Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (24 page)

“Well, now, young Peter Guillam”—Alleline speaking—“are you ready for me finally or have you other calls to make about my house?” He half looked up and Guillam noticed two tiny triangles of fur on each weathered cheek. “What are you getting up to out there in the sticks these days”—turning a page—“apart from chasing the local virgins, if there are any in Brixton, which I severely doubt—if you’ll pardon my freedom, Mo—and wasting public money on expensive lunches?”

This banter was Alleline’s one instrument of communication; it could be friendly or hostile, reproachful or congratulatory, but in the end it was like a constant tapping on the same spot.

“Couple of Arab ploys look quite promising. Cy Vanhofer’s got a lead to a German diplomat. That’s about it.”

“Arabs,” Alleline repeated, pushing aside the folder and dragging a rough pipe from his pocket. “Any bloody fool can burn an Arab—can’t he, Bill? Buy a whole damn Arab Cabinet for half a crown, if you’ve a mind to.” From another pocket Alleline took a tobacco pouch, which he tossed easily onto the table. “I hear you’ve been hobnobbing with our late-lamented Brother Tarr. How is he these days?”

A lot of things went through Guillam’s mind as he heard himself answer. That the surveillance on his flat did not begin till last night—he was sure of it. That over the weekend he was in the clear unless Fawn, the captive baby-sitter, had doubled, which would have been hard for him. That Roy Bland bore a close resemblance to the late Dylan Thomas: Roy had always reminded him of someone and till this moment he’d never been able to pin down the connection; and that Mo Delaware had only passed muster as a woman because of her brownie mannishness. He wondered whether Dylan Thomas had had Roy’s extraordinary blue eyes. That Toby Esterhase was helping himself to a cigarette from his gold case, and that Alleline didn’t as a rule allow cigarettes but only pipes, so Toby must stand pretty well with Alleline just now. That Bill Haydon was looking strangely young and that Circus rumours about his love-life were not after all so laughable: they said he went both ways. That Paul Skordeno had one brown palm flat on the table and the thumb slightly lifted in a way that hardened the hitting surface on the outside of the hand. He thought also of his canvas case: had Alwyn put it on the shuttle? Or had he gone off for his lunch leaving it in Registry, waiting to be inspected by one of the new young janitors busting for promotion? And Guillam wondered—not for the first time—just how long Toby had been hanging around Registry before Guillam noticed him.

He selected a facetious tone: “That’s right, Chief. Tarr and I have tea at Fortnum’s every afternoon.”

Alleline was sucking at his empty pipe, testing the packing of the tobacco.

“Peter Guillam,” he said deliberately, in his pert brogue. “You may not be aware of this, but I am of an extremely forgiving nature. I am positively seething with goodwill, in fact. All I require is the matter of your discussion with Tarr. I do not ask for his head, nor any other part of his damned anatomy, and I will restrain my impulse personally to strangle him. Or you.” He struck a match and lit his pipe, making a monstrous flame. “I would even go so far as to consider hanging a gold chain about your neck and bringing you into the palace from hateful Brixton.”

“In that case, I can’t wait for him to turn up,” said Guillam.

“And there’s a free pardon for Tarr till I get my hands on him.”

“I’ll tell him. He’ll be thrilled.”

A great cloud of smoke rolled out over the table.

“I’m very disappointed with you, young Peter. Giving ear to gross slanders of a divisive and insidious nature. I pay you honest money and you stab me in the back. I consider that extremely poor reward for keeping you alive. Against the entreaties of my advisers, I may tell you.”

Alleline had a new mannerism, one that Guillam had noticed often in vain men of middle age: it involved taking hold of a tuck of flesh under the chin and massaging it between finger and thumb in the hope of reducing it.

“Tell us some more about Tarr’s circumstances just now,” said Alleline. “Tell us about his emotional state. He has a daughter, has he not? A wee daughter name of Danny. Does he talk of her at all?”

“He used to.”

“Regale us with some anecdotes about her.”

“I don’t know any. He was very fond of her, that’s all I know.”

“Obsessively fond?” His voice rose suddenly in anger. “What’s that shrug for? What the hell are you shrugging at me like that for? I’m talking to you about a defector from your own damn section; I’m accusing you of playing hookey with him behind my back, of taking part in damn-fool parlour games when you don’t know the stakes involved, and all you do is shrug at me down the table. There’s a
law,
Peter Guillam, against consorting with enemy agents. Maybe you didn’t know that. I’ve a good mind to throw the book at you!”

