A Perfect Spy

I should write you witches along his path, Tom. The full moon should be turning red and the owl doing whatever the owl did that was so unnatural when foul murder was afoot. But Pym is deaf and blind to them. He is Second Lieutenant Magnus Pym riding in his private train across occupied Austria, entering by way of that very border town where, long ago, in the less mature existence of a different Pym, E. Weber’s fictitious crock of gold had supposedly awaited Mr. Lapadi’s collection. He is a Roman conqueror on his way to taking up his first appointment. He is oven-fired against human frailty and his own destiny, as you may observe from the scowls of military abstinence he bestows upon the bare breasts of the Barbarian peasant women harvesting corn in the sunlit fields. His preparation has passed with the ease of an English Sunday, not that Pym ever asked for ease. The privileged English assets of good manners and bad learning have never been more to his advantage. Even his murky political affiliations at Oxford have turned out to be a blessing. “If the Pongos ask you whether you are now or ever have been a member of the clan, look ’em slap in the eye and tell ’em never,” the last of the Michaels advised him, over a sporting lunch beside the swimming-pool at the Lansdowne, as they watched the pure bodies of suburban girls wriggle through the disinfected water.

“Pongos?” said Pym, mystified.

“Licentious soldiery, old boy. The War Office. Wood from here up. The Firm is fixing your clearance direct. Tell them to mind their damn business.”

“Thanks terribly,” said Pym.

The same evening, glowing from the best of nine games of squash, Pym was led to the presence of a Very Senior Member of the service, in a plain, forgettable office not far from Rick’s newest Reichskanzlei. Was this the Colonel Gaunt who had first approached him? He’s higher, Pym was told. Don’t ask.

“We want to thank you,” said the Senior Member.

“I really enjoyed it,” said Pym.

“It’s a filthy job, mixing with those people. Somebody has to do it.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad, sir.”

“Look here. We’re leaving your name on the books. I can’t promise you anything, we’ve got a selection board these days. Besides, you belong to those chaps across the park and we make it a rule not to fish in one another’s preserves. All the same if you ever do decide that protecting your country at home is more to your liking than playing Mata Hari abroad, let us know.”

“I will, sir. Thank you,” said Pym.

The Very Senior Member was crisp and brown and ostentatiously nondescript like one of his own envelopes. He had the testy manners of a country solicitor, which was what he had been before answering the Great Call. Leaning across his desk he pulled a puzzled smile. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want. How ever did you get mixed up with that crowd in the first place?”

“The Communists?”

“No, no, no. Our sister service.”

“In Bern, sir. I was a student there.”

“In Switzerland,” said the great man, consulting a mental map.

“Yes, sir.”

“My wife and I went skiing near Bern once. Little place called Mürren. The British run it so there aren’t any cars. We rather liked it. What did you do for them?”

“Much the same as for you, sir, really. It was just a bit more dangerous.”

“In what way?”

“You don’t feel you have the protection out there. It’s eyeball to eyeball, I suppose.”

“Seemed such a peaceful spot to me. Well good luck to you, Pym. Look out for those chaps. They’re good but they’re slippery. We’re good but we’ve got a bit of honour left. That’s the difference.”

“He’s brilliant,” Pym told his guide. “He pretends to be completely ordinary but he sees right into you.”

His elation had not left him when a few days later he presented himself, suitcase in hand, at the guardroom of his basic-training regiment where for two months he reaped the plentiful rewards of his upbringing. While Welsh miners and Glaswegian cut-throats wept unashamedly for their mothers, went absent without leave and were carted off to a place of punishment, Pym slept soundly and wept for no one. Long before reveille had dragged his comrades smoking and cursing from their beds, he had polished his boots and belt-brasses and cap badge, made his bed and dressed his bedside locker, and was all ready, should anybody ask it of him, to take a cold shower, dress again, and read the first of the Day Hours with Mr. Willow before a disgusting breakfast. On the parade ground and the football ground he excelled. He neither took fright at being shouted at nor expected logic of authority.

“Where’s Gunner Pym?” the colonel barked one day, in the middle of a lecture on the battle of Corunna, and looked up angrily as if someone else had spoken. Every sergeant in the drill hall screamed Pym’s name until he stood.

“Are you Pym?”

“Sir!”

“See me after this lecture.”

“Sir!”

Company Headquarters lay on the other side of the parade ground. Pym marched there and saluted. The colonel’s aide-de-camp left the room.

“At ease, Pym. Sit down.”