The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

Ashe pressed the bell. The door was at once opened by a very large man in a white shirt and black trousers.

'I'm a member,' Ashe said. 'These two gentlemen are with me.'

'See your card?'

Ashe took a buff card from his wallet and handed it over.

'Your guests pay a quid a head, temporary membership. Your recommendation, right?' He held out the card and as he did so, Leamas stretched past Ashe and took it. He looked at it for a moment, then handed it back to Ashe.

Taking two pounds from his hip pocket, Leamas put them into the waiting hand of the man at the door.

'Two quid,' said Leamas, 'for the guests,' and ignoring the astonished protests of Ashe he guided them through the curtained doorway into the dim hallway of the club. He turned to the doorman.

'Find us a table,' said Leamas, 'and a bottle of Scotch. And see we're left alone.'

The doorman hesitated for a moment, decided not to argue, and escorted them downstairs. As they descended they heard the subdued moan of unintelligible music. They got a table on their own at the back of the room. A two-piece band was playing and girls sat around in twos and threes. Two got up as they came in but the big doorman shook his head.

Ashe glanced at Leamas uneasily while they waited for the whisky. Kiever seemed slightly bored. The waiter brought a bottle and three tumblers and they watched in silence as he poured a little whisky into each glass. Leamas took the bottle from the waiter and added as much again to each. This done, he leaned across the table and said to Ashe, 'Now perhaps you'll tell me what the bloody hell's going on.'

'What do you mean?' Ashe sounded uncertain. 'What do you mean, Alec?'

'You followed me from prison the day I was released,' he began quietly, 'with some bloody silly story of meeting me in Berlin. You gave me money you didn't owe me. You've bought me expensive meals and you're putting me up in your flat.'

Ashe colored and said, 'If that's the—'

'Don't interrupt,' said Leamas fiercely. 'Just damn well wait till I've finished, do you mind? Your membership card for this place is made out for someone called Murphy. Is that your name?'

'No, it is not.'

'I suppose a friend called Murphy lent you his membership card?'

'No, he didn't as a matter of fact. If you must know, I come here occasionally to find a girl. I used a phony name to join the club.'

'Then why,' Leamas persisted ruthlessly, 'is Murphy registered as the tenant of your flat?'

It was Kiever who finally spoke.

'You run along home,' he said to Ashe. 'I'll look after this.'

A girl performed a striptease, a young, drab girl with a dark bruise on her thigh. She had that pitiful, spindly nakedness which is embarrassing because it is not erotic; because it is artless and un-desiring. She turned slowly, jerking sporadically with her arms and legs as if she only heard the music in snatches, and all the time she looked at them with the precocious interest of a child in adult company. The tempo of the music increased abruptly, and the girl responded like a dog to the whistle, scampering back and forth. Removing her brassiere on the last note, she held it above her head, displaying her meager body with its three tawdry patches of tinsel hanging from it like old Christmas tree decorations.

They watched in silence, Leamas and Kiever.

'I suppose you're going to tell me that we've seen better in Berlin,' Leamas suggested at last, and Kiever saw that he was still very angry.

'I expect you have,' Kiever replied pleasantly. 'I have often been to Berlin, but I am afraid I dislike night clubs.'

Leamas said nothing.

'I'm no prude, mind, just rational. If I want a woman I know cheaper ways of finding one; if I want to dance I know better places to do it.'

Leamas might not have been listening. 'Perhaps you'll tell me why that sissy picked me up,' he suggested. Kiever nodded.

'By all means. I told him to.'

'Why?'

'I am interested in you. I want to make you a proposition, a journalistic proposition.'

There was a pause.

'Journalistic,' Leamas repeated. 'I see.'

'I run an agency, an international feature service. It pays well—very well—for interesting material.'

'Who publishes the material?'

'It pays so well, in fact, that a man with your kind of experience of...the international scene, a man with your background, you understand, who provided convincing, factual material, could free himself in a comparatively short time from further financial worry.'

'Who publishes the material, Kiever?' There was a threatening edge to Leamas' voice, and for a moment, just for a moment, a look of apprehension seemed to pass across Kiever's smooth face.

'International clients. I have a correspondent in Paris who disposes of a good deal of my stuff. Often I don't even know who does publish. I confess,' he added with a disarming smile, 'that I don't awfully care. They pay and they ask for more. They're the kind of people, you see, Leamas, who don't fuss about awkward details; they pay promptly, and they're happy to pay into foreign banks, for instance, where no one bothers about things like tax.'

Leamas said nothing. He was holding his glass with both hands, staring into it.

Christ, they're rushing their fences, Leamas thought; it's indecent. He remembered some silly music hall joke—'This is an offer no respectable girl could accept—and besides, I don't know what it's worth.' Tactically, he reflected, they're right to rush it. I'm down and out, prison experience still fresh, social resentment strong. I'm an old horse, I don't need breaking in; I don't have to pretend they've offended my honor as an English gentleman.

On the other hand they would expect practical objections. They would expect him to be afraid; for his Service pursued traitors as the eye of God followed Cain across the desert. And finally, they would know it was a gamble. They would know that inconsistency in human decision can make nonsense of the best planned espionage approach; that cheats, liars and criminals may resist every blandishment while respectable gentlemen have been moved to appalling treasons by watery cabbage in a departmental canteen.

'They'd have to pay a hell of a lot,' Leamas muttered at last. Kiever gave him some more whisky.

'They are offering a down payment of fifteen thousand pounds. The money is already lodged at the Banque Cantonale in Bern. On production of a suitable identification, with which my clients will provide you, you can draw the money. My clients reserve the right to put questions to you over the period of one year on payment of another five thousand pounds. They will assist you with any...resettlement problems that may arise.'

'How soon do you want an answer?'

'Now. You are not expected to commit all your reminiscences to paper. You will meet my client and he will arrange to have the material...ghost written.'

'Where am I supposed to meet him?'

'We felt for everybody's sake it would be simplest to meet outside the United Kingdom. My client suggested Holland.'

'I haven't got my passport,' Leamas said dully.

'I took the liberty of obtaining one for you,' Kiever replied suavely; nothing in his voice or his manner indicated that he had done other than negotiate an adequate business arrangement. 'We're flying to The Hague tomorrow morning at nine forty-five. Shall we go back to my flat and discuss any other details?'

Kiever paid and they took a taxi to a rather good address not far from St. James's Park.

* * *

Kiever's flat was luxurious and expensive, but its contents somehow gave the impression of having been