Nineteen thirty-nine saw him in Sweden, the accredited agent of a well-known Swiss small-arms manufacturer, his association with the firm conveniently backdated. Conveniently, too, his appearance had somehow altered, for Smiley had discovered in himself a talent for the part which went beyond the rudimentary change to his hair and the addition of a small moustache. For four years he had played the part, travelling back and forth between Switzerland, Germany and Sweden. He had never guessed it was possible to be frightened for so long. He developed a nervous irritation in his left eye which remained with him fifteen years later; the strain etched lines on his fleshy cheeks and brow. He learnt what it was never to sleep, never to relax, to feel at any time of day or night the restless beating of his own heart, to know the extremes of solitude and self-pity, the sudden unreasoning desire for a woman, for drink, for exercise, for any drug to take away the tension of his life.
Against this background he conducted his authentic commerce and his work as a spy. With the progress of time the network grew, and other countries repaired their lack of foresight and preparation. In 1943 he was recalled. Within six weeks he was yearning to return, but they never let him go.
“You’re finished,” Steed-Asprey said: “train new men, take time off. Get married or something. Unwind.”
Smiley proposed to Steed-Asprey’s secretary, the Lady Ann Sercomb.
The war was over. They paid him off, and he took his beautiful wife to Oxford to devote himself to the obscurities of seventeenth-century Germany. But two years later Lady Ann was in Cuba, and the revelations of a young Russian cypher-clerk in Ottawa had created a new demand for men of Smiley’s experience.
The job was new, the threat elusive and at first he enjoyed it. But younger men were coming in, perhaps with fresher minds. Smiley was no material for promotion and it dawned on him gradually that he had entered middle age without ever being young, and that he was—in the nicest possible way—on the shelf.
Things changed. Steed-Asprey was gone, fled from the new world to India, in search of another civilization. Jebedee was dead. He had boarded a train at Lille in 1941 with his radio operator, a young Belgian, and neither had been heard of again. Fielding was wedded to a new thesis on Roland—only Maston remained, Maston the career man, the war-time recruit, the Ministers’ Adviser on Intelligence; “the first man,” Jebedee had said, “to play power tennis at Wimbledon.” The NATO alliance, and the desperate measures contemplated by the Americans, altered the whole nature of Smiley’s Service. Gone for ever were the days of Steed-Asprey, when as like as not you took your orders over a glass of port in his rooms at Magdalen; the inspired amateurism of a handful of highly qualified, under-paid men had given way to the efficiency, bureaucracy and intrigue of a large Government department—effectively at the mercy of Maston, with his expensive clothes and his knighthood, his distinguished grey hair and silver-coloured ties; Maston, who even remembered his secretary’s birthday, whose manners were a by-word among the ladies of the registry; Maston, apologetically extending his empire and regretfully moving to even larger offices; Maston, holding smart house-parties at Henley and feeding on the success of his subordinates.
They had brought him in during the war, the professional civil servant from an orthodox department, a man to handle paper and integrate the brilliance of his staff with the cumbersome machine of bureaucracy. It comforted the Great to deal with a man they knew, a man who could reduce any colour to grey, who knew his masters and could walk among them. And he did it so well. They liked his diffidence when he apologized for the company he kept, his insincerity when he defended the vagaries of his subordinates, his flexibility when formulating new commitments. Nor did he let go the advantages of a cloak and dagger man malgré lui, wearing the cloak for his masters and preserving the dagger for his servants. Ostensibly, his position was an odd one. He was not the nominal Head of Service, but the Ministers’ Adviser on Intelligence, and Steed-Asprey had described him for all time as the Head Eunuch.
This was a new world for Smiley: the brilliantly lit corridors, the smart young men. He felt pedestrian and old-fashioned, homesick for the dilapidated terrace house in Knightsbridge where it had all begun. His appearance seemed to reflect this discomfort in a kind of physical recession which made him more hunched and frog-like than ever. He blinked more, and acquired the nickname of “Mole.” But his débutante secretary adored him, and referred to him invariably as “My darling teddy-bear.”