“But I haven’t been seeing him,” said Guillam as anger came also to his rescue. “It’s not me who’s playing parlour games. It’s you. So get off my back.”

In the same moment he sensed the relaxation round the table, like a tiny descent into boredom, like a general recognition that Alleline had shot off all his ammunition and the target was unmarked. Skordeno was fidgeting with a bit of ivory, some lucky charm he carried round with him. Bland was reading again and Bill Haydon was drinking his coffee and finding it terrible, for he made a sour face at Mo Delaware and put down the cup. Toby Esterhase, chin in hand, had raised his eyebrows and was gazing at the red cellophane that filled the Victorian grate. Only the Russians continued to watch him unblinkingly, like a pair of terriers not wanting to believe that the hunt was over.

“So he used to chat to you about Danny, eh? And he told you he loved her,” said Alleline, back at the document before him. “Who’s Danny’s mother?”

“A Eurasian girl.”

Now Haydon spoke for the first time. “Unmistakably Eurasian, or could she pass for something nearer home?”

“Tarr seems to think she looks full European. He thinks the kid does, too.”

Alleline read aloud: “Twelve years old, long blond hair, brown eyes, slim. Is that Danny?”

“I should think it could be. It sounds like her.”

There was a long silence and not even Haydon seemed inclined to break it.

“So if I told you,” Alleline resumed, choosing his words extremely carefully: “if I told you that Danny and her mother were due to arrive three days ago at London Airport on the direct flight from Singapore, I may take it you would share our perplexity.”

“Yes, I would.”

“You would also keep your mouth shut when you got out of here. You’d tell no one but your twelve best friends?”

From not far away came Phil Porteous’s purr: “The source is extremely secret, Peter. It may sound to you like ordinary flight information but it isn’t that at all. It’s ultra,
ultra
sensitive.”

“Ah, well, in that case I’ll try to keep my mouth
ultra
shut,” said Guillam to Porteous, and while Porteous coloured Bill Haydon gave another schoolboy grin.

Alleline came back. “So what would you make of this information? Come on, Peter—” the banter again—“Come on, you were his boss, his guide, philosopher, and his friend. Where’s your psychology, for God’s sake? Why is Tarr coming to England?”

“That’s not what you said at all. You said Tarr’s girl and her daughter Danny were expected in London three days ago. Perhaps she’s visiting relations. Perhaps she’s got a new boyfriend. How should I know?”

“Don’t be obtuse, man. Doesn’t it occur to you that where little Danny is, Tarr himself is unlikely to be far behind? If he’s not here already, which I’m inclined to believe he is, that being the manner of men to come first and bring their impedimenta later. Pardon me, Mo Delaware, a lapse.”

For the second time, Guillam allowed himself a little temperament. “Till now it had not occurred to me, no. Till now Tarr was a defector. Housekeepers’ ruling as of seven months ago. Right or wrong, Phil? Tarr was sitting in Moscow and everything he knew should be regarded as blown. Right, Phil? That was also held to be a good enough reason for turning the lights out in Brixton and giving one chunk of our workload to London Station and another to Toby’s lamplighters. What’s Tarr supposed to be doing now, redefecting to us?”

“Redefecting would be a damned charitable way of putting it, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” Alleline retorted, back at the paper before him. “Listen to me. Listen exactly, and remember. Because I’ve no doubt that, like the rest of my staff, you’ve a memory like a sieve—all you prima donnas are the same. Danny and her mother are travelling on fake British passports in the name of Poole, like the harbour. The passports are Russian fakes. A third went to Tarr himself, the well-known
Mr.
Poole. Tarr is already in England but we don’t know where. He left ahead of Danny and her mother and came here by a different route; our investigations suggest a black one. He instructed his wife or mistress or whatever”—he said this as if he had neither—“pardon again, Mo, to follow him in one week, which they have not yet done, apparently. This information only reached us yesterday, so we’ve a lot of footwork to do yet. Tarr instructed them, Danny and her mother, that if by any chance he failed to make contact with them, they should throw themselves on the mercy of one Peter Guillam. That’s you, I believe.”

“If they were due three days ago, what’s happened to them?”

