Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (6 page)

Yes, he thought, it was raining when I came here before, when the name Jim Ellis was headline news.

They had washed and, in the lofty cloakroom, inspected Lacon’s climbing kit mawkishly dumped on the Sheraton chest of drawers. Now they sat in a half-circle facing one empty chair. It was the ugliest house for miles around and Lacon had picked it up for a song. “A Berkshire Camelot,” he had once called it, explaining it away to Smiley, “built by a teetotal millionaire.” The drawing-room was a great hall with stained-glass windows twenty feet high and a pine gallery over the entrance. Smiley counted off the familiar things: an upright piano littered with musical scores, old portraits of clerics in gowns, a wad of printed invitations. He looked for the Cambridge University oar and found it slung over the fireplace. The same fire was burning, too mean for the enormous grate. An air of need prevailing over wealth.

“Are you enjoying retirement, George?” Lacon asked, as if blurting into the ear trumpet of a deaf aunt. “You don’t miss the warmth of human contact? I rather would, I think. One’s work, one’s old buddies.”

He was a string bean of a man, graceless and boyish: church and spy establishment, said Haydon, the Circus wit. His father was a dignitary of the Scottish church and his mother something noble. Occasionally the smarter Sundays wrote about him, calling him “new-style” because he was young. The skin of his face was clawed from hasty shaving.

“Oh, I think I manage very well, really, thank you,” said Smiley politely. And to draw it out: “Yes. Yes, I’m sure I do. And you? All goes well with you?”

“No big changes, no. All very smooth. Charlotte got her scholarship to Roedean, which was nice.”

“Oh, good.”

“And your wife, she’s in the pink and so on?”

His expressions were also boyish.

“Very bonny, thank you,” said Smiley, trying gallantly to respond in kind.

They were watching the double doors. From far off they heard the jangle of footsteps on a ceramic floor. Smiley guessed two people, both men. The doors opened and a tall figure appeared half in silhouette. For the fraction of a moment, Smiley glimpsed a second man behind him, dark, small, and attentive; but only the one man stepped into the room before the doors were closed by unseen hands.

“Lock us in, please,” Lacon called, and they heard the snap of the key. “You know Smiley, don’t you?”

“Yes, I think I do,” said the figure as he began the long walk towards them out of the far gloom. “I think he once gave me a job, didn’t you, Mr. Smiley?”

His voice was as soft as a southerner’s drawl, but there was no mistaking the colonial accent. “Tarr, sir. Ricki Tarr from Penang.”

A fragment of firelight illuminated one side of the stark smile and made a hollow of one eye. “The lawyer’s boy, remember? Come on, Mr. Smiley, you changed my first nappies.”

And then, absurdly, they were all four standing, and Guillam and Lacon looked on like godparents while Tarr shook Smiley’s hand once, then again, then once more for the photographs.

“How are you, Mr. Smiley? It’s real nice to see you, sir.”

Relinquishing Smiley’s hand at last, he swung away in the direction of his appointed chair, while Smiley thought, Yes, with Ricki Tarr it could have happened. With Tarr, anything could have happened. My God, he thought; two hours ago I was telling myself I would take refuge in the past. He felt thirsty, and supposed it was fear.

Ten? Twelve years ago? It was not his night for understanding time. Among Smiley’s jobs in those days was the vetting of recruits: no one taken on without his nod, no one trained without his signature on the schedule. The cold war was running high, scalp-hunters were in demand, the Circus’s residencies abroad had been ordered by Haydon to look out for likely material. Steve Mackelvore from Djakarta came up with Tarr. Mackelvore was an old pro with cover as a shipping agent, and he had found Tarr angry drunk, kicking round the docks looking for a girl called Rose, who had walked out on him.

According to Tarr’s story, he was mixed up with a bunch of Belgians running guns between the islands and up-coast. He disliked Belgians and he was bored with gunrunning and he was angry because they’d stolen Rose. Mackelvore reckoned he would respond to discipline and was young enough to train for the type of mailfist operation that the scalp-hunters undertook from behind the walls of their glum Brixton schoolhouse. After the usual searches, Tarr was forwarded to Singapore for a second look, then to the Nursery at Sarratt for a third. At that point Smiley came into the act as moderator at a succession of interviews, some hostile. Sarratt Nursery was the training compound, but it had space for other uses.

