Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (31 page)

“There weren’t any dependents,” Smiley said. “Apart from Bill, I suppose,” he added, half under his breath.

Sam wound it up: “At eight o’clock Percy Alleline arrived; he’d cadged a special plane off the Air Force. He was grinning all over. I didn’t think that was very clever of him, considering Bill’s feelings, but there you are. He wanted to know why I was doing duty, so I gave him the same story I’d given to Mary Masterman: no flat. He used my phone to make a date with the Minister, and was still talking when Roy Bland came in, hopping mad and half plastered, wanting to know who the hell had been messing on his patch and practically accusing me. I said, ‘Christ, man, what about old Jim? You could pity him while you were about it,’ but Roy’s a hungry boy and likes the living better than the dead. I gave him the switchboard with my love, went down to the Savoy for breakfast, and read the Sundays. The most any of them did was run the Prague radio reports and a pooh-pooh denial from the Foreign Office.”

Finally Smiley said, “After that you went to the South of France?”

“For two lovely months.”

“Did anyone question you again—about Control, for instance?”

“Not till I got back. You were out on your ear by then; Control was ill in hospital.” Sam’s voice deepened a little. “He didn’t do anything
silly,
did he?”

“He just died. What happened?”

“Percy was acting head boy. He called for me and wanted to know why I’d done duty for Masterman and what communication I’d had with Control. I stuck to my story and Percy called me a liar.”

“So that’s what they sacked you for: lying?”

“Alcoholism. The janitors got a bit of their own back. They’d counted five beer cans in the waste-basket in the duty officer’s lair and reported it to the housekeepers. There’s a standing order: no booze on the premises. In the due process of time, a disciplinary body found me guilty of setting fire to the Queen’s dockyards so I joined the bookies. What happened to you?”

“Oh, much the same. I didn’t seem to be able to convince them I wasn’t involved.”

“Well, if you want anyone’s throat cut,” said Sam as he saw him quietly out through a side door into a pretty mews, “give me a buzz.” Smiley was sunk in thought. “And if you ever want a flutter,” Sam went on, “bring along some of Ann’s smart friends.”

“Sam, listen. Bill was making love to Ann that night. No, listen. You phoned her, she told you Bill wasn’t there. As soon as she’d rung off, she pushed Bill out of bed and he turned up at the Circus an hour later knowing that there had been a shooting in Czecho. If you were giving me the story from the shoulder—on a postcard—that’s what you’d say?”

“Broadly.”

“But you didn’t tell Ann about Czecho when you phoned her—”

“He stopped at his club on the way to the Circus.”

“If it was open. Very well: then why didn’t he know that Jim Prideaux had been shot?”

In the daylight, Sam looked briefly old, though the grin had not left his face. He seemed about to say something, then changed his mind. He seemed angry, then thwarted, then blank again. “Cheeribye,” he said. “Mind how you go,” and withdrew to the permanent night-time of his elected trade.

27

W
hen Smiley had left the Islay for Grosvenor Square that morning, the streets had been bathed in harsh sunshine and the sky was blue. Now as he drove the hired Rover past the unlovable façades of the Edgware Road, the wind had dropped, the sky was black with waiting rain, and all that remained of the sun was a lingering redness on the tarmac. He parked in St. John’s Wood Road, in the forecourt of a new tower block with a glass porch, but he did not enter by the porch. Passing a large sculpture describing, as it seemed to him, nothing but a sort of cosmic muddle, he made his way through icy drizzle to a descending outside staircase marked “Exit Only.” The first flight was of terrazzo tile and had a bannister of African teak. Below that, the contractor’s generosity ceased. Rough-rendered plaster replaced the earlier luxury and a stench of uncollected refuse crammed the air. His manner was cautious rather than furtive, but when he reached the iron door he paused before putting both hands to the long handle and drew himself together as if for an ordeal. The door opened a foot and stopped with a thud, to be answered by a shout of fury, which echoed many times like a shout in a swimming pool.

“Hey, why you don’t look out once?”

Smiley edged through the gap. The door had stopped against the bumper of a very shiny car, but Smiley wasn’t looking at the car. Across the garage two men in overalls were hosing down a Rolls-Royce in a cage. Both were looking in his direction.

“Why you don’t come other way?” the same angry voice demanded. “You tenant here? Why you don’t use tenant lift? This stair for fire.”

