After that, the images of my memory must tell you their own tale. Even today I see us as two other people, never as ourselves.
Bella naked by the half light of the fire, lying on her side as I had first seen her by the fire in the farmhouse. I had fetched the duvet from the bedroom.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered.
It had not occurred to me that I could fill her with a comparable wonder.
Bella at the window, the light from the cemetery making a perfect statue of her body, gilding her fleece and drawing light patterns on her breasts.
Bella kissing Ned’s face, hundreds of small kisses as she brings him back to life. Bella laughing at the limitless beauty of herself, and of the two of us together. Bella taking laughter into love, a thing that had never happened to me before, until every part of each of us was a matter for celebration, to be kissed and suckled and admired in its own way.
Bella turning away from Ned to offer herself, thrusting back to accept him as she continues whispering to him. Her whispering stops. She begins her ascent, arching backward until she is upright. And suddenly she is crying out, crying to me and the dead, and she is the most living thing on earth.
Ned and Bella calm at last, standing at the window and gazing down into the graveyard.
There is Mabel, I say, but it seems too early to get married.
“It is always too early,” she replies as we start to make love again.
Bella in the bath and myself crammed happily against the taps the other end while she lazily fondles me under the water and talks about her childhood.
Bella on the duvet, drawing my head between her legs.
Bella above me, riding me.
Bella kneeling over me, her secret garden open to my face as she transports me to places I have never imagined, not even lying in my wretched single bed, dreaming over and over of this moment and trying with far too little knowledge to ward off the unknown.
And betweenwhiles you may see Ned dozing on Bella’s breast, our untouched food still on the table that I had set so formally in self-protection. With a mind made lucid by our lovemaking I ask whatever else I can think of that will satisfy Bill Haydon’s curiosity, and my own.
I drove her home and reached my flat around seven in the morning. In no mood to sleep for the second night running, I sat down and wrote my encounter report instead, my pen flying because I was still in paradise. There was no message from the Daisy but I expected none. Come evening, I received an interim report on her progress. She had passed Kiel and was heading for the Kieler Förde. She would be hitting open sea in a couple of hours. I had a tame German journalist to see that night and a consular meeting in the morning, but I passed the news in veiled terms to Bella on the telephone and promised to come to her soon, for she was determined I should visit her at the farmhouse. When Brandt returned, she said, she wanted to be able to look at all the places in the house where we had made love, and think of me. I suppose it testifies to the power of love’s illusion that I found nothing underhand in this, or paradoxical. We had created a world together and she wished to have it round her when I was taken away from her. That was all. She was Brandt’s girl. She expected nothing of me but my love.
When I arrived, we made straight for the long drawing room, where this time it was she who had laid the table. We sat at it quite naked, which was what she wanted. She wanted to see me among the familiar furniture. Afterwards we made love in their bed. I suppose I should have been ashamed, but I felt only the excitement of being appointed to the most secret places of their lives. “These are his hairbrushes,” she said. “These are his clothes, you are on his side of the bed.” One day I will understand what this means, I thought. And then, more grimly: or is this the pleasure that she takes in betrayal?
Next evening I had arranged to visit an old Pole in Lübeck who had established a clandestine correspondence with a distant nephew in Warsaw. The boy was being trained for cypher work in the Polish diplomatic service, and wanted to spy for us in exchange for resettlement in Australia. London Station was considering a direct approach to him. I returned to Hamburg and slept like the dead. Next morning, while I was still writing my report, a signal from London announced that the Daisy had successfully refuelled in Sundre and was on course for the Finnish Gulf with passenger Volodia aboard. I phoned Bella and told her all was still well, and she said, “Please come to me.”
I spent the morning in the Reeperbahn police station extricating a pair of drunk British merchant sailors who had broken up a brothel, and the afternoon at a ghastly consular wives’ tea party to rally support for the Week of the Political Prisoner. I wished the merchant sailors had broken up that brothel too. I arrived at the farmhouse at eight in the evening and we went straight to bed. At two in the morning the phone rang and Bella answered it. It was my cypher clerk calling me from the shipping office: a decypher yourself, flash priority; I was required at once. I drove like the wind and made the office in forty minutes. As I sat down to the codebooks, I realised that Bella’s smells were on my face and hands.