Smiley was now too old to go abroad. Maston had made that clear: “Anyway, my dear fellow, as like as not you’re blown after all the ferreting about in the war. Better stick at home, old man, and keep the home fires burning.”
Which goes some way to explaining why George Smiley sat in the back of a London taxi at two o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, 4 January, on his way to Cambridge Circus.
2
WE NEVER CLOSED
He felt safe in the taxi. Safe and warm. The warmth was contraband, smuggled from his bed and hoarded against the wet January night. Safe because unreal: it was his ghost that ranged the London streets and took note of their unhappy pleasure-seekers, scuttling under commissionaires’ umbrellas; and of the tarts, gift-wrapped in polythene. It was his ghost, he decided, which had climbed from the well of sleep and stopped the telephone shrieking on the bedside table … Oxford Street … why was London the only capital in the world that lost its personality at night? Smiley, as he pulled his coat more closely about him, could think of nowhere, from Los Angeles to Berne, which so readily gave up its daily struggle for identity.
The cab turned into Cambridge Circus, and Smiley sat up with a jolt. He remembered why the Duty Officer had rung, and the memory woke him brutally from his dreams. The conversation came back to him word for word—a feat of recollection long ago achieved.
“Duty Officer speaking, Smiley. I have the Adviser on the line …”
“Smiley; Maston speaking. You interviewed Samuel Arthur Fennan at the Foreign Office on Monday, am I right?”
“Yes … yes I did.”
“What was the case?”
“Anonymous letter alleging Party membership at Oxford. Routine interview, authorized by the Director of Security.”
(Fennan can’t have complained, thought Smiley; he knew I’d clear him. There was nothing irregular, nothing.)
“Did you go for him at all? Was it hostile, Smiley, tell me that?”
(Lord, he does sound frightened. Fennan must have put the whole Cabinet on to us.)
“No. It was a particularly friendly interview; we liked one another, I think. As a matter of fact I exceeded my brief in a way.”
“How, Smiley, how?”
“Well, I more or less told him not to worry.”
“You what?”
“I told him not to worry; he was obviously in a bit of a state, and so I told him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said I had no powers and nor had the Service; but I could see no reason why we should bother him further.”
“Is that all?”
Smiley paused for a second; he had never known Maston like this, never known him so dependent.
“Yes, that’s all. Absolutely all.” (He’ll never forgive me for this. So much for the studied calm, the cream shirts and silver ties, the smart luncheons with Ministers.)
“He says you cast doubts on his loyalty, that his career in the FO is ruined, that he is the victim of paid informers.”
“He said what? He must have gone stark mad. He knows he’s cleared. What else does he want?”
“Nothing. He’s dead. Killed himself at ten-thirty this evening. Left a letter to the Foreign Secretary. The police rang one of his secretaries and got permission to open the letter. Then they told us. There’s going to be an inquiry. Smiley, you’re sure, aren’t you?”
“Sure of what?”
“… never mind. Get round as soon as you can.”
It had taken him hours to get a taxi. He rang three cab ranks a
nd got no reply. At last the Sloane Square rank replied, and Smiley waited at his bedroom window wrapped in his overcoat until he saw the cab draw up at the door. It reminded him of the air raids in Germany, this unreal anxiety in the dead of night.
At Cambridge Circus he stopped the cab a hundred yards from the office, partly from habit and partly to clear his head in anticipation of Maston’s febrile questioning.
He showed his pass to the constable on duty and made his way slowly to the lift.
The Duty Officer greeted him with relief as he emerged, and they walked together down the bright cream corridor.
“Maston’s gone to see Sparrow at Scotland Yard. There’s a squabble going on about which police department handles the case. Sparrow says Special Branch, Evelyn says CID and the Surrey police don’t know what’s hit them. Bad as a will. Come and have coffee in the DO’s glory hole. It’s out of a bottle but it does.”
