Smiley's People (8 page)

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” he said.

“Why should you be? Not
your
wife. She’s mine. It’s every man for himself in love.”

“Could you close that window, please!” Strickland called, dialling again. “It’s bloody arctic down this end.”

Irritably slamming the window, Lacon strode back into the room.

Smiley tried a second time: “Oliver, what’s going on?” he asked. “Why did you need me?”

“Only one who knew him, for a start. Strickland, are you nearly done? He’s like one of those airport announcers,” he told Smiley with a stupid grin.
“Never
done.”

You could break, Oliver, thought Smiley, noticing the estrangement of Lacon’s eyes as he came under the light. You’ve had too much, he thought in unexpected sympathy. We both have.

From the kitchen the mysterious Mostyn appeared with tea: an earnest, contemporary-looking child with flared trousers and a mane of brown hair. Seeing him set down the tray, Smiley finally placed him in the terms of his own past. Ann had had a lover like him once, an ordinand from Wells Theological College. She gave him a lift down the M-4 and later claimed to have saved him from going queer.

“What section are you in, Mostyn?” Smiley asked him.

“Oddbins, sir.” He crouched, level to the table, displaying an Asian suppleness. “Since your day, actually, sir. It’s a sort of operational pool. Mainly probationers waiting for overseas postings.”

“I see.”

“I heard you lecture at the Nursery at Sarratt, sir. On the new entrants’ course. ‘Agent Handling in the Field.’ It was the best thing of the whole two years.”

“Thank you.”

But Mostyn’s calf eyes stayed on him intently.

“Thank you,” said Smiley again, more puzzled than before.

“Milk, sir, or lemon, sir? The lemon was for
him,
” Mostyn added in a low aside, as if that were a recommendation for the lemon.

Strickland had rung off and was fiddling with the waistband of his trousers, making it looser or tighter.

“Yes, well, we have to temper truth, George!” Lacon bellowed suddenly, in what seemed to be a declaration of personal faith. “Sometimes people are innocent but the circumstances can make them appear quite otherwise. There was never a golden age. There’s only a golden mean. We have to remember that. Chalk it on our shaving mirrors.”

In yellow, Smiley thought.

Strickland was waddling down the room: “You. Mostyn. Young Nigel. You, sir!”

Mostyn lifted his grave brown eyes in reply.

“Commit nothing to paper whatever,” Strickland warned him, wiping the back of his hand on his moustache as if one or the other were wet. “Hear me? That’s an order from on high. There was no encounter, so you’ve no call to fill in the usual encounter sheet or any of that stuff. You’ve nothing to do but keep your mouth shut. Understand? You’ll account for your expenses as general petty-cash disbursements. To me, direct. No file reference. Understand?”

“I understand,” said Mostyn.

“And no whispered confidences to those little tarts in Registry, or I’ll know. Hear me? Give us some tea.”

Something happened inside George Smiley when he heard this conversation. Out of the formless indirection of these dialogues, out of the horror of the scene upon the Heath, a single shocking truth struck him. He felt a pull in his chest somewhere and he had the sensation of momentary disconnection from the room and the three haunted people he had found in it.
Encounter
sheet? No
encounter? Encounter
between Mostyn and Vladimir?
God in Heaven,
he thought, squaring the mad circle.
The Lord preserve, cosset, and protect us. Mostyn was Vladimir’s case officer! That old man, a General, once our glory, and they farmed him out to this uncut boy!
Then another lurch, more violent still, as his surprise was swept aside in an explosion of internal fury. He felt his lips tremble, he felt his throat seize up in indignation, blocking his words, and when he turned to Lacon his spectacles seemed to be misting over from the heat.

“Oliver, I wonder if you’d mind finally telling me what I’m doing here,” he heard himself suggesting for the third time, hardly above a murmur.

Reaching out an arm, he removed the vodka bottle from its bucket. Still unbidden, he broke the cap and poured himself a rather large tot.

