The Innocent Read Free

across the shoulders. Glass buttoned his collar tightly round a thick neck. From the desk he picked up a ready-knotted tie attached to a hoop of elastic that he snapped on as he stood. He wasted no movements. He took his jacket from the back of a chair and walked to the wall map as he put it on. The suit was dark blue, creased and worn in places to a shine. Leonard was watching. There were ways of wearing clothes that made them quite irrelevant. You could get away with anything.
    Glass struck the map with the back of his hand. “You been around it yet?”
    Leonard, still not trusting himself to avoid more of his “Well, actually, no,” shook his head.
    “I’ve just been reading this report. One of the things it says, and this is just anyone’s guess, but what they say is that between five and ten thousand individuals in this city are working in intelligence. That’s not counting backup. That’s guys on the ground. Spies.” He tilted his head and pointed his beard at Leonard until he was satisfied with the response. “Most of them are free-lancers, part-timers, kids,
Hundert Mark Jungen
who hang around the bars. They’ll sell you a story for the price of a few beers. They also buy. You been over to the Café Prag?”
    “No, not yet.”
    Glass was striding back to his desk. He had had no real need of the map after all. “It’s the Chicago futures market down there. You should take a look.”
    He was about five foot six, seven inches shorter than Leonard. He seemed bottled up in his suit. He was smiling, but helooked ready to wreck the room. As he sat down he slapped his knee hard and said, “So, Welcome!” His head hair was also wiry and dark. It started well up on his forehead and flew backward, giving him the high-domed appearance of a cartoon scientist facing into a strong wind. His beard, in contrast, was inert, trapping light into its solidity. It protruded as a wedge, like the beard of a carved wooden Noah.
    From across the landing, through the open door, came the urinous scent of burned toast smelled at a distance. Glass bounced up, kicked the door shut and returned to his chair. He took a long pull of the coffee that Leonard was finding almost too hot to sip. It tasted of boiled cabbage. The trick was to concentrate on the sugar.
    Glass leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me what you know.”
    Leonard gave an account of his meeting with Lofting. His voice sounded prissy in his ears. In deference to Glass, he was softening his
t
’s and flattening his
a
’s.
    “But you don’t know what the equipment is or what the tests are that you have to carry out?”
    “No.”
    Glass stretched back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “That dumb Sheldrake. Couldn’t keep his ass still when his promotion came through. He left no one accountable for your stuff.” Glass looked pityingly at Leonard. “The British. It’s hard to make those guys at the stadium take anything seriously. They’re so busy being gentlemen. They don’t do their jobs.”
    Leonard said nothing. He thought he should be loyal.
    Glass raised his coffee cup at him and smiled. “But you technical people are different, right?”
    “Perhaps we are.”
    The phone rang while he was saying this. Glass snatched the receiver and listened for half minute and then said, “No. I’m on my way.” He replaced the phone and stood. He guided Leonard toward the door. “So you know nothing about the warehouse? No one’s mentioned Altglienicke to you?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “We’re going there now.”
    They were on the landing. Glass was using three keys to lock his door. He was shaking his head and smiling to himself as he murmured, “Those Brits, that Sheldrake, that dumb fuck.”

Two
    T he car was a disappointment. On his way to Nollendorfstrasse from the U-Bahn Leonard had seen a pastel American vehicle with tailfins and swags of chrome. This was a dun-colored Beetle, barely a year old, which seemed to have suffered an