Smiley was grateful it was Peter Guillam’s duty that night. A polished and thoughtful man who had specialized in satellite espionage, the kind of friendly spirit who always has a timetable and a penknife.
“Special Branch rang at twelve five. Fennan’s wife went to the theatre and didn’t find him till she got back alone at quarter to eleven. She eventually rang the police.”
“He lived down in Surrey somewhere.”
“Walliston, off the Kingston by-pass. Only just outside the Metropolitan area. When the police arrived they found a letter to the Foreign Secretary on the floor beside the body. The Superintendent rang the Chief Constable, who rang the Duty Officer at the Home Office, who rang the Resident Clerk at the Foreign Office, and eventually they got permission to open the letter. Then the fun started.”
“Go on.”
“The Director of Personnel at the Foreign Office rang us. He wanted the Adviser’s home number. Said this was the last time Security tampered with his staff, that Fennan had been a loyal and talented officer, blah … blah … blah …”
“So he was. So he was.”
“Said the whole affair demonstrated conclusively that Security had got out of hand—Gestapo methods which were not even mitigated by a genuine threat … blah …
“I gave him the Adviser’s number and dialled it on the other phone while he went on raving. By a stroke of genius I got the FO off one line and Maston on the other and gave him the news. That was at twelve twenty. Maston was here by one o’clock in a state of advanced pregnancy—he’ll have to report to the Minister tomorrow morning.”
They were silent for a moment, while Guillam poured coffee essence into the cups and added boiling water from the electric kettle.
“What was he like?” he asked.
“Who? Fennan? Well, until tonight I could have told you. Now he doesn’t make sense. To look at, obviously a Jew. Orthodox family, but dropped all that at Oxford and turned Marxist. Perceptive, cultured … a reasonable man. Soft spoken, good listener. Still educated; you know, facts galore. Whoever denounced him was right of course: he was in the Party.”
“How old?”
“Forty-four. Looks older really.” Smiley went on talking as his eyes wandered round the room. “ … sensitive face—mop of straight dark hair undergraduate fashion, profile of a twenty-year-old, fine dry skin, rather chalky. Very lined too—lines going all ways, cutting the skin into squares. Very thin fingers … compact sort of chap; self-contained unit. Takes his pleasures alone. Suffered alone too, I suppose.”
They got up as Maston came in.
“Ah, Smiley. Come in.” He opened the door and put out his left arm to guide Smiley through first. Maston’s room contained not a single piece of Government property. He had once bought a collection of nineteenth-century watercolours, and some of these were hanging on the walls. The rest was off the peg, Smiley decided. Maston was off the peg too, for that matter. His suit was just too light for respectability; the string of his monocle cut across the invariable cream shirt. He wore a light grey woollen tie. A German would call him flott, thought Smiley; chic, that’s what he is—a barmaid’s dream of a real gentleman.
“I’ve seen Sparrow. It’s a clear case of suicide. The body has been removed and beyond the usual formalities the Chief Constable is taking no action. There’ll be an inquest within a day or two. It has been agreed—I can’t emphasize this too strongly, Smiley—that no word of our former interest in Fennan is to be passed to the Press.”
“I see.” (You’re dangerous, Maston. You’re weak and frightened. Anyone’s neck before yours, I know. You’re looking at me that way—measuring me for the rope.)
“Don’t think I’m criticizing, Smiley; after all if the Director of Security authorized the interview you have nothing to worry about.”
“Except Fennan.”
“Quite so. Unfortunately the Director of Security omitted to sign off your minute suggesting an interview. He authorized it verbally, no doubt?”
“Yes. I’m sure he’ll confirm that.”
Maston looked at Smiley again, sharp, calculating; something was beginning to stick in Smiley’s throat. He knew he was being uncompromising, that Maston wanted him nearer, wanted him to conspire.
“You know Fennan’s office has been in touch with me?”
“Yes.”
