Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (16 page)

“My dear Connie, don’t be absurd,” Smiley retorted, off guard for once. “Bill and I were perfectly good friends. What on earth makes you say that?”

“Nothing.” She had almost forgotten it. “I heard once he had a run round the park with Ann, that’s all. Isn’t he a cousin of hers, or something? I always thought you’d have been so good together, you and Bill, if it could have worked. You’d have brought back the old spirit. Instead of that Scottish twerp. Bill rebuilding Camelot”—her fairy-tale smile again—“and George—”

“George picking up the bits,” said Smiley, vamping for her, and they laughed, Smiley falsely.

“Give me a kiss, George. Give Connie a kiss.”

She showed him through the kitchen garden, the route her lodgers used; she said he would prefer it to the view of the filthy new bungalows the Harrison pigs had flung up in the next door garden. A thin rain was falling, a few stars glowed big and pale in the mist; on the road lorries rumbled northward through the night. Clasping him, Connie grew suddenly frightened.

“You’re very naughty, George. Do you hear? Look at me. Don’t look that way, it’s all neon lights and Sodom. Kiss me. All over the world, beastly people are making our time into nothing; why do you help them? Why?”

“I’m not helping them, Connie.”

“’Course you are. Look at me. It was a good time, do you hear? A real time. Englishmen could be proud then. Let them be proud now.”

“That’s not quite up to me, Connie.”

She was pulling his face onto her own, so he kissed her full on the lips.

“Poor loves.” She was breathing heavily, not perhaps from any one emotion but from a whole mess of them, washed around in her like mixed drinks. “Poor loves. Trained to Empire, trained to rule the waves. All gone. All taken away. Bye-bye, world. You’re the last, George, you and Bill. And filthy Percy a bit.” He had known it would end like this; but not quite so awfully. He had had the same story from her every Christmas at the little drinking parties that went on in corners round the Circus. “You don’t know Millponds, do you?” she was asking.

“What’s Millponds?”

“My brother’s place. Beautiful Palladian house, lovely grounds, near Newbury. One day a road came. Crash. Bang. Motorway. Took all the grounds away. I grew up there, you see. They haven’t sold Sarratt, have they? I was afraid they might.”

“I’m sure they haven’t.”

He longed to be free of her but she was clutching him more fiercely; he could feel her heart thumping against him.

“If it’s bad, don’t come back. Promise? I’m an old leopard and I’m too old to change my spots. I want to remember you all as you were. Lovely, lovely boys.”

He did not like to leave her there in the dark, swaying under the trees, so he walked her halfway back to the house, neither of them talking. As he went down the road, he heard her humming again, so loud it was like a scream. But it was nothing to the mayhem inside him just then, the currents of alarm and anger and disgust at this blind night walk, with God knew what bodies at the end.

He caught a stopping train to Slough, where Mendel was waiting for him with a hired car. As they drove slowly towards the orange glow of the city, he listened to the sum of Peter Guillam’s researches. The duty officers’ ledger contained no record of the night of April 10th–11th, said Mendel. The pages had been excised with a razor blade. The janitors’ returns for the same night were also missing, as were the signals’ returns.

“Peter thinks it was done recently. There’s a note scribbled on the next page, saying, ‘All enquiries to Head of London Station.’ It’s in Esterhase’s handwriting and dated Friday.”

“Last
Friday?” said Smiley, turning so fast that his seat belt let out a whine of complaint. “That’s the day Tarr arrived in England.”

“It’s all according to Peter,” Mendel replied stolidly.

And finally, concerning Lapin alias Ivlov, and Cultural Attaché Aleksey Aleksandrovich Polyakov, both of the Soviet Embassy in London, Toby Esterhase’s lamplighter reports carried no adverse trace whatever. Both had been investigated, both were graded Persil: the cleanest category available. Lapin had been posted back to Moscow a year ago.

In a briefcase, Mendel had also brought Guillam’s photographs, the result of his foray at Brixton, developed and blown up to full-plate size. Close to Paddington Station, Smiley got out and Mendel held the case out to him through the doorway.

“Sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Mendel asked.

“Thank you. It’s only a hundred yards.”

“Lucky for you there’s twenty-four hours in the day, then.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Some people sleep.”

“Good night.”

