“Marty, how do you see this one?” Enderby pressed, as if he really had no idea; as if he never went fishing with Martello, or gave lavish dinners for him, or discussed top-secret matters out of school.
A strange insight came to Guillam at this moment, though he kicked himself afterwards for making too little of it. Martello knew. The revelations about Nelson, which Martello had affected to be dazzled by, were not revelations at all, but restatements of information that he and his quiet men already possessed. Guillam read it in their pale, wooden faces and their watchful eyes. He read it in Martello’s fulsomeness. Martello knew.
“Ah, technically this is George’s show, Saul,” Martello reminded Enderby loyally, in answer to his question, but with just enough spin on the “technically” to put the rest in doubt. “George is on the bridge, Saul. We’re just there to stoke the engines.”
Enderby staged an unhappy frown and shoved a matchstick between his teeth. “George, how does that grab you? You content to let that happen, are you? Let Marty chuck in the cover, the accommodation out there, communications, all the cloak-anddagger stuff, surveillance, charging round Hong Kong and whatnot? While you call the shots? Bit like wearing someone else’s dinner-jacket, I’d have thought.”
Smiley was firm enough but, to Guillam’s eye, a deal too concerned with the question and not nearly concerned enough with the thinly veiled collusion.
“Not at all,” said Smiley. “Martello and I have a clear understanding. The spearhead of the operation will be shared by ourselves. If supportive action is required, Martello will supply it. The product is then halved. If one is thinking in terms of a dividend for the American investment, it comes with the partition of the product. The responsibility for obtaining it remains ours.” He ended strongly: “The letter of agreement setting all this out has of course long been on file.”
Enderby glanced at Lacon. “Oliver, you said you’d send me that. Where is it?”
Lacon put his long head on one side and pulled a dreary smile at nothing in particular. “Kicking around your Third Room, I should think, Saul.”
Enderby tried another tack: “And you two guys can see the deal holding up in all contingencies, can you? I mean, who’s handling the safe houses, all that? Burying the body sort of thing?”
Smiley again: “Housekeeping Section has already rented a cottage in the country, and is preparing it for occupation,” he said stolidly.
Enderby took the wet matchstick from his mouth and broke it into the ashtray. “Could have had my place if you’d asked,” he muttered absently. “Bags of room. Nobody ever there. Staff. Everything.” But he went on worrying at his theme. “Look here. Answer me this one. Your man panics. He cuts and runs through the back streets of Hong Kong. Who plays cops-and-robbers to get him back?”
Don’t answer it. Guillam prayed. He has absolutely no business to plumb around like this! Tell him to get lost!
Smiley’s answer, though effective, lacked the fire Guillam longed for. “Oh, I suppose one can always invent a hypothesis,” he objected mildly. “I think the best one can say is that Martello and I would at that stage pool our thoughts and act for the best.”
“George and I have a fine working relationship, Saul,” Martello declared handsomely. “Just fine.”
“Much tidier, you see, George,” Enderby resumed, through a fresh matchstick. “Much safer if it’s an all-Yank do. Marty’s people make a hash and all they do is apologise to the Governor, post a couple of blokes to Walla Walla, and promise not to do it again. That’s it. What everyone expects of ’em anyway. Advantage of a disgraceful reputation—right, Marty? Nobody’s surprised if you screw the housemaid.”
“Why, Saul,” said Martello, and laughed richly at the great British sense of humour.
“Much more tricky if we’re the naughty boys, George,” Enderby went on. “Or you are, rather. Governor could blow you down with one puff, the way it’s set up at the moment. Wilbraham’s crying all over his desk already.”
Against Smiley’s distracted obduracy, there was however no progress to be made, so for the while Enderby bowed out and they resumed their discussion of the “meat and potatoes,” which was Martello’s amusing phrase for modalities. But before they finished, Enderby had one last shot at dislodging Smiley from his primacy, choosing again the issue of the efficient handling and after-care of the catch.
“George, who’s going to manage all the grilling and stuff? You using that funny little Jesuit of yours, the one with the smart name?”
