The Innocent by Ian McEwan Page A

Pimms and lemonade for Maria and another beer for himself. The rest were accumulated slowly and with difficulty over many weeks.
    The morning after the Resi he was outside the gates at Altglienicke by eight-thirty, half an hour early, having walked the final mile from Rudow village. He was sick, tired, thirsty and still a little drunk. On his bedside table that morning he had found a scrap torn from a cigarette packet. On it Maria had written her address, and it was in his pocket now. On theU-Bahn he had taken it out several times. She had borrowed a pen from Jenny’s friend, the French sergeant, and written it down using Jenny’s back for support, while Glass and Russell waited in the car. In Leonard’s hand was his radar station pass. The sentry took it and stared hard at his face.
    When Leonard arrived at what he now thought of as his room, he found the door open and three men inside packing up their tools. From the look of them they had been working all night. The Ampex boxes had been piled in the center. Bolted to all the walls was shelving, deep enough to take an unpacked machine. A set of library steps provided access to the higher shelves. A circular hole had been cut in the ceiling for a ventilator duct, and a metal grill had just been screwed in place. From somewhere above the ceiling came the sound of an extractor fan. As Leonard stepped aside to let a fitter carry his ladder away, he saw a dozen boxes of electrical plugs and new instruments on the trestle table. He was examining them when Glass appeared at his side with a hunting knife in a green canvas sheath. His beard shone in the electric light.
    He spoke without preliminaries. “Open them with this. Do ten at a time, get them on the shelves, then carry the cardboard round the back and burn it right down to ashes. Whatever you do, don’t go round the front with it. They’ll be watching you. Don’t let the wind take anything away. You wouldn’t believe it, but some genius has stenciled serial numbers on the boxes. When you’re out of this room, keep it locked. This is your key, your responsibility. Sign for it here.”
    One of the workmen returned and began searching the room. Leonard signed and said, “That was a good evening. Thanks.” He wanted Bob Glass to ask him about Maria, to acknowledge his triumph. But the American had turned his back and was looking at the shelves. “As soon as they’re up, they’ll need to go under dustsheets. I’ll have some brought around.” The fitter was on his hands and knees staring at the floor. With the toe of his brogues, Glass pointed to a bradawl.
    “That really was quite a place,” Leonard insisted. “In fact, I’m feeling a bit shaky this morning.”
    The man picked up the tool and left. Glass kicked the door shut after him. From the tilt of the beard, Leonard knew he was in for a telling-off.
    “Listen to me. You think this is unimportant, opening boxes and burning the packing. You think it’s something the janitor should do. Well, you’re wrong. Everything, but
everything
on this project is important, every detail. Is there any good reason why you should let a craftsman know that you and I were out drinking together last night? Think it through, Leonard. What would a senior liaison officer be doing out with a technical assistant from the British Post Office? This craftsman is a soldier. He could be in a bar with his buddy, and they could be talking it over in a harmless, curious sort of way. Sitting on the next stool is a bright German kid who’s learned to keep his ears open. There are hundreds of them all over town. Then he’s straight down to the Café Prag or wherever with something to sell. Fifty marks’ worth, twice that if he’s lucky. We’re digging right under their feet, we’re in their sector. If they get wise they’ll shoot to kill. They’d be well within their rights.”
    Glass came closer. Leonard was uncomfortable, and not only because of the other man’s proximity. He was