Tarr’s father was an Australian solicitor living in Penang, it seemed. The mother was a small-time actress from Bradford who came East with a British drama group before the war. The father, Smiley recalled, had an evangelical streak and preached in local gospel halls. The mother had a small criminal record in England, but Tarr’s father either didn’t know or didn’t care. When the war came, the couple evacuated to Singapore for the sake of their young son. A few months later, Singapore fell and Ricki Tarr began his education in Changi jail under Japanese supervision. In Changi the father preached God’s charity to everyone in sight, and if the Japs hadn’t persecuted him his fellow prisoners would have done the job for them. With Liberation, the three of them went back to Penang. Ricki tried to read for the law but more often broke it, and the father turned some rough preachers loose on him to beat the sin out of his soul. Tarr flew the coop to Borneo. At eighteen he was a fully paid-up gunrunner playing all seven ends against the middle around the Indonesian islands, and that was how Mackelvore stumbled on him.

By the time he had graduated from the Nursery, the Malayan emergency had broken. Tarr was played back into gunrunning. Almost the first people he bumped into were his old Belgian friends. They were too busy supplying guns to the Communists to bother where he had been, and they were shorthanded. Tarr ran a few shipments for them in order to blow their contacts, then one night got them drunk, shot four of them, including Rose, and set fire to their boat. He hung around Malaya and did a couple more jobs before being called back to Brixton and refitted for special operations in Kenya—or, in less sophisticated language, hunting Mau Mau for bounty.

After Kenya, Smiley pretty much lost sight of him, but a couple of incidents stuck in his memory because they might have become scandals and Control had to be informed. In 1964, Tarr was sent to Brazil to make a crash offer of a bribe to an armaments minister known to be in deep water. Tarr was too rough; the minister panicked and told the press. Tarr had Dutch cover and no one was wiser except Netherlands intelligence, who were furious. In Spain a year later, acting on a tip-off supplied by Bill Haydon, Tarr blackmailed—or burned, as the scalp-hunters would say—a Polish diplomat who had lost his heart to a dancer. The first yield was good; Tarr won a commendation and a bonus. But when he went back for a second helping the Pole wrote a confession to his ambassador and threw himself, with or without encouragement, from a high window.

In Brixton, they used to call him accident-prone. Guillam, by the expression on his immature but aging face, as they sat in their half-circle round the meagre fire, called him a lot worse than that.

“Well, I guess I’d better make my pitch,” Tarr said pleasantly as he settled his easy body into the chair.

5

“I
t happened around six months ago,” Tarr began.

“April,” Guillam snapped. “Just keep it precise, shall we, all the way along?”

“April, then,” Tarr said equably. “Things were pretty quiet in Brixton. I guess there must have been half a dozen of us on standby. Pete Sembrini, he was in from Rome; Cy Vanhofer had just made a hit in Budapest”—he gave a mischievous smile—“Ping-Pong and snooker in the Brixton waiting room. Right, Mr. Guillam?”

“It was the silly season.”

When out of the blue, said Tarr, came a flash requisition from Hong Kong residency.

“They had a low-grade Soviet trade delegation in town, chasing up electrical goods for the Moscow market. One of the delegates was stepping wide in the nightclubs. Name of Boris; Mr. Guillam has the details. No previous record. They’d had the tabs on him for five days, and the delegation was booked in for fourteen more. Politically it was too hot for the local boys to handle but they reckoned a crash approach might do the trick. The yield didn’t look that special, but so what? Maybe we’d just buy him for stock—right, Mr. Guillam?”

Stock meant sale or exchange with another intelligence service: a commerce in small-time defectors handled by the scalp-hunters.

Ignoring Tarr, Guillam said, “South East Asia was Tarr’s parish. He was sitting around with nothing to do, so I ordered him to make a site inspection and report back by cable.”

Each time someone else spoke, Tarr sank into a dream. His gaze settled upon the speaker, a mistiness entered his eyes, and there was a pause like a coming back before he began again.

“So I did what Mr. Guillam ordered,” he said. “I always do, don’t I, Mr. Guillam? I’m a good boy really, even if I am impulsive.”

He flew the next night—Saturday, March 31st—with an Australian passport describing him as a car salesman and with two virgin Swiss escape passports hidden in the lining of his suitcase. These were contingency documents to be filled in as circumstances demanded: one for Boris, one for himself. He made a car rendezvous with the Hong Kong resident not far from his hotel, the Golden Gate on Kowloon.

Here Guillam leaned over to Smiley and murmured, “Tufty Thesinger, buffoon. Ex-major, King’s African Rifles. Percy Alleline’s appointment.”