“Di Salis will be responsible for the Chinese aspects of the debriefing and our Soviet research section the Russian.”
“That the crippled don woman, is it, George? The one Bill shoved out to grass for drinking?”
“It is they, between them, who have brought the case this far,” said Smiley.
Inevitably Martello sprang into the breach: “Ah, now, George, I won’t have that! Sir, I will not! Saul, Oliver, I wish you to know that I regard the Dolphin case, in all its aspects, Saul, as a personal triumph for George here and for George alone!”
With a big hand all round for dear old George, they made their way back to Cambridge Circus.
“Gunpowder, treason, and plot!” Guillam expostulated. “Why’s Enderby selling you down the river? What’s all that tripe about losing the letter?”
“Yes,” said Smiley at last, but from far away. “Yes, that’s very careless of them. I thought I’d send them a copy, actually. Blind, by hand, for information only. Enderby seemed so woolly, didn’t he? Will you attend to that, Peter, ask the mothers?”
The mention of the letter of agreement—heads of agreement, as Lacon called it—revived Guillam’s worst misgivings. He remembered how he had foolishly allowed Sam Collins to be the bearer of it, and how, according to Fawn, he had spent more than an hour cloistered with Martello under the pretext of delivering it. He remembered Sam Collins also as he had glimpsed him in Lacon’s anteroom, the mysterious confidant of Lacon and Enderby, lazing around Whitehall like a blasted Cheshire cat. He remembered Enderby’s taste for backgammon, which he played for very high stakes, and it even passed through his head, as he tried to sniff out the conspiracy, that Enderby might be a client of Sam Collins’s club. From that notion he soon pulled back, discounting it as too absurd. But ironically it later turned out to be true. And he remembered his fleeting conviction—based on little but the physiognomy of the three Americans, and therefore soon also to be dismissed—that they knew already what Smiley had come to tell them.
But Guillam did not pull back from the notion of Sam Collins as the ghost at that morning’s feast, and as he boarded the plane at London Airport, exhausted by his long and energetic farewell from Molly, the same ghost grinned at him through the smoke of his infernal brown cigarette.
The flight was uneventful except in one respect. They were three strong, and in the seating arrangements Guillam had won a small battle in his running war with Fawn. Over Housekeeping Section’s dead body, Guillam and Smiley flew first class, while Fawn, the baby-sitter, took an aisle seat at the front of the tourist compartment, cheek by jowl with the airline security guards, who slept innocently for most of the journey while Fawn sulked. There had never been any suggestion, fortunately, that Martello and his quiet men would fly with them, for Smiley was determined that that should not happen on any account. As it was, Martello flew west, staging in Langley for instructions and continuing through Honolulu and Tokyo in order to be on hand in Hong Kong for their arrival.
As an unconsciously ironic footnote to their departure, Smiley left a long handwritten note to Jerry, to be presented to him on his arrival at the Circus, congratulating him on his first-rate performance. The carbon copy is still in Jerry’s dossier. Nobody has thought to remove it. Smiley speaks of Jerry’s “unswerving loyalty” and of “setting the crown on more than twenty years of service.” He includes an apocryphal message from Ann, “who joins me in wishing you an equally distinguished career in letters.” And he winds up
rather awkwardly with the sentiment that “one of the privileges of our work is that it provides us with such wonderful colleagues. I must tell you that we all think of you in those terms.”
Certain people do still ask why no anxious word about Jerry’s whereabouts had reached the Circus before take-off. He was, after all, several days overdue. Once more they look for ways of blaming Smiley, but there is no evidence of a lapse on the Circus’s side. For the transmission of Jerry’s report from the air base in North East Thailand—his last—the Cousins had cleared a line through Bangkok direct to the Annexe in London. But the arrangement was valid for one signal and one answer-back only, and a follow-up was not envisaged.
