Call for the Dead - 1 Read online

  The fog grew thick and yellow. Neither of them wore a coat. Mendel wondered what Mrs Fennan would do now. Guillam would take care of her. She hadn’t even looked at Dieter when he slunk off. She was an odd one, that, all skin and bones and good works by the look of her. Lived on dry toast and Bovril.

  Dieter turned abruptly down a side street to the right then another to the left. They had been walking for nearly an hour and he showed no sign of slowing down. The street seemed empty: certainly Mendel could hear no other footsteps but their own, crisp and short, the echo corrupted by the fog. They were in a narrow street of Victorian houses with hastily contrived Regency-style façades, heavy porches and sash windows. Mendel guessed they were somewhere near Fulham Broadway, perhaps beyond it, nearer the King’s Road. Still Dieter’s pace did not flag, still the crooked shadow thrust forward into the fog, confident of its path, urgent in its purpose.

  As they approached a main road Mendel heard again the plaintive whine of traffic, brought almost to a standstill by the fog. Then from somewhere above them a yellow street light shed a pale glow, its outline clearly drawn like the aura of a winter sun. Dieter hesitated a moment on the kerb, then, chancing the ghostly traffic that nosed its way past them from nowhere, he crossed the road and plunged at once into one of the innumerable side streets that led, Mendel was certain, towards the river.

  Mendel’s clothes were soaking wet, and the thin rain ran over his face. They must be near the river now; he thought he could detect the smell of tar and coke, feel the insidious cold of the black water. Just for a moment he thought Dieter had vanished. He moved forward quickly, nearly tripped on a kerb, went forward again and saw the railings of the embankment in front of him. Steps led upwards to an iron gate in the railings and this was slightly open. He stood at the gate and peered beyond, down into the water. There was a stout wooden gangway and Mendel heard the uneven echo as Dieter, hidden by the fog, followed his strange course to the water’s edge. Mendel waited, then, wary and silent, he made his way down the gangway. It was a permanent affair with heavy pine handrails on either side. Mendel reckoned it had been there some time. The low end of the gangway was joined to a long raft made of duckboard and oil-drums. Three dilapidated houseboats loomed in the fog, rocking gently on their moorings.

  Noiselessly Mendel crept on to the raft, examining each of the houseboats in turn. Two were close together, connected by a plank. The third was moored some fifteen feet away, and a light was burning in her forward cabin. Mendel returned to the embankment, closing the iron gate carefully behind him.

  He walked slowly down the road, still uncertain of his bearings. After about five minutes the pavement took him suddenly to the right and the ground rose gradually. He guessed he was on a bridge. He lit his cigarette lighter, and its long flame cast a glow over the stone wall on his right. He moved the lighter back and forth, and finally came upon a wet and dirty metal plate bearing the words ‘Battersea Bridge’. He made his way back to the iron gate and stood for a moment, orientating himself in the light of his knowledge.

  Somewhere above him and to his right the four massive chimneys of Fulham Power Station stood hidden in the fog. To his left was Cheyne Walk with its row of smart little boats reaching to Battersea Bridge. The place where he now stood marked the dividing line between the smart and the squalid, where Cheyne Walk meets Lots Road, one of the ugliest streets in London. The southern side of this road consists of vast warehouses, wharves and mills, and the northern side presents an unbroken line of dingy houses typical of the side streets of Fulham.

  It was in the shadow of the four chimneys, perhaps sixty feet from the Cheyne Walk mooring, that Dieter Frey had found a sanctuary. Yes, Mendel knew the spot well. It was only a couple of hundred yards up river from where the earthly remains of Mr Adam Scarr had been recovered from the unyielding arms of the Thames.

  16

  Echoes in the Fog

  It was long after midnight when Smiley’s telephone rang. He got up from the armchair in front of the gas fire and plodded upstairs to his bedroom, his right hand gripping the banisters tightly as he went. It was Peter, no doubt, or the police, and he would have to make a statement. Or even the Press. The murder had taken place just in time to catch today’s papers and mercifully too late for last night’s news broadcast. What would this be? ‘Maniac killer in theatre’? ‘Death-lock murder – woman named’? He hated the Press as he hated advertising and television, he hated mass-media, the relentless persuasion of the twentieth century. Everything he admired or loved had been the product of intense individualism. That was why he hated Dieter now, hated what he stood for more strongly than ever before: it was the fabulous impertinence of renouncing the individual in favour of the mass. When had mass philosophies ever brought benefit or wisdom? Dieter cared nothing for human life: dreamt only of armies of faceless men bound by their lowest common denominators; he wanted to shape the world as if it were a tree, cutting off what did not fit the regular image; for this he fashioned blank, soulless automatons like Mundt. Mundt was faceless like Dieter’s army, a trained killer born of the finest killer breed.