Thesinger produced a report on Boris’s movements based on one week’s surveillance.

“Boris was a real oddball,” Tarr said. “I couldn’t make him out. He’d been boozing every night without a break. He hadn’t slept for a week and Thesinger’s watchers were folding at the knees. All day he trailed round after the delegation, inspecting factories, chiming in at discussions, and being the bright young Soviet official.”

“How young?” Smiley asked.

Guillam threw in: “His visa application gave him born Minsk 1946.”

“Evening time, he’d go back to the Alexandra Lodge, an old shanty house out on North Point where the delegation had holed out. He’d eat with the crew; then around nine he’d ease out the side entrance, grab a taxi, and belt down to the mainline night spots around Pedder Street. His favourite haunt was the Cat’s Cradle in Queen’s Road, where he bought drinks for local businessmen and acted like Mr. Personality. He might stay there till midnight. From the Cradle he cut right down to Aberdeen Harbour, a place called Angelika’s, where the drink was cheaper. Alone. It’s mainly floating restaurants and the big spenders down there, but Angelika’s is a landbound café with a hellhole in the basement. He’d have three or four drinks and keep the receipts. Mainly he drank brandy but now and then he’d have a vodka to vary his diet. He’d had one tangle with a Eurasian girl along the way, and Thesinger’s watchers got after her and bought the story. She said he was lonely and sat on the bed moaning about his wife for not appreciating his genius. That was a real breakthrough,” he added sarcastically as Lacon noisily swooped on the little fire and stirred it, one coal against the other, into life. “That night I went down to the Cradle and took a look at him. Thesinger’s watchers had been sent to bed with a glass of milk. They didn’t want to know.”

Sometimes as Tarr spoke, an extraordinary stillness came over his body, as if he were hearing his own voice played back to him.

“He arrived ten minutes after me and he brought his own company, a big blond Swede with a Chinese broad in tow. It was dark, so I moved into a table nearby. They ordered Scotch, Boris paid, and I sat six feet away watching the lousy band and listening to their conversation. The Chinese kid kept her mouth shut and the Swede was doing most of the running. They talked English. The Swede asked Boris where he was staying, and Boris said the Excelsior, which was a damn lie because he was staying at the Alexandra Lodge with the rest of the church outing. All right, the Alexandra is down the list; the Excelsior sounds better. About midnight the party breaks up. Boris says he’s got to go home and tomorrow’s a busy day. That was the second lie, because he was no more going home than—what’s the one, Jekyll and Hyde, right!—the regular doctor who dressed up and went on the razzle. So Boris was who?”

For a moment no one helped him.

“Hyde,” said Lacon to his scrubbed red hands. Sitting again, he had clasped them on his lap.

“Hyde,” Tarr repeated. “Thank you, Mr. Lacon; I always saw you as a literary man. So they settle the bill and I traipse down to Aberdeen to be there ahead of him when he hits Angelika’s. By this time I’m pretty sure I’m in the wrong ball game.”

On dry long fingers, Tarr studiously counted off the reasons: first, he never knew a Soviet delegation that didn’t carry a couple of security gorillas whose job was to keep the boys out of the fleshpots. So how did Boris slip the leash night after night? Second, he didn’t like the way Boris pushed his foreign currency around. For a Soviet official, that was against nature, he insisted: “He just doesn’t have any damn currency. If he does, he buys beads for his squaw. And three, I didn’t like the way he lied. He was a sight too glib for decency.”

So Tarr waited at the Angelika, and sure enough half an hour later his Mr. Hyde turned up all on his own. “He sits down and calls for a drink. That’s all he does. Sits and drinks like a damn wallflower!”

Once more it was Smiley’s turn to receive the heat of Tarr’s charm: “So what’s it all about, Mr. Smiley? See what I mean? It’s
little
things I’m noticing,” he confided, still to Smiley. “Just take the way he sat. Believe me, sir, if we’d been in that place ourselves we couldn’t have sat better than Boris. He had the pick of the exits and the stairway; he had a fine view of the main entrance and the action; he was right-handed and he was covered by a left-hand wall. Boris was a professional, Mr. Smiley; there was no doubt of it whatsoever. He was waiting for a connect, working a letter-box, maybe, or trailing his coat and looking for a pass from a mug like me. Well, now listen: it’s one thing to burn a small-time trade delegate. It’s quite a different ball game to swing your legs at a Centre-trained hood—right, Mr. Guillam?”