Accordingly, the grizzle, when it came, was routed first to Bangkok on the military network, thence to the Cousins in Hong Kong on their network—since Hong Kong was held to have a total lien on all Dolphin-starred material—and only then, marked “Routine,” repeated by Hong Kong to London, where it kicked around in several rosewood in-trays before anybody noted its significance. And it must be admitted that the languid Major Masters had attached very little significance to the no-show, as he later called it, of some travelling English fairy. “ASSUME EXPLANATION YOUR END,” his message ends. Major Masters now lives in Norman, Oklahoma, where he runs a small automobile repair business.
Nor did Housekeeping Section have any reason to panic—or so they still plead. Jerry’s instructions on reaching Bangkok were to find himself a plane, any plane, using his air-travel card, and get himself to London. No date was mentioned and no airline. The whole purpose was to leave things fluid. Most likely he had stopped over somewhere for a bit of relaxation. Many homing fieldmen do, and Jerry was on record as sexually oriented. So they kept their usual watch on flight lists and made a provisional booking at Sarratt for the two weeks’ drying-out and recycling ceremony, then returned their attention to the far more urgent business of setting up the Dolphin safe house.
This was a charming mill-house, quite remote, though situated in the commuter town of Maresfield, Sussex, and on most days they found a reason for going down there. As well as di Salis and a sizeable part of his Chinese archive, a small army of interpreters and transcribers had to be accommodated, not to mention technicians, baby-sitters, and a Chinese-speaking doctor. In no time at all the residents were complaining noisily to the police about the influx of Japanese. The local paper carried a story that they were a visiting dance troupe. Housekeeping Section had inspired the leak.
Jerry had nothing to collect at the hotel—and, as it happened, no hotel—but he reckoned he had an hour to get clear, perhaps two. He had no doubt the Americans had the whole town wired, and he knew there would be nothing easier, if London asked for it, than for Major Masters to have Jerry’s name and description broadcast as an American deserter travelling on a false-flag passport. Once his taxi was clear of the gates, therefore, he took it to the southern edge of town, waited, then took a second taxi and pointed it due north.
A wet haze lay over the paddies and the straight road ran into it endlessly. The radio pumped out female Thai voices like a slow-motion nursery rhyme. They passed an American electronics base, a circular grid a quarter of a mile wide floating in the haze and known locally as the Elephant Cage. Giant bodkins marked the perimeter, and at the middle, surrounded by webs of strung wire, burned a single infernal light like the promise of a future war. He had heard there were twelve hundred language students inside the place, but not one soul was to be seen.
He needed time, and in the event he helped himself to more than a week. Even now, he needed that long to bring himself to the point, because Jerry at heart was a soldier and voted with his feet. In the beginning was the deed, Smiley liked to say to him, in his failed-priest mood, quoting from Goethe. For Jerry that simple statement had become a pillar of his uncomplicated philosophy. What a man thinks is his own business. What matters is what he does.
Reaching the Mekong by early evening, he selected a village and for a couple of days strolled idly up and down the river-bank, trailing his shoulder-bag and kicking at an empty Coca-Cola tin with the toe of his buckskin boot. Across the river, behind the brown anthill mountains, lay the Ho Chi Minh trail. He had once watched a B-52 strike from this very point, three miles away in central Laos. He remembered how the ground shook under his feet and the sky emptied and burned, and he had known—he had really for a moment known—what it was like to be in the middle of it.
In this same spot, to use Frost’s jolly phrase, Jerry Westerby blew the walls out, much along the lines the housekeepers expected of him, if not in quite the circumstances. In a river-side bar where they played old tunes on a nickelodeon, he drank black-market P.X. Scotch and night after night drove himself into oblivion, leading one laughing girl after another up the unlit staircase to a tattered bedroom, till finally he stayed there sleeping and didn’t come down.
Waking with a jolt, clear-headed at dawn, to the screaming of roosters and the clatter of the river traffic, Jerry would force himself to think long and generously of his chum and mentor, George Smiley. It was an act of will that made him do this, almost an act of obedience. He wished, quite simply, to rehearse the articles of his creed, and his creed till now had been old George. At Sarratt they have a very worldly and relaxed attitude to the motives of a fieldman, and no patience at all for the fieryeyed zealot who grinds his teeth and says, “I hate Communism.” If he hates it that much, they argue, he’s most likely half-way in love with it already. What they really like—and what Jerry possessed, what he was, in effect—was the fellow who hadn’t a lot of time for flannel but loved the service and knew—though God forbid he should make a fuss of it—that we were right. We being a necessarily flexible notion, but to Jerry it meant George and that was that.