“Delayed. Missed their plane. Changed their plans. Lost their tickets. How the hell do I know?”

“Or else the information’s wrong,” Guillam suggested.

“It isn’t,” Alleline snapped.

Resentment, mystification: Guillam clung to them both. “All right. The Russians have turned Tarr round. They’ve sent his family over—God knows why; I’d have thought they’d put them in the bank—and they’ve sent him, too. Why’s it all so hot? What sort of plant can he be when we don’t believe a word he says?”

This time, he noticed with exhilaration, his audience was watching Alleline, who seemed to Guillam to be torn between giving a satisfactory but indiscreet answer or making a fool of himself.

“Never mind what sort of plant! Muddying pools. Poisoning wells, maybe. That damn sort. Pulling the rug out when we’re all but home and dry.” His circulars read that way, too, thought Guillam. Metaphors chasing each other off the page. “But just you remember this. At the first peep, before the first peep, at the first whisper of him or his lady or his wee daughter, young Peter Guillam, you come to one of us grown-ups. Anyone you see at this table. But not another damn soul. Do you follow that injunction perfectly? Because there are more damn wheels within wheels here than you can possibly guess or have any right to know . . .”

It became suddenly a conversation in movement. Bland had plugged his hands into his pockets and slouched across the room to lean against the far door. Alleline had relit his pipe and was putting out the match with a long movement of his arm while he glowered at Guillam through the smoke. “Who are you courting these days, Peter—who’s the lucky wee lady?” Porteous was sliding a sheet of paper down the table for Guillam’s signature. “For you, Peter, if you please.” Paul Skordeno was whispering something into the ear of one of the Russians, and Esterhase was at the door giving unpopular orders to the mothers. Only Mo Delaware’s brown, unassuming eyes still held Guillam in their gaze.

“Read it first, won’t you,” Porteous advised silkily.

Guillam was halfway through the form already: “I certify that I have today been advised of the contents of Witchcraft Report No. 308, Source Merlin,” ran the first paragraph. “I undertake not to divulge any part of this report to other members of the service, nor will I divulge the existence of Source Merlin. I also undertake to report at once any matter which comes to my notice which appears to bear on this material.”

The door had stayed open and, as Guillam signed, the second echelon of London Station filed in, led by the mothers with trays of sandwiches. Diana Dolphin, Lauder Strickland looking taut enough to blow up, the girls from distribution, and a sour-faced old war-horse called Haggard, who was Ben Thruxton’s overlord. Guillam left slowly, counting heads because he knew Smiley would want to know who was there. At the door, to his surprise, he found himself joined by Haydon, who seemed to have decided that the remaining festivities were not for him.

“Stupid bloody cabaret,” Bill remarked, waving vaguely at the mothers. “Percy’s getting more insufferable every day.”

“He does seem to,” said Guillam heartily.

“How’s Smiley these days? Seen much of him? You used to be quite a chum of his, didn’t you?”

Guillam’s world, which was showing signs till then of steadying to a sensible pace, plunged violently. “Afraid not,” he said; “he’s out of bounds.”

“Don’t tell me you take any notice of that nonsense,” Bill said, snorting. They had reached the stairs. Haydon went ahead.

“How about you?” Guillam called. “Have you seen much of him?”

“And Ann’s flown the coop,” said Bill, ignoring the question. “Pushed off with a sailor-boy or a waiter or something.” The door to his room was wide open, the desk heaped with secret files. “Is that right?”

“I didn’t know,” said Guillam. “Poor old George.”

“Coffee?”

“I think I’ll get back, thanks.”

“For tea with Brother Tarr?”

“That’s right. At Fortnum’s. So long.”

In Archives Section, Alwyn was back from lunch. “Bag’s all gone, sir,” he said gaily. “Should be over in Brixton by now.”

“Oh, damn,” said Guillam, firing his last shot. “There was something in it I needed.”

A sickening notion had struck him: it seemed so neat and so horribly obvious that he could only wonder why it had come to him so late. Sand was Camilla’s husband. She was living a double life. Now whole new vistas of deceit opened before him. His friends, his loves, even the Circus itself; joined and re-formed in endless patterns of intrigue. A line of Mendel’s came back to him, dropped two nights ago as they drank beer in some glum suburban pub: “Cheer up, Peter, old son. Jesus Christ only had twelve, you know, and one of them was a double.”