The signal had been transmitted over Haydon’s symbol, personal to Head of Station, Hamburg. The Daisy’s landing party had come under heavy fire from prepared positions, it said. The dinghy was unaccounted for, and so was everyone aboard it, which meant Antons Durba and his passenger, and very likely whoever was waiting on the beach. There was no word of the Estonian patriots. The Daisy had sighted ultraviolet-light signals from the shore, but only one completed series of the agreed pattern, and the assumption was that the Estonian team had been taken captive as soon as they had lured the landing party to its fate. It was a familiar story, even if it was five years old. The fallback radio in Tallinn was not replying.
I was to pass this information to nobody and return to London on the first flight of the morning. A seat had been reserved for me. Toby Esterhase would meet me at Heathrow. I drafted an acknowledgement and handed it to my clerk, who accepted it without comment. He knows, I thought. How could he not? He had telephoned me at the farmhouse and spoken to Bella. The rest he could see in my face and, for all I knew, he could smell it too.
This time there was no joss burning in Haydon’s room and he was sitting at his desk. Roy Bland, his Head of Eastern Europe, sat one side of him, Toby Esterhase the other. Toby’s jobs were never easily defined, for he liked to keep them vague in the hope that they would multiply. But in practice he was Haydon’s poodle, a rôle which later cost him dear. And I was surprised to see George Smiley sitting unhappily apart from them on the edge of Haydon’s chaise longue, even if the symbolism of his posture did not dawn on me till three years later.
“It’s an inside job,” Haydon said without preliminaries. “The mission was blown sky high in advance. If Durba hasn’t gone down with the ship, he’s already swinging by his thumbs, telling his all. Volodia doesn’t know a lot, but that may be his tough luck, because his interrogators aren’t going to believe him and he’s got a hamper full of explosives to explain. Maybe he took the pill, but I doubt it—he’s a ninny.”
“Where’s Brandt?” I said.
“Sitting under a bright light in the Sarratt interrogation wing and roaring like a bull. Somewhere somebody blundered. We’re asking Brandt whether it might possibly be him. If not, who? It’s a carbon-copy fuck-up from the last time round. Each member of the crew is being grilled separately.”
“Where’s the Daisy?”
“In Helsinki. We’ve put a navy crew aboard and they’re under orders to get her out tonight. The Finns don’t fancy being seen providing safe harbour for people teasing the Bear. If the press don’t get to hear about it, it’ll be a bloody miracle.”
“I see,” I said stupidly.
“Good. I don’t. What do we do? You tell me. You’ve got thirty Baltic agents waiting on your every word. What do you say? Abort? Apologise? Act natural and look busy? All suggestions gratefully acknowledged.”
“The Durbas weren’t conscious to the Estonian network,”
I objected. “Antons can’t blow what he doesn’t know.”
“So who blew Antons, pray? Who blew the landing party, the coordinates, the beach, the time? Who set us up? We asked Brandt the same question, funnily enough. We thought he might suggest Bella, the Baltic strumpet. He suggested it was one of us lot instead, the cheeky bastard.”
He was furious and his fury was directed at me. I would never have imagined that lethargy could convert to such violent anger. Yet he still spoke quietly, in the nasal, upper-class drawl he had. He still managed to remain offhand. Even in passion he conveyed a deadly casualness, which made him all the more formidable.
“So what do you say?” he demanded of me.
“What about?”
“About her, sweetheart. Pouting Miss Latvia.” He was holding up the encounter report that I had written after our first night together. “Christ Almighty, I asked for an assessment, not a bloody aria.”
“I think she’s innocent,” I said. “I think she’s a simple peasant kid. That’s my assessment. I expect it’s Brandt’s too. She answered my questions, she gave a plausible account of herself.”
Haydon had found his charm again. He could do that at the drop of a hat. He drew you and he repelled you. I remember that exactly. He danced all ways for you, playing your emotions against each other, because he had none of his own.