Old George. Super. Good morning.
He saw him as he liked to remember him best, the first time they met, at Sarratt soon after the war. Jerry was still an army subaltern, his time nearly up and Oxford looming, and he was bored stiff. The course was for London Occasionals: people who, having done the odd bit of skulduggery without going formally onto the Circus payroll, were being groomed as an auxiliary reserve. Jerry had already volunteered for full-time employment, but Circus personnel had turned him down, which scarcely helped his mood.
So when Smiley waddled into the paraffin-heated lecture hut in his heavy overcoat and spectacles, Jerry inwardly groaned and prepared himself for another creaking fifty minutes of boredom—on good places to look for dead-letter boxes, most likely, followed by a sort of clandestine nature ramble through Rickmansworth, trying to spot hollow trees in graveyards. There was comedy while the Directing Staff cranked the lectern lower so that George could see over the top. In the end he stood himself a little fussily at the side of it and declared that his subject this afternoon was “Problems of Maintaining Courier Lines Inside Enemy Territory.” Slowly it dawned on Jerry that he was talking not from the textbook but from experience: that this little pedant with the diffident voice and the blinking, apologetic manner had sweated out three years in some benighted German town, holding the threads of a very respectable network, while he waited for the boot through the door panel or the pistol butt across the face that would introduce him to the pleasures of interrogation.
When the meeting was over, Smiley asked to see him. They met in a corner of an empty bar, under the antlers where the darts board hung.
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t have you,” Smiley said. “I think our feeling was you needed a little more time outside first.” Which was their way of saying he was immature. Too late, Jerry remembered Smiley as one of the non-speaking members of the Selection Board that had failed him. “Perhaps if you could get your degree and make your way a little in a different walk of life, they would change their way of thinking. Don’t lose touch, will you?”
After which, somehow, old George had always been there. Never surprised, never out of patience, old George had gently but firmly rejigged Jerry’s life till it was Circus
property. His father’s empire collapsed: George was waiting with his hands out to catch him. His marriages collapsed: George would sit all night for him, hold his head.
“I’ve always been grateful to this service that it gave me a chance to pay,” Smiley had said. “I’m sure one should feel that. I don’t think we should be afraid of . . . devoting ourselves. Is that old-fashioned of me?”
“You point me, I’ll march,” Jerry had replied. “Tell me the shots and I’ll play them.”
There was still time. He knew that. Train to Bangkok, hop on a plane home, and the worst he would get was a flea in his ear for jumping ship for a few days. “Home,” he repeated to himself. Bit of a problem. Home to Tuscany and the yawning emptiness of the hilltop without the orphan? Home to old Pet, sorry about the teacup? Home to dear old Stubbsie, key appointment as desk jockey with special responsibility for the spike? Or home to the Circus: “We think you’d be happiest in Banking Section.” Even—great thought—home to Sarratt, training job, winning the hearts and minds of new entrants while he commuted dangerously from a maisonette in Watford.
On the third or fourth morning he woke very early. Dawn was just rising over the river, turning it first red, then orange, now brown. A family of water-buffaloes wallowed in the mud, their bells jingling. In mid-stream three sampans were linked in a long and complicated trawl. He heard a hiss and saw a net curl, then fall like hail on the water.
Yet it’s not for want of a future that I’m here, he thought. It’s for want of a present.
Home’s where you go when you run out of homes, he thought. Which brings me to Lizzie. Vexed issue. Shove it on the back burner. Spot of breakfast.
Sitting on the teak balcony munching eggs and rice, Jerry remembered George breaking the news to him about Haydon: El Vino’s bar, Fleet Street, a rainy midday. Jerry had never found it possible to hate anyone for very long, and after the initial shock there had really not been much more to say.
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