It was not possible to tell which of them was speaking, but whichever it was, he spoke in a heavy Slav accent. The light in the cage was behind them. The shorter man held the hose.

Smiley walked forward, taking care to keep his hands clear of his pockets. The man with the hose went back to work, but the taller stayed watching him through the gloom. He wore white overalls and he had turned the collar-points upwards, which gave him a rakish air. His black hair was swept back and full.

“I’m not a tenant, I’m afraid,” Smiley conceded. “But I wonder if I might just speak to someone about renting a space. My name’s
Carmichael,”
he explained, in a louder voice. “I’ve bought a flat up the road.”

He made a gesture as if to produce a card, as if his documents would speak better for him than his insignificant appearance. “I’ll pay in advance,” he promised. “I could sign a contract or whatever is necessary, I’m sure. I’d want it to be above-board, naturally. I can give references, pay a deposit, anything within reason. As long as it’s above-board. It’s a Rover. A new one. I won’t go behind the company’s back, because I don’t believe in it. But I’ll do anything else within reason. I’d have brought it down, but I didn’t want to presume. And—well, I know it sounds silly but I didn’t like the look of the ramp. It’s so new, you see.”

Throughout this protracted statement of intent, which he delivered with an air of fussy concern, Smiley had remained in the downbeam of a bright light strung from the rafter: a supplicant, rather abject figure, one might have thought, and easily visible across the open space. The attitude had its effect. Leaving the cage, the white figure strode towards a glazed kiosk, built between two iron pillars, and with his fine head beckoned Smiley to follow. As he went, he pulled the gloves off his hands. They were leather gloves, hand-stitched and quite expensive.

“Well, you want mind out how you open door,” he warned in the same loud voice. “You want use lift, see, or maybe you pay couple pounds. Use lift you don’t make no trouble.”

“Max, I want to talk to you,” said Smiley once they were inside the kiosk. “Alone. Away from here.”

Max was broad and powerful with a pale boy’s face, but the skin of it was lined like an old man’s. He was handsome and his brown eyes were very still. He had altogether a rather deadly stillness.

“Now? You want talk now?”

“In the car. I’ve got one outside. If you walk to the top of the ramp, you can get straight into it.”

Putting his hand to his mouth, Max yelled across the garage. He was half a head taller than Smiley and had a roar like a drum major’s. Smiley couldn’t catch the words. Possibly they were Czech. There was no answer, but Max was already unbuttoning his overall.

“It’s about Jim Prideaux,” Smiley said.

“Sure,” said Max.

They drove up to Hampstead and sat in the shiny Rover, watching the kids breaking the ice on the pond. Real rain had held off, after all; perhaps because it was so cold.

Above ground Max wore a blue suit and a blue shirt. His tie was blue but carefully differentiated from the other blues: he had taken a lot of trouble to get the shade. He wore several rings and flying boots with zips at the side.

“I’m not in it any more. Did they tell you?” Smiley asked. Max shrugged. “I thought they would have told you,” Smiley said.

Max was sitting straight; he didn’t use the seat to lean on; he was too proud. He did not look at Smiley. His eyes were turned fixedly to the pool and the kids fooling and skidding in the reeds.

“They don’t tell me nothing,” he said.

“I was sacked,” said Smiley. “I guess at about the same time as you.”

Max seemed to stretch slightly, then settle again. “Too bad, George. What you do, steal money?”

“I don’t want them to know, Max.”

“You private—I private, too,” said Max, and from a gold case offered Smiley a cigarette, which he declined.

“I want to hear what happened,” Smiley went on. “I wanted to find out before they sacked me but there wasn’t time.”

“That why they sack you?”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t know so much, huh?” said Max, his gaze nonchalantly on the kids.

Smiley spoke very simply, watching all the while in case Max didn’t understand. They could have spoken German but Max wouldn’t have that, he knew. So he spoke English and watched Max’s face.

“I don’t know anything, Max. I had no part in it at all. I was in Berlin when it happened; I knew nothing of the planning or the background. They cabled me, but when I arrived in London it was too late.”

“Planning,” Max repeated. “That was some planning.” His jaw and cheeks became suddenly a mass of lines and his eyes turned narrow, making a grimace or a smile. “So now you got plenty time, eh, George? Jesus, that was some planning.”