“There will have to be an inquiry. It may not even be possible to keep the Press out. I shall certainly have to see the Home Secretary first thing tomorrow.” (Frighten me and try again … I’m getting on … pension to consider … unemployable, too … but I won’t share your lie, Maston.) “I must have all the facts, Smiley. I must do my duty. If there’s anything you feel you should tell me about that interview, anything you haven’t recorded, perhaps, tell me now and let me be the judge of its significance.”
“There’s nothing to add, really, to what’s already on the file, and what I told you earlier tonight. It might help you to know (the ‘you’ was a trifle strong, perhaps)—it might help you to know that I conducted the interview in an atmosphere of exceptional informality. The allegation against Fennan was pretty thin—university membership in the thirties and vague talk of current sympathy. Half the Cabinet were in the Party in the thirties.” Maston frowned. “When I got to his room in the Foreign Office it turned out to be rather public—people trotting in and out the whole time, so I suggested we should go out for a walk in the park.”
“Go on.”
“Well, we did. It was a sunny, cold day and rather pleasant. We watched the ducks.” Maston made a gesture of impatience. “We spent about half an hour in the park—he did all the talking. He was an intelligent man, fluent and interesting. But nervous, too, not unnaturally. These people love talking about themselves, and I think he was pleased to get it off his chest. He told me the whole story— seemed quite happy to mention names—and then we went to an espresso café he knew near Millbank.”
“A what?”
“An espresso bar. They sell a special kind of coffee for a shilling a cup. We had some.”
“I see. It was under these … convivial circumstances that you told him the Department would recommend no action.”
“Yes. We often do that, but we don’t normally record it.” Maston nodded. That was the kind of thing he understood, thought Smiley; goodness me, he really is rather contemptible. It was exciting to find Maston being as unpleasant as he expected.
“And I may take it therefore that his suicide—and his letter, of course—come as a complete surprise to you? You find no explanation?”
“It would be remarkable if I did.”
“You have no idea who denounced him?”
“No.”
“He was married, you know.”
“Yes.”
“I wonder … it seems conceivable that his wife might be able to fill in some of the gaps. I hesitate to suggest it, but perhaps someone from the Department ought to see her and, so far as good feeling allows, question her on all this.”
“Now?” Smiley looked at him, expressionless.
Maston was standin
g at his big flat desk, toying with the businessman’s cutlery—paper knife, cigarette box, lighter—the whole chemistry set of official hospitality. He’s showing a full inch of cream cuff, thought Smiley, and admiring his white hands.
Maston looked up, his face composed in an expression of sympathy.
“Smiley, I know how you feel, but despite this tragedy you must try to understand the position. The Minister and the Home Secretary will want the fullest possible account of this affair and it is my specific task to provide one. Particularly any information which points to Fennan’s state of mind immediately after his interview with … with us. Perhaps he spoke to his wife about it. He’s not supposed to have done but we must be realistic.”
“You want me to go down there?”
“Someone must. There’s a question of the inquest. The Home Secretary will have to decide about that of course, but at present we just haven’t the facts. Time is short and you know the case, you made the background inquiries. There’s no time for anyone else to brief himself. If anyone goes it will have to be you, Smiley.”
“When do you want me to go?”
“Apparently Mrs Fennan is a somewhat unusual woman. Foreign. Jewish, too, I gather, suffered badly in the war, which adds to the embarrassment. She is a strong-minded woman and relatively unmoved by her husband’s death. Only superficially, no doubt. But sensible and communicative. I gather from Sparrow that she is proving cooperative and would probably see you as soon as you can get there. Surrey police can warn her you’re coming and you can see her first thing in the morning. I shall telephone you there later in the day.”
Smiley turned to go.
“Oh—and Smiley …” He felt Maston’s hand on his arm and turned to look at him. Maston wore the smile normally reserved for the older ladies of the Service. “Smiley, you can count on me, you know; you can count on my support.”
A Murder of Quality AND Call for the Dead Page 16