“Most spies do give a plausible account of themselves,” he retorted as he turned the pages of my report. “The better ones do, anyway. Don’t they, Tobe?”—favouring Esterhase.
“Absolutely, Bill. All the way, I would say,” said Esterhase the pleaser.
The others had a copy too. Silence settled while they studied it, pausing at the passages Haydon had sidelined. Roy Bland lifted his head and peered at me. Bland had lectured to us at Sarratt. He was a North Countryman and former don who had spent years behind the Curtain under academic cover. His accent was broad and very flat.
Bella admits her father’s not her father, right, Ned? Her mother was raped by the Germans and got pregnant from it, so she’s half German by origin. Right, Ned?”
“Yes. Right, Roy. That’s what she told me.”
“So when her father, as she calls him, when Feliks comes back from prisoner-of-war camp, and hears what’s happened, he adopts the child. Her. Bella. Nice of him. She volunteered that to you. She made no secret of it. Right, Ned?”
“Yes. Right, Roy.”
“Then why the fuck doesn’t she tell Brandt the same tale as she tells you?”
I had asked her this myself, and so was able to answer him at once. “When he brought her to the West, she was afraid he wouldn’t take her in if he knew she wasn’t his best friend’s natural daughter. They weren’t lovers then. He was offering protection and a life. She was scared. She took it. She’d been living in the forest. It was her first time in the West. Her own father was dead, so she needed another father figure.”
“Brandt, you mean?” said Bland slyly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, don’t you think it’s pretty bloody odd then, Ned, that Brandt didn’t know the truth about her anyway?” he demanded triumphantly. “If Brandt was her father’s close buddy like he says he was, wouldn’t he be bound to know all that? Come on, Ned!”
Smiley cut in, I thought in order to help me: “Brandt very probably does know, Roy. Would you tell your best friend’s daughter that she was the illegitimate child of a German soldier if you thought she wasn’t aware of it? I’m sure I wouldn’t. I’d go to quite some lengths to protect her. Specially if the father was dead and I was in love with the daughter.”
“Bugger love,” said Haydon, turning another page of my report. “Brandt’s a randy old goat. Who’s this Tadeo she keeps talking about? ‘Tadeo saw the bodies being loaded into the truck. Tadeo says he saw my father’s body go in last. They’d shot most of the men in the face, but my father was shot in the chest and stomach, a machine gun had nearly cut him in two.’ I mean, Christ, for a wilting violet she’s bloody explicit when it helps her story, I will say.”
“Tadeo was her first lover,” I said.
“Jealous, are we?” Haydon asked me, drawing laughter from the satraps either side of him.
But not from Smiley. And not from me.
“Tadeo was a boy at her school,” I said. “He’d been ordered to keep guard outside the house while the meeting took place, but he was making love with Bella in a field nearby. That’s how she managed to escape. Tadeo told her to run for it, and who to ask for when she reached the partisans. Then he hid in a nearby house and watched what happened before joining her. It’s in my report.”
Toby Esterhase added his own kind of sneer, in his own kind of Austro-Hungarian English. “And Tadeo is most conveniently dead, of course, Ned. Being a witness in Bella’s story is actually quite a risk business, I would say.”
“He was shot by a frontier guard,” I said. “He wasn’t ever trying to cross. He was making a reconnaissance. She has the feeling everyone she touches dies,” I added, thinking involuntarily of Ben.
“She could be right, at that,” said Haydon.
Perversely, it seemed to me, Roy Bland now joined in my defence—for increasingly I had the feeling I was in the dock. “Mind you, Tadeo could be kosher and wrong about Feliks’s death. Maybe the police faked his death. After all, he did go into the truck last. He’d have been covered with blood anyway in that slaughterhouse. They wouldn’t have needed to splash the tomato ketchup on him, would they? It would have been done for them already.”
Smiley took up Bland’s cudgels. I was beginning to regret I had lobbied so hard to be posted out of his care.
“Is the father really so important to us, Bill?” he objected. “Feliks can be the Judas of all time, and still have a perfectly honest daughter, can’t he?”