 

Even then, Lacon dithered, pondered, hunted with his eyes, delayed. In Lacon’s world, direct questions were the height of bad taste but direct answers were worse. For a moment, caught in mid-gesture at the centre of the room, he stood staring at Smiley in disbelief. A car stumbled up the hill, bringing news of the real world outside the window. Lauder Strickland slurped his tea. Mostyn was seating himself primly on a piano-stool to which there was no piano. But Lacon with his jerky gestures could only scratch about for words sufficiently elliptical to disguise his meaning.

“George,” he said. A shower of rain crashed against the window, but he ignored it. “Where’s Mostyn?” he asked.

Mostyn, no sooner settled, had flitted from the room to cope with a nervous need. They heard the thunder of the flush, loud as a brass band, and the gurgle of pipes all down the building.

Lacon raised a hand to his neck, tracing the raw patches. Reluctantly, he began: “Three years ago, George—let us start there—soon after you left the Circus—your successor Saul Enderby—your
worthy
successor—under pressure from a concerned Cabinet—by
concerned
I mean newly formed—decided on certain far-reaching changes of intelligence practice. I’m giving you the
background,
George,” he explained, interrupting himself. “I’m doing this because you’re who you are, because of old times, and because”—he jabbed a finger at the window—“because of out there.”

Strickland had unbuttoned his waistcoat and lay dozing and replete like a first-class passenger on a night plane. But his small watchful eyes followed every pass that Lacon made. The door opened and closed, admitting Mostyn, who resumed his perch on the piano-stool.

“Mostyn, I expect you to close your ears to this. I am talking high, high policy. One of these
far-reaching
changes, George, was the decision to form an inter-ministerial Steering Committee. A
mixed
committee”—he composed one in the air with his hands—“part Westminster, part Whitehall, representing Cabinet as well as the major Whitehall customers. Known as the Wise Men. But placed—George—placed
between
the intelligence fraternity and Cabinet. As a channel, as a filter, as a brake.” One hand had remained outstretched, dealing these metaphors like cards. “To look over the Circus’s shoulder. To exercise control, George. Vigilance and accountability in the interest of a more open government. You don’t like it. I can tell by your face.”

“I’m out of it,” Smiley said. “I’m not qualified to judge.”

Suddenly Lacon’s own face took on an appalled expression and his tone dropped to one of near despair.

“You should
hear
them, George, our new masters! You should
hear
the way they talk about the Circus! I’m their dog’s-body, damn it; I
know,
get it every day! Gibes. Suspicion. Mistrust at every turn, even from Ministers who should know better. As if the Circus were some rogue animal outside their comprehension. As if British Intelligence were a sort of wholly owned subsidiary of the Conservative Party. Not their ally at all but some autonomous viper in their socialist nest. The thirties all over again. Do you know, they’re even reviving all that talk about a British Freedom of Information Act on the American pattern? From
within
the Cabinet? Of open hearings, revelations, all for the public sport? You’d be shocked, George. Pained. Think of the effect such a thing would have on morale alone. Would Mostyn here have ever joined the Circus after that kind of notoriety in the press and wherever? Would you. Mostyn?”

The question seemed to strike Mostyn very deep, for his grave eyes, made yet darker by his sickly colour, became graver, and he lifted a thumb and finger to his lip. But he did not speak.

“Where was I, George?” Lacon asked, suddenly lost.

“The Wise Men,” said Smiley sympathetically.

From the sofa, Lauder Strickland threw in his own pronouncement on that body: “Wise, my Aunt Fanny. Bunch of left-wing flannel merchants. Rule our lives for us. Tell us how to run the shop. Smack our wrists when we don’t do our sums right.”

Lacon shot Strickland a glance of rebuke but did not contradict him.

“One of the
less
controversial exercises of the Wise Men, George—one of their first duties—conferred upon them specifically by our masters—enshrined in a jointly drafted charter—was
stock-taking
. To review the Circus’s resources worldwide and set them beside legitimate present-day targets. Don’t ask me what constitutes a legitimate present-day target in their sight. That is a very moot point. However, I must not be disloyal.” He returned to his text. “Suffice it to say that over a period of six months a review was conducted, and an axe duly laid.” He broke off, staring at Smiley. “Are you with me, George?” he asked in a puzzled voice.

