The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

by John Le Carré

“I’ve got bad news for you,” he said, “they’re looking for you in England. I heard this morning. They’re watching the ports.” Leamas replied impassively: “On what charge?” “Nominally for failing to report to a police station within the statutory period after release from prison.” “And in fact?” “The word is going around that you’re wanted for an offence under the Official Secrets Act. Your photograph’s in all the London evening papers. The captions are very vague.” Leamas was standing very still. Control had done it. Control had started the hue and cry. There was no other explanation. If Ashe or Kiever had been pulled in, if they had talked—even then, the responsibility for the hue and cry was still Control’s. “A couple of weeks,” he’d said; “I expect they’ll take you off somewhere for the interrogation—it may even be abroad. A couple of weeks should see you through, though. After that, the thing should run itself. You’ll have to lie low over here while the chemistry works itself out; but you won’t mind that I’m sure. I’ve agreed to keep you on operational subsistence until Mundt is eliminated: that seemed the fairest way.”