“I believe that too,” I said. “She admires her father. She has no problem talking about him. She honours him. She’s still in mourning for him.”
I was remembering how she had looked down into the graveyard. I was remembering her determination to celebrate the gift of life. I refused to believe she had been pretending.
“All right,” said Haydon impatiently, shoving a full-plate photograph at me across the desk. “We’ll stretch a point and trust you. What the hell are we supposed to make of this lot?”
It was a much enlarged photograph and out of register. I guessed it was a photograph of a photograph. It was stamped in red along the top left corner with the one word “Witchcraft,” which I had heard on the grapevine was London Station’s most secret source.
Toby Esterhase’s warning to me confirmed this: “You never saw this photograph actually, Ned,” he told me over Haydon’s shoulder, with the kind of smarminess people reserve for the young. “Also you never saw the word ‘Witchcraft.’ When you leave this room, your mind will be a blank, totally.”
It was a group photograph of young men and women arranged against a background of what could have been a barracks, or the campus of a university. They were about sixty strong, and in civilian uniform, the men in suits and ties, the women in high white blouses and long skirts. A group of older men and an evil-looking woman stood to one side of them. The mood, like the clothes and the building and the background, was sullen.
“Second row of the chorus, third from the right,” said Haydon, handing me a magnifying glass. “Good tits, same as the young man said.”
It was Bella, there was no doubt of it. Bella three or four years younger it was true, and Bella with her hair swept back in what I guessed to be a bun. But Bella’s broad, fair eyes and Bella’s irrepressible smile, and the high, firm cheeks I adored.
“Did Bella ever whisper in your tiny shell-like ear that she’d been at language school in Kiev?” Haydon asked me.
“No.”
“Did she give any account of her education at all, apart from how she’d had it off with Tadeo in the hay?”
“No.”
“Of course Kiev is more of a holiday school
than a school. Not a place many chaps talk about afterwards much. Unless they’re confessing. Theoretically it’s a school for tomorrow’s interpreters but I’m afraid that in practice it’s more a spawning ground for Moscow Centre hopefuls. Centre owns it, Centre staffs it, Centre skims the cream. The slops go to their Foreign Office, same as here.”
“Has Brandt seen this?” I asked.
His levity fell from him “You’re joking, aren’t you? Brandt’s a hostile witness, so are they all.”
“Can I see Brandt?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Does that mean no?”
“Yes. It means no.”
“Was Witchcraft also the source of the report against Bella’s father?”
“Mind your own bloody business,” he said, but I had caught Toby’s startled eye and sensed that I was right.
“Does Moscow Centre always take class photographs of its white hopes?” I asked, emboldened as Smiley’s head lifted to me in what I again took to be support.
“We take ’em at Sarratt,” Haydon retorted. “Why shouldn’t Moscow Centre?”
I could feel the sweat running down my back, and I knew my voice was slipping. But I floundered on. “Has anyone else in this photograph been identified?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“What as?”
“Never mind.”
“What languages did she learn?”
Haydon had had enough of me. He lifted his eyes to Heaven as if appealing for the gift of patience. “Well, they all learn English, darling, if that’s what you’re asking,” he drawled and, putting his chin in his hand, gave Smiley a long look.
I am not clairvoyant and I had no way of knowing what was passing between the two men, or what had passed already. But even allowing for the advantages of hindsight, I am sure I had the sensation of being caught between hostile camps. Even somebody as remote from Head Office politics as I was could not help hearing the rumble of the battle that was raging: how the great X had walked clean past the great Y in the corridor without so much as a “Good morning”; how A had refused to sit at the same table with B in the canteen. And how Haydon’s London Station was becoming a service within a service, gobbling up the regional directorates, taking over the special sections, the watchers, the listeners, right the way down to such humble beings as our postmen, who sat in dripping sorting offices, loyally steaming open mail with gas kettles permanently on the boil. It was even hinted that the true clash of Titans was between Bill Haydon and the reigning Chief, the last to call himself Control, and that Smiley as Control’s cupbearer was more on his master’s side than Haydon’s.
The Secret Pilgrim Page 11