Free A Small Town in Germany by John le Carré Page A

once on familiar terms with Harry Praschko.'
    'Praschko?'
    'We have a parliamentary opposition here: the Free Democrats. Praschko is one of its more colourful members. He has been most things in his time: not least a fellow-traveller. There is a note on file to say they were once friendly. They knew one another during the Occupation, I believe. We keep an index of useful contacts. I once questioned him about Praschko as a matter of routine and he told me that the relationship was discontinued. That is all I can tell you.'
    'He was once engaged to be married to a girl called Margaret Aickman. This Harry Praschko was named as a character reference. In his capacity as a member of the Bundestag.'
    'Well?'
    'You've never heard of Aickman?'
    'Not a name to me, I'm afraid.'
    'Margaret.'
    'So you said. I never heard of any engagement, and I never heard of the woman.'
    'Hobbies? Photography? Stamps? Ham radio?'
    Turner was writing all the time. He might have been filling in a form.
    'He was musical. He played the organ in Chapel. I believe he also had a collection of gramophone records. You would do better to enquire among the Junior Staff; he was more at home with them.'
    'You never went to his house?'
    'Once. For dinner.'
    'Did he come to yours?'
    There was the smallest break in the rhythm of their interrogation while Bradfield considered.
    '0nce.'
    'For dinner?'
    'For drinks. He wasn't quite dinner party material. I am sorry to offend your social instincts.'
    'I haven't got any.'
    Bradfield did not appear surprised.
    'Still, you did go to him, didn't you? I mean you gave him hope.' He rose and ambled back to the window like a great moth lured to the light. 'Got a file on him, have you?' His tone was very detached; he might have been infected by Bradfield's own forensic style.
    'Only paysheets, annual reports, a character reference from the Army. It's all very standard stuff. Read it if you want.' When Turner did not reply, he added: 'We keep very little here on staff; they change so often. Harting was the exception.'
    'He's been here twenty years.'
    'Yes. As I say, he is the exception.'
    'And never vetted.'
    Bradfield said nothing.
    'Twenty years in the Embassy, most of them in Chancery. And never vetted once. Name never even submitted. Amazing really.' He might have beep commenting on the view.
    'I suppose we all thought it had been done already. He came from the Control Commission after all; one assumes they exacted a certain standard.'
    'Quite a privilege being vetted, mind. Not the kind of thing you do for anyone.'
    The marquee had gone. Homeless, the two German policemen paced the grey lawn, their wet leather coats flapping lazily round their boots. It's a dream, Turner thought. A noisy unwilling dream. 'Bonn's a very metaphysical place,' de Lisle's agreeable voice reminded him. 'The dreams have quite replaced reality.'
    'Shall I tell you something?'
    'I can hardly stop you.'
    'All right: you've warned me off. That's usual enough. But where's the rest of it?'
    'I've no idea what you mean.'
    'You've no theory, that's what I mean. It's not like anything I've ever met. There's no panic. No explanation. Why not? He worked for you. You knew him. Now you tell me he's a spy; he's pinched your best files. He's garbage. Is it always like that here when somebody goes? Do the gaps seal that fast?' He waited. 'Let me help you, shall I? "He's been working here for twenty years. We trusted him implicitly. We still do." How's that?'
    Bradfield said nothing.
    'Try again. "I always had my suspicions about him ever since that night we were discussing Karl Marx. Harting swallowed an olive without spitting out the pip." Any good?'
    Still Bradfield did not reply.
    'You see, it's not usual. See what I mean? He's unimportant. How you wouldn't have him to dinner. How you washed your hands of him. And what a sod he is. What he's betrayed.' Turner watched him with his pale, hunter's eyes; watched for a movement, or a gesture, head cocked waiting for the