“Jim had a special job to do. He asked for you.”

“Sure. Jim ask for Max to baby-sit.”

“How did he get you? Did he turn up in Acton and speak to Toby Esterhase, and say, ‘Toby, I want Max’? How did he get you?”

Max’s hands were resting on his knees. They were groomed and slender—all but the knuckles, which were very broad. Now, at the mention of Esterhase, he turned the palms slightly inwards and made a light cage of them as if he had caught a butterfly.

“What the hell?” Max asked.

“So what did happen?”

“Was private,” said Max. “Jim private, I private. Like now.”

“Come,” said Smiley. “Please.”

Max spoke as if it were any mess: family or business or love. It was a Monday evening in mid-October—yes, the sixteenth. It was a slack time, he hadn’t been abroad for weeks, and he was fed up. He had spent all day making a reconnaissance of a house in Bloomsbury where a pair of Chinese students was supposed to live; the lamplighters were thinking of mounting a burglary against their rooms. He was on the point of returning to the Laundry in Acton to write his report when Jim picked him up in the street with a chance-encounter routine and drove him up to Crystal Palace, where they sat in the car and talked, like now, except they spoke Czech. Jim said there was a special job going, something so big, so secret that no one else in the Circus, not even Toby Esterhase, was allowed to know that it was taking place. It came from the very top of the tree and it was hairy. Was Max interested?

“I say, ‘Sure, Jim. Max interested.’ Then he ask me: ‘Take leave. You go to Toby, you say, Toby, my mother sick, I got to take some leave.’ I don’t got no mother. ‘Sure,’ I say, ‘I take leave. How long for, please, Jim?’”

The whole job shouldn’t last more than the weekend, said Jim. They should be in on Saturday and out on Sunday. Then he asked Max whether he had any current identities running for him: best would be Austrian, small trade, with driving licence to match. If Max had none handy at Acton, Jim would get something put together in Brixton.

“ ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘I have Hartmann, Rudi, from Linz, Sudeten émigré.’ ”

So Max gave Toby a story about girl trouble up in Bradford and Toby gave Max a ten-minute lecture on the sexual mores of the English; and on the Thursday, Jim and Max met in a safe house that the scalp-hunters ran in those days, a rackety old place in Lambeth. Jim had brought the keys. A three-day hit, Jim repeated; a clandestine conference outside Brno. Jim had a big map and they studied it. Jim would travel Czech, Max would go Austrian. They would make their separate ways as far as Brno. Jim would fly from Paris to Prague, then train from Prague. He didn’t say what papers he would be carrying himself, but Max presumed Czech because Czech was Jim’s other side; Max had seen him use it before. Max was Hartmann Rudi, trading in glass and ovenware. He was to cross the Austrian border by van near Mikulov, then head north to Brno, giving himself plenty of time to make a six-thirty rendezvous on Saturday evening in a side street near the football ground. There was a big match that evening starting at seven. Jim would walk with the crowd as far as the side street, then climb into the van. They agreed times, fallbacks, and the usual contingencies; and besides, said Max, they knew each other’s handwriting by heart.

Once out of Brno, they were to drive together along the Bilovice road as far as Krtiny, then turn east towards Racice. Somewhere along the Racice road they would pass on the left side a parked black car, most likely a Fiat. The first two figures of the registration would be 99. The driver would be reading a newspaper. They would pull up; Max would go over and ask whether he was all right. The man would reply that his doctor had forbidden him to drive more than three hours at a stretch. Max would say it was true that long journeys were a strain on the heart. The driver would then show them where to park the van and take them to the rendezvous in his own car.

“Who were you meeting, Max? Did Jim tell you that as well?”

No, that was all Jim told him.

As far as Brno, said Max, things went pretty much as planned. Driving from Mikulov, he was followed for a while by a couple of civilian motorcyclists who interchanged every ten minutes, but he put that down to his Austrian number plates and it didn’t bother him. He made Brno comfortably by mid-afternoon, and to keep things shipshape he booked into the hotel and drank a couple of coffees in the restaurant. Some stooge picked him up and Max talked to him about the vicissitudes of the glass trade and about his girl in Linz who’d gone off with an American. Jim missed the first rendezvous but he made the fallback an hour later. Max supposed at first the train was late, but Jim just said, “Drive slowly,” and he knew then that there was trouble.