‘Jack Johnson!’ the florid man cried excitedly. ‘The WT man? I bought a car radio from Jack two weeks ago! Johnson’s Fair Deal in the Clapham Broadway, that’s the fellow. Drops in here from time to time. Amateur wireless enthusiast. Little bloke, speaks out of the side of his face?’
‘That’s him,’ someone else said. ‘He knocks off twenty per cent for the old gang.’
‘He didn’t for me,’ the florid man said.
‘That’s Jack; he lives at Clapham.’
The others took it up; that was the fellow and he ran this shop, at Clapham; king of ham radio, been a ham before the war even when he was a kid; yes, on the Broadway, hung out there for years; must be worth a ransom. Liked to come into the club round Christmas time. Woodford, flushed with pleasure, ordered drinks.
In the bustle that followed, Major Dell took Woodford gently by the arm and guided him to the other end of the bar.
‘Woodie, is it true about Wilf Taylor? Has he really bought it?’
Woodford nodded, his face grave. ‘He was on a job. We think someone’s been a little bit naughty.’
Major Dell was all solicitude. ‘I haven’t told the boys. It would only worry them. Who’s caring for the Missus?’
‘The Boss is taking that up now. It looks pretty hopeful.’
‘Good,’ said the Major. ‘Good.’ He nodded, patting Woodford’s arm i
‘Of course.’
‘He had one or two bills. Nothing very big. He liked to drop in Friday nights.’ The Major’s accent slipped from time to time like a made-up tie.
‘Send them along. We’ll take care of those.’
‘There was a kid, wasn’t there? A little girl?’ They were moving back to the bar. ‘How old was she?’
‘Eightish. Maybe more.’
‘He talked about her a lot,’ said the Major.
Somebody called, ‘Hey, Bruce, when are you chaps going to take another crack at the Jerries? They’re all over the bloody place. Took the wife to Italy in the Summer – full of arrogant Germans.’
Woodford smiled. ‘Sooner than you think. Now let’s try this one.’ The conversation died. Woodford was real. He still did the job.
‘There was an unarmed-combat man, a staff sergeant; a Welshman. He was short too.’
‘Sounds like Sandy Lowe,’ the florid man suggested.
‘Sandy, that’s him!’ They all turned to the florid man in admiration. ‘He was a Taffy. Randy Sandy we called him.’
‘Of course,’ said Woodford contentedly. ‘Now didn’t he go off to some public school as a boxing instructor?’ He was looking at them narrowly, holding a good deal back, playing it long because it was so secret.
‘That’s him, that’s Sandy!’
Woodford wrote it down, taking care because he had learnt from experience that he tended to forget things which he entrusted to memory.
As he was going, the Major asked, ‘How’s Clarkie?’
‘Busy,’ Woodford said. ‘Working himself to death, as always.’
‘The boys talk about him a lot, you know. I wish he’d come here now and then; give them a hell of a boost, you know. Perk them up.’