Mendel was still holding onto the briefcase. “I may have found the school,” he said. “Place called Thursgood’s, near Taunton. He did half a term’s supply work in Berkshire first, then seems to have hoofed it to Somerset. Got a trailer, I hear. Want me to check?”

“How will you do that?”

“Bang on his door. Sell him a magazine, get to know him socially.”

“I’m sorry,” said Smiley, suddenly worried. “I’m afraid I’m jumping at shadows. I’m sorry, that was rude of me.”

“Young Guillam’s jumping at shadows, too,” said Mendel firmly. “Says he’s getting funny looks around the place. Says there’s something up and they’re all in it. I told him to have a stiff drink.”

“Yes,” said Smiley after further thought. “Yes, that’s the thing to do. Jim’s a pro,” he explained. “A fieldman of the old school. He’s good, whatever they did to him.”

Camilla had come back late. Guillam had understood her flute lesson with Sand ended at nine, yet it was eleven by the time she let herself in, and he was accordingly short with her; he couldn’t help it. Now she lay in bed, with her grey-black hair spread over the pillow, watching him as he stood at the unlit window staring into the square.

“Have you eaten?” he said.

“Dr. Sand fed me.”

“What on?”

Sand was a Persian, she had told him.

No answer. Dreams, perhaps? Nut steak? Love? In bed she never stirred except to embrace him. When she slept, she barely breathed; sometimes he would wake and watch her, wondering how he would feel if she were dead.

“Are you fond of Sand?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Is he your lover?”

“Sometimes.”

“Maybe you should move in with him instead of me.”

“It’s not like that,” said Camilla. “You don’t understand.”

No. He didn’t. First there had been a loving couple necking in the back of a Rover, then a lonely queer in a trilby exercising his Sealyham; then a girl made an hour-long call from the phone box outside his front door. There need be nothing to any of it, except that the events were consecutive, like a changing of the guard. Now a van had parked and no one got out. More lovers, or a lamplighters’ night team? The van had been there ten minutes when the Rover drove away.

Camilla was asleep. He lay awake beside her, waiting for tomorrow when, at Smiley’s request, he intended to steal the file on the Prideaux affair, otherwise known as the Ellis scandal or—more locally—Operation Testify.

14

I
t had been, till that moment, the second happiest day of Bill Roach’s short life. The happiest was shortly before the dissolution of his household, when his father discovered a wasps’ nest in the roof and recruited Bill to help him smoke them out. His father was not an outdoor man—not even handy—but after Bill had looked up wasps in his encyclopaedia they drove to the chemist together and bought sulphur, which they burned on a charger under the eave, and did the wasps to death.

Whereas today had seen the formal opening of Jim Prideaux’s car-club rally. Till now they had only stripped the Alvis down, refurbished her, and put her together again, but today, as the reward, they had laid out—with the help of Latzy, the D.P.—a slalom of straw bales on the stony side of the drive. Then each in turn had taken the wheel and, with Jim as timekeeper, puffed and shunted through the gates to the tumult of their supporters. “Best car England ever made” was how Jim had introduced his car. “Out of production, thanks to Socialism.” She was now repainted, she had a racing Union Jack on the bonnet, and she was undoubtedly the finest, fastest car on earth. In the first round, Roach had come third out of fourteen, and now in the second he had reached the chestnut trees without once stalling, and was all set for the home lap and a record time. He had never imagined that anything could give him so much pleasure. He loved the car, he loved Jim, and he even loved the school, and for the first time in his life he loved trying to win. He could hear Jim yelling, “Easy, Jumbo,” and he could see Latzy leaping up and down with the improvised chequered flag; but as he clattered past the post he already knew that Jim wasn’t watching him any more but glaring down the course towards the beech trees.

“Sir, how long, sir?” he asked breathlessly, and there was a small hush.

“Timekeeper!” sang Spikely, chancing his luck. “Time, please, Rhino.”

“Was very good, Jumbo,” Latzy said, also looking at Jim.

For once, Spikely’s impertinence, like Roach’s entreaty, found no response. Jim was staring across the field, towards the lane that formed the eastern border. Beside him stood a boy named Coleshaw, whose nickname was Cole Slaw. He was a lag from Three B, and famous for sucking up to staff. The ground lay very flat just there before lifting to the hills; often after a few days’ rain it flooded. For this reason there was no good hedge beside the lane but a post-and-wire fence; and no trees, either—just the fence, the flats, and sometimes the Quantocks behind, which today had vanished in the general whiteness. The flats could have been a marsh leading to a lake, or simply to the white infinity. Against this washed-out background strolled a single figure, a trim, inconspicuous pedestrian, male and thin-faced, in a trilby hat and grey raincoat, carrying a walking stick that he barely used. Watching him also, Roach decided that the man wanted to walk faster but was going slowly for a purpose.

