Free The Spy Who Came in From the Cold by John le Carré Page A

such
subtleties, found it hard to remember that he was in a private flat and not a
hotel. As Kiever showed him to his room (which looked onto a dingy inner
courtyard and not onto the street) Leamas asked him:
    “How long have you been here?”
    “Oh, not long,” Kiever replied lightly,
“a few months, not more.”
    “Must cost a packet. Still, I suppose you’re worth it.”
    “Thanks.”
    There was a bottle of Scotch in his room and a
syphon of soda on a silver-plated tray. A curtained doorway at the farther end
of the room led to abathroom
and lavatory.
    “Quite a little love nest. All paid for by
the great Worker State ?”
    “Shut up,” said Kiever savagely, and
added, “If you want me, there’s an intercom telephone to my room. I shall
be awake.”
    “I think I can manage my buttons now,” Leamas retorted.
    “Then good night,” said Kiever shortly,
and left the room.He’s on edge,
too, thought Leamas.
***
    Leamas was awakened by the telephone at his
bedside. It was Kiever.“It’s six o’clock ,” he said,
“breakfast at half past.”
    “All right,” Leamas replied, and rang off.
He had a headache.
***
    Kiever must have telephoned for a taxi, because at seven o’clock the doorbellrang and Kiever asked, “Got
everything?”
    “I’ve no luggage,” Leamas replied,
“except a toothbrush and a razor.”“That is taken care of. Are you ready otherwise?”
    Leamas shrugged. “I suppose so. Have you any
cigarettes?”
    “No,” Kiever replied, “but you can
get some on the plane. You’d better look through this,” he added, and
handed Leamas a British passport. It was made out in hisname with his own photograph mounted in it, embossed by a
deep-press Foreign Office seal running across the corner. It was neither old
nor new; it described Leamasas
a clerk, and gave his status as single. Holding it in his hand for the first
time, Leamas was a little nervous. It was like getting married: whatever
happened, things would never be the same again.
    “What about money?” Leamas asked.
    “You don’t need any. It’s on the firm.”

8
Le Mirage
    It was cold that morning, the light mist was damp and gray, pricking the skin.The airport reminded Leamas of the war: machines, half hidden
in the fog, waiting patiently for their masters; the resonant voices and their
echoes, the sudden shout andthe
incongruous clip of a girl’s heels on a stone floor; the roar of an engine that
mighthave been at your elbow.
Everywhere that air of conspiracy which generates amongpeople who have been up since dawn—of superiority almost, from
the commonexperience of having
seen the night disappear and the morning come. The staff had that look which is informed by the mystery of dawn and animated
by the cold, and they treated the passengers and their luggage with the
remoteness of men returned from the front: ordinary mortals and nothing for
them that morning.
    Kiever had provided Leamas with luggage. It was a
detail: Leamas admired it.Passengers
without luggage attract attention, and it was not part of Kiever’s plan to do that.
They checked in at the airline desk and followed the signs to passport control.
There was a ludicrous moment when they lost the way and Kiever was rude to a
porter. Leamas supposed Kiever was worried about the passport—he needn’t be , thought Leamas, there’s nothing wrong with it.
    The passport officer was a youngish little man
with an Intelligence Corps tie and some mysterious badge in his lapel. He had a
ginger mustache and a North Country accent
which was his life’s enemy.
    “Going to be away for a long time, sir?” he asked
Leamas.
    “A couple of weeks,” Leamas replied.
    “You’ll want to watch it, sir. Your
passport’s due for renewal on the thirty-first.”
    “I know,” said Leamas.
    They walked side by side into the passengers’
waiting room. On the way Leamas said: “You’re a suspicious sod, aren’t
you, Kiever?” and the other laughed quietly.
    “Can’t have you on