Single & Single

by John le Carré

  Mystified, Oliver gave an intelligent nod. “Maybe the locomotive is at the back.”

  “Maybe it is,” Oliver agreed, more mystified still.

  “It is common knowledge—I am not betraying professional secrets—that for two years now, certain things have not been good.”

  “For Single’s?”

  “For Single’s, for certain clients, for certain customers. So long as the customers are making money, Single’s are managing it. But what if the customers do not lay the eggs? Then Single’s cannot boil them.”

  “Of course not.”

  “It is logical. Sometimes eggs are also smashed. That is a disaster.” A disgusting snapshot of Winser’s head bursting like an egg. “Single’s customers are also my clients. These clients have many interests. Precisely I do not know which, that is not my business. If I am told it is export, so it is export. If I am told leisure, then it is leisure. If I am told precious minerals, raw materials, technical and electronic commodities—then this also I accept.” He dabbed his lips. “We call this ‘many-faceted.’ Yes?”

  “Yes.” Make sense, Oliver was urging him. Spit it out, whatever it is.

  “The partnership was strong, the atmosphere was good, the clients and customers were happy, also the courtiers.” Which courtiers? A snapshot of Massingham in the tights, yellow cross-garters and doublet of Malvolio. “Substantial sums of money were obtained, profits accrued, the leisure industry flourished, towns, villages, hotels, also import-export, I don’t know what. The structures were excellent. I am not stupid. Your father neither. We took care. We were academic but we were also practical. You accept this?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Until.” Conrad closed his eyes, drew a breath, but kept his finger in the air. “In the beginning it was only small embarrassments. Inquiries from insignificant authorities. In Spain. In Portugal. In Turkey. In Germany. In England. Orchestrated? We didn’t know. Where before there had been acceptance, now there was suspicion. Bank accounts frozen pending investigations. Mysteriously. Tradings unaccountably suspended. Somebody arrested—completely unfairly, in my opinion.” The pointing finger descended. “Isolated incidents. But for certain people, not quite so isolated. Too many questions, not enough answers. Too many accidents that are not coincidence finally—please.” More staff work with the silk handkerchief. Sweat appearing on him like dew. Sweat like tears of fear on the bags beneath his eyes. “These are not my companies, Oliver. I am a lawyer, not a trader. I am for what is on the page, not what is on the boat. I do not load this boat. I do not open every banana to see whether it is a banana or something else. I do not make out the—Manifest?”

  “Same word. Manifest.”

  “Please. I sell you a box, I am not responsible for what you put in the box.” He ran the handkerchief round his neck. He was speaking faster, running low on breath. “I provide advice, based on the information given to me. I charge a fee, good night. If the information is not correct, how can I be held responsible? I can be misinformed. To be misinformed is not a crime.”

  “Not even at Christmas,” said Oliver, prompting him.

  “So Christmas,” Conrad agreed, with a quick suck of air. “Last Christmas. Five days before, actually. On the twentieth of December Dr. Mirsky sends to me by courier out of a clear sky sixty-eight pages of ultimatum. A fait accompli for the immediate attention of your father, my client. ‘Sign here and return forthwith et cetera, deadline January twentieth.’”

  “Demanding what?”

  “Effectively, the transfer of the entire structure of companies, intact, into the hands of Trans-Finanz Istanbul, a new company, offshore naturally, but also now the parent company of Trans-Finanz Vienna, owing to complicated share maneuvering masterminded by Dr. Mirsky and others, and Dr. Mirsky the nominated chairman of this company, also the managing director, also chief executive.” He was talking at breakneck speed. “Nominated by whom? Another matter. Certain courtiers of your father—faithless courtiers, I would say—are also holding shares in this new company.” Shocked by his own narrative, Conrad again mopped his forehead, then ploughed on. “It was typical, actually. A typical Polish mentality. At Christmas, nobody is looking, everybody is baking cakes, buying presents for the family, sign here immediately.” His voice fell to a quaver but lost none of its forward thrust. “Dr. Mirsky is not a reliable person, actually,” he confided. “I have many friends in Zurich. He is not correct at all. And this Hoban”—he shook his head.

  “Transfer how? It’s an enormous network. You might as well transfer the London underground.”

  “That’s it! Genau. Exactly. The London underground is perfect.” The brave finger soared once more into the air while with the other hand Conrad grabbed a folder and pulled out a thick document bound in red cloth, guarding it close to his stomach. “I’m glad you came, Oliver, actually. Very glad. You have many good expressions. Like your father.” He was flipping through the pages, offering a rapidfire version of the contents: “All shares and assets controlled by House of Single on behalf of certain clients to be transferred without delay to the control of Trans-Finanz Istanbul Offshore . . . That’s theft, actually . . . All offshore operations to be administered by Dr. Mirsky and his wife and dog completely as they decide—maybe from Istanbul, I don’t know, maybe from the top of the Matterhorn—why does a Pole represent a Russian in Turkey?—House of Single to relinquish all rights as signatories, listen, please . . . all authority over all company affairs to be redefined, naturally to exclude House of Single . . . Certain delighted courtiers to replace them, the choice of such delighted courtiers to be at the sole discretion of Misters Yevgeny and Mikhail Orlov or their nominees, who will naturally be certain delighted courtiers already clearly identified in the ultimatum . . . It’s a putsch, actually. A palace plot, completely.”

  “And if not?” Oliver asked. “If Tiger refuses? If you do? What then?”

  “You are absolutely correct to ask this, Oliver! That’s a completely logical question, I would say! If not. It was a blackmail! If House of Single does not agree to the Mirsky master plan, then certain no-name courtiers will immediately withhold all further collaboration—which will have a crippling effect, naturally. These courtiers will further regard all existing articles of agreement as void—if we sue them they will immediately file a counterclaim for breach of confidence, incompetent administration, malfeasance and I don’t know what. Furthermore—it is only a hint, I would say, but it is here in the ultimatum, between the lines”—he tapped the side of his glistening nose to indicate his finely developed sense of smell while his words fell from him at ever-increasing speed— “they regret very much that, in the event of noncompliance by House of Single, certain negative informations regarding House of Single’s overseas activities may coincidentally be lodged with certain international authorities, also domestic. It’s totally disgraceful, actually. A Pole, threatening an Englishman, in Switzerland.”

  “So what action did you take—you and Tiger—what did you do, in the face of this ultimatum?”

  “He spoke to them.”

  “My father?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Spoke to them how?”

  “From where you are sitting”—indicating the telephone that lay between them—“here, several times. At my expense. Never mind. Often for hours.”

  “To Yevgeny?”

  “Correct. To Orlov Senior.” He had found a slower pace. “Your father was brilliant, I would say. Very charming, but also very firm. He swore an oath. Literally on the Bible, we have one here naturally, Frau Marty brought it to him. ‘Yevgeny, I give you