“Got your specs on, Jumbo?” asked Jim, staring after the man, who was about to draw level with the next post.

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is he, then? Looks like Solomon Grundy.”

“Don’t know, sir.”

“Never seen him before?”

“No, sir.”

“Not staff, not village. So who is he? Beggarman? Thief? Why doesn’t he look this way, Jumbo? What’s wrong with us? Wouldn’t you, if you saw a bunch of boys flogging a car round a field? Doesn’t he like cars? Doesn’t he like boys?”

Roach was still thinking up an answer to all these questions when Jim started speaking to Latzy in D.P., using a murmured, level sort of tone, which at once suggested to Roach that there was a complicity between them, a special foreign bond. The impression was strengthened by Latzy’s reply, plainly negative, which had the same unstartled quietness.

“Sir, please, sir, I think he’s to do with the church, sir,” said Cole Slaw. “I saw him talking to Wells Fargo, sir, after chapel.”

The vicar’s name was Spargo and he was very old. It was Thursgood legend that he was in fact the great Wells Fargo in retirement. At this intelligence, Jim thought awhile and Roach, furious, told himself that Coleshaw was making the story up.

“Hear what they talked about, Cole Slaw?”

“Sir, no, sir. They were looking at pew lists, sir. But I could ask Wells Fargo, sir.”

“Our
pew lists? Thursgood pew lists?”

“Yes, sir. School pew lists. Thursgood’s. With all the names, sir, where we sit.”

And where the staff sit, too, thought Roach sickly.

“Anybody sees him again, let me know. Or any other sinister bodies, understand?” Jim was addressing them all, making light of it now. “Don’t hold with odd bods hanging about the school. Last place I was at, we had a whole damn gang. Cleared the place out. Silver, money, boys’ watches, radios—God knows what they didn’t pinch. He’ll pinch the Alvis next. Best car England ever made, and out of production. Colour of hair, Jumbo?”

“Black, sir.”

“Height, Cole Slaw?”

“Sir, six foot, sir.”

“Everybody looks six foot to Cole Slaw, sir,” said a wit, for Coleshaw was a midget, reputedly fed on gin as a baby.

“Age, Spikely, you toad?”

“Ninety-one, sir.”

The moment dissolved in laughter; Roach was awarded a re-drive and did badly, and the same night lay in an anguish of jealousy that the entire car club, not to mention Latzy, had been recruited wholesale to the select rank of watcher. It was poor consolation to assure himself that their vigilance would never match his own; that Jim’s order would not outlive the day; or that from now on he must increase his efforts to meet what was clearly an advancing threat.

The thin-faced stranger disappeared, but next day Jim paid a rare visit to the churchyard; Roach saw him talking to Wells Fargo before an open grave. Thereafter Bill Roach noticed a steady darkening of Jim’s face, and an alertness which at times was like an anger in him, as he stalked through the twilight every evening, or sat on the hummocks outside his trailer, indifferent to the cold or wet, smoking his tiny cigar and sipping his vodka as the dusk closed on him.

PART II

15

T
he Hotel Islay in Sussex Gardens—where, on the day after his visit to Ascot, George Smiley under the name of Barraclough had set up his operational headquarters—was a very quiet place, considering its position, and perfectly suited to his needs. It lay a hundred yards south of Paddington Station, one of a terrace of elderly mansions cut off from the main avenue by a line of plane trees and a parking patch. The traffic roared past it all night. But the inside, though it was a fire-bowl of clashing wallpapers and copper lampshades, was a place of extraordinary calm. Not only was there nothing going on in the hotel, there was nothing going on in the world, either, and this impression was strengthened by Mrs. Pope Graham, the proprietor, a major’s widow with a terribly langorous voice that imparted a sense of deep fatigue to Mr. Barraclough or anyone else who sought her hospitality. Inspector Mendel, whose informant she had been for many years, insisted that her name was plain Graham. The Pope had been added for grandeur or out of deference to Rome.