background, emigrated in the thirties. Farm School, Pioneer Corps, Bomb Disposal. He gravitated to Germany in forty-five. Temporary sergeant; Control Commission; one of the old carpetbaggers by the sound of it. Professional expatriate. There was one in every mess in Occupied Germany in those days. Some survived, some drifted into the consulates. Quite a few of them reverted; went into the night or took up German citizenship again. A few went crooked. No childhood, most of them, that's the trouble. Sorry,' Lumley said abruptly, and almost blushed.
'Any form?'
'Nothing to set the Thames on fire. We traced the next of kin. An uncle living in Hampstead: Otto Harting. Sometime adoptive father. No other relations living. He was in the pharmaceutical business. More an alchemist by the sound of it. Patent medicines, that kind of thing. He's dead now. Dead ten years. He was a member of the Hampstead Branch of the British Communist Party from forty-one to forty-five. One conviction for little girls.'
'How little?'
'Does it matter? His nephew Leo lived with him for a bit. Something may have rubbed off. The old man might even have recruited him then, I suppose... Long-term penetration. That would fit the mould. Or someone may have reminded him of it later on. They never let you go, mind, once you've had a taste of it. Bad as Catholics.'
Lumley hated faith.
'What's his access?'
'Obscure. His function is listed as Claims and Consular, whatever that means. He has diplomatic rank, just. A Second Secretary. You know the kind of arrangement. Unpromotable, unpostable, unpensionable. Chancery gave him living space. Not a proper diplomat.'
'Lucky bloke.'
Lumley let that go.
'Entertainment allowance' - Lumley glanced at the file - 'a hundred and four pounds per annum, to be spread over fifty cocktail guests and thirty-four dinner guests. Accountable. Pretty small beer. He's locally employed. A temporary, of course. He's been one for twenty years.'
'That leaves me sixteen to go.'
'In fifty-six he put in an application to marry a girl called Aickman. Margaret Aickman. Someone he'd met in the Army. The application was never pursued, apparently. There's no record of whether he's married since.'
'Perhaps they've stopped asking. What are the missing files about?'
Lumley hesitated. 'Just a hotchpotch,' he said casually, 'a general hotchpotch. Bradfield's trying to put a list together now.' They could hear the porter's radio blaring again in the corridor.
Turner caught the tone and held on to it: 'What sort of hotchpotch?'
'Policy,' Lumley retorted. 'Not your field at all.'
'You mean I can't know?'
'I mean you needn't know.' He said this quite casually; Lumley's world was dying and he wished no one ill. 'He's chosen a good moment, I must say,' he continued, 'with all this going on. Perhaps he just took a handful and ran for it.'
'Discipline?'
'Nothing much. He got in a fight five years ago in Cologne. A night-club brawl. They managed to hush it up.'
'And they didn't sack him?'
'We like to give people a second chance.' Lumley was still deep in the file, but his tone was pregnant with innuendo.
He was sixty or more, coarse-spoken and grey; a grey-faced, grey-clothed owl of a man, hunched and dried out. Long ago he had been Ambassador to somewhere small, but the appointment had not endured.
'You're to cable me every day. Bradfield is arranging facilities. But don't ring me up, do you understand? That direct line is a menace.' He closed the folder. 'I've cleared it with Western Department, Bradfield's cleared it with the Ambassador. They'll let you go on one condition.'
'That's handsome of them.'
'The Germans mustn't know. Not on any account. They mustn't know he's gone; they mustn't know we're looking for him; they mustn't know there's been a leak.'
'What if he's compromised secret Nato material? That's as much their pigeon as ours.'
'Decisions of that kind are none of your concern. Your instructions are to go gently. Don't lead
'Any form?'
'Nothing to set the Thames on fire. We traced the next of kin. An uncle living in Hampstead: Otto Harting. Sometime adoptive father. No other relations living. He was in the pharmaceutical business. More an alchemist by the sound of it. Patent medicines, that kind of thing. He's dead now. Dead ten years. He was a member of the Hampstead Branch of the British Communist Party from forty-one to forty-five. One conviction for little girls.'
'How little?'
'Does it matter? His nephew Leo lived with him for a bit. Something may have rubbed off. The old man might even have recruited him then, I suppose... Long-term penetration. That would fit the mould. Or someone may have reminded him of it later on. They never let you go, mind, once you've had a taste of it. Bad as Catholics.'
Lumley hated faith.
'What's his access?'
'Obscure. His function is listed as Claims and Consular, whatever that means. He has diplomatic rank, just. A Second Secretary. You know the kind of arrangement. Unpromotable, unpostable, unpensionable. Chancery gave him living space. Not a proper diplomat.'
'Lucky bloke.'
Lumley let that go.
'Entertainment allowance' - Lumley glanced at the file - 'a hundred and four pounds per annum, to be spread over fifty cocktail guests and thirty-four dinner guests. Accountable. Pretty small beer. He's locally employed. A temporary, of course. He's been one for twenty years.'
'That leaves me sixteen to go.'
'In fifty-six he put in an application to marry a girl called Aickman. Margaret Aickman. Someone he'd met in the Army. The application was never pursued, apparently. There's no record of whether he's married since.'
'Perhaps they've stopped asking. What are the missing files about?'
Lumley hesitated. 'Just a hotchpotch,' he said casually, 'a general hotchpotch. Bradfield's trying to put a list together now.' They could hear the porter's radio blaring again in the corridor.
Turner caught the tone and held on to it: 'What sort of hotchpotch?'
'Policy,' Lumley retorted. 'Not your field at all.'
'You mean I can't know?'
'I mean you needn't know.' He said this quite casually; Lumley's world was dying and he wished no one ill. 'He's chosen a good moment, I must say,' he continued, 'with all this going on. Perhaps he just took a handful and ran for it.'
'Discipline?'
'Nothing much. He got in a fight five years ago in Cologne. A night-club brawl. They managed to hush it up.'
'And they didn't sack him?'
'We like to give people a second chance.' Lumley was still deep in the file, but his tone was pregnant with innuendo.
He was sixty or more, coarse-spoken and grey; a grey-faced, grey-clothed owl of a man, hunched and dried out. Long ago he had been Ambassador to somewhere small, but the appointment had not endured.
'You're to cable me every day. Bradfield is arranging facilities. But don't ring me up, do you understand? That direct line is a menace.' He closed the folder. 'I've cleared it with Western Department, Bradfield's cleared it with the Ambassador. They'll let you go on one condition.'
'That's handsome of them.'
'The Germans mustn't know. Not on any account. They mustn't know he's gone; they mustn't know we're looking for him; they mustn't know there's been a leak.'
'What if he's compromised secret Nato material? That's as much their pigeon as ours.'
'Decisions of that kind are none of your concern. Your instructions are to go gently. Don't lead
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