  He picked up the telephone and gave his number. It was Mendel.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Near Chelsea Embankment. Pub called the Balloon, in Lots Road. Landlord’s a chum of mine. I knocked him up … Listen, Elsa’s boyfriend is lying up in a houseboat by Chelsea flour mill. Bloody miracle in the fog, he is. Must have found his way by Braille.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her boyfriend, her escort at the theatre. Wake up, Mr Smiley; what’s eating you?’

  ‘You followed Dieter?’

  ‘Of course I did. That was what you told Mr Guillam, wasn’t it? He was to stick to the woman and me the man … How did Mr Guillam get on, by the way? Where did Elsa get to?’

  ‘She didn’t get anywhere. She was dead when Dieter left. Mendel, are you there? Look, for God’s sake, how do I find you? Where is this place, will the police know it?’

  ‘They’ll know. Tell them he’s in a converted landing craft called Sunset Haven. She’s lying against the eastern side of Sennen Wharf, between the flour mills and Fulham Power Station. They’ll know … but the fog’s thick, mind, very thick.’

  ‘Where can I meet you?’

  ‘Cut straight down to the river. I’ll meet you where Battersea Bridge joins the north bank.’

  ‘I’ll come at once, as soon as I’ve rung Guillam.’

  He had a gun somewhere, and for a moment he thought of looking for it. Then, somehow, it seemed pointless. Besides, he reflected grimly, there’d be the most frightful row if he used it. He rang Guillam at his flat and gave him Mendel’s message: ‘And, Peter, they must cover all ports and airfields; order a special watch on river traffic and seabound craft. They’ll know the form.’

  He put on an old mackintosh and a pair of thick leather gloves and slipped quickly out into the fog.

  Mendel was waiting for him by the bridge. They nodded to one another and Mendel led him quickly along the embankment, keeping close to the river wall to avoid the trees that grew along the road. Suddenly Mendel stopped, seizing Smiley by the arm in warning. They stood motionless, listening. Then Smiley heard it too, the hollow ring of footsteps on a wooden floor, irregular like the footsteps of a limping man. They heard the creak of an iron gate, the clang as it was closed, then the footsteps again, firm now upon the pavement, growing louder, coming towards them. Neither moved. Louder, nearer, then they faltered, stopped. Smiley held his breath, trying desperately at the same time to see an extra yard into the fog, to glimpse the waiting figure he knew was there.

  Then suddenly he came, rushing like a massive wild beast, bursting through them, knocking them apart like children and running on, lost again, the uneven echo fading in the distance. They turned and chased after him, Mendel in front and Smiley following as best he could, the image vivid in his mind of Dieter, gun in hand, bursting on them out of the night fog. Ahead, the shadow of Mendel turned abru
ptly to the right, and Smiley followed blindly. Then suddenly the rhythm had changed to the scuffle of fighting. Smiley ran forward, heard the unmistakable sound of a heavy weapon striking a human skull, and then he was upon them: saw Mendel on the ground, and Dieter stooping over him, raising his arm to hit him again with the heavy butt of an automatic pistol.

  Smiley was out of breath. His chest was burning from the bitter, rank fog, his mouth hot and dry, filled with a taste like blood. Somehow he summoned breath, and he shouted desperately:

  ‘Dieter!’

  Frey looked at him, nodded and said:

  ‘Servus, George,’ and hit Mendel a hard, brutal blow with the pistol. He got up slowly, holding the pistol downwards and using both hands to cock it.

  Smiley ran at him blindly, forgetting what little skill he had ever possessed, swinging with his short arms, striking with his open hands. His head was against Dieter’s chest and he pushed forward, punching Dieter’s back and sides. He was mad and, discovering in himself the energy of madness, pressed Dieter back still further towards the railing of the bridge while Dieter, off balance and hindered by his weak leg, gave way. Smiley knew Dieter was hitting him, but the decisive blow never came. He was shouting at Dieter; ‘Swine, swine!’ and as Dieter receded still further Smiley found his arms free and once more struck at his face with clumsy, childish blows. Dieter was leaning back and Smiley saw the clean curve of his throat and chin, as with all his strength he thrust his open hand upwards. His fingers closed over Dieter’s jaw and mouth and he pushed further and further. Dieter’s hands were at Smiley’s throat, then suddenly they were clutching at his collar to save himself as he sank slowly backwards. Smiley beat frantically at his arms, and then he was held no more and Dieter was falling, falling into the swirling fog beneath the bridge, and there was silence. No shout, no splash. He was gone; offered like a human sacrifice to the London fog and the foul black river lying beneath it.

  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 Ge
rmany.’

  ‘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.