But it was hardly possible at that moment to tell whether Smiley was with anybody at all. His heavy lids had almost closed, and what remained visible of his eyes was clouded by the thick lenses of his spectacles. He was sitting upright but his head had fallen forward till his plump chins rested on his chest.

Lacon hesitated a moment longer, then continued: “Now as a result of this axe-laying—this stock-taking, if you prefer—on the part of the Wise Men, certain categories of clandestine operation have been ruled
ipso facto
out of bounds.
Verboten.
Right?”

Prone on his sofa, Strickland incanted the unsayable: “No coat-trailing. No honey-traps. No doubles. No stimulated defections. No émigrés. No bugger all.”

“What’s that?” said Smiley, as if sharply waking from a deep sleep. But such straight talk was not to Lacon’s liking and he overrode it.

“Let us not be simplistic, please, Lauder. Let us reach things organically. Conceptual thinking is essential here. So the Wise Men composed a
codex,
George,” he resumed to Smiley. “A catalogue of proscribed practices. Right?” But Smiley was waiting rather than listening. “Ranged the whole field—on the uses and abuses of agents, on our fishing rights in the Commonwealth countries—or lack of them—all sorts. Listeners, surveillance overseas, false-flag operations—a mammoth task, bravely tackled.” To the astonishment of everyone but himself, Lacon locked his fingers together, turned down the palms, and cracked the joints in a defiant staccato.

He continued:
“Also
included in their forbidden list—and it
is
a crude instrument, George, no respecter of tradition—are such matters as the classic use of double agents.
Obsession,
our new masters were pleased to call it in their finding. The old games of coat-trailing—turning and playing back our enemies’ spies—in your day the very meat and drink of counter-intelligence—today, George, in the collective opinion of the Wise Men—today they are ruled obsolete. Uneconomic. Throw them out.”

Another lorry thundered giddily down the hill, or up it. They heard the bump of its wheels on the kerb.

“Christ,” Strickland muttered.

“Or—for example—I strike another blow at random—the over-emphasis on exile groups.”

This time there was no lorry at all: only the deep, accusing silence that had followed in its wake. Smiley sat as before, receiving not judging, his concentration only on Lacon, hearing him with the sharpness of the blind.

“Exile groups, you will want to know,” Lacon went on, “or more properly the Circus’s time-honoured connections with them—the Wise Men prefer to call it
dependence,
but I think that a trifle strong—I took issue with them, but was overruled—are today ruled provocative, anti-détente, inflammatory. An expensive indulgence. Those who tamper with them do so
on pain of excommunication.
I mean it, George. We have got thus far. This is the extent of their mastery. Imagine.”

With a gesture of baring his breast for Smiley’s onslaught, Lacon opened his arms and remained standing, peering down at him as he had done before, while in the background Strickland’s Scottish echo once again told the same truth more brutally.

“The groups have been dustbinned, George,” Strickland said. “The lot of them. Orders from on high. No contact, not even arm’s length. The late Vladimir’s death-and-glory artists included. Special two-key archive for ’em on the fifth floor. No officer access without consent in writing from the Chief. Copy to the weekly float for the Wise Men’s inspection. Troubled times, George, I tell you true, troubled times.”

“George, now steady,” Lacon warned uneasily, catching something the others had not heard.

“What utter nonsense,” Smiley repeated deliberately.

His head had lifted and his eyes had turned full on Lacon, as if emphasising the bluntness of his contradiction. “Vladimir wasn’t
expensive.
He wasn’t an indulgence either. Least of all was he uneconomic. You know perfectly well he loathed taking our money. We had to force it on him or he’d have starved. As to inflammatory—anti-détente, whatever those words mean—well, we had to hold him in check once in a while as one does with most good agents, but when it came down to it he took our orders like a lamb. You were a fan of his, Oliver. You know as well as I do what he was worth.”

The quietness of Smiley’s voice did not conceal its tautness. Nor had Lacon failed to notice the dangerous points of colour in his cheeks.

Sharply, Lacon turned upon the weakest member present: “Mostyn, I expect you to forget all this. Do you hear? Strickland, tell him.”

Strickland obliged with alacrity: “Mostyn, you will present yourself to Housekeepers this morning at ten-thirty precisely and sign an indoctrination certificate which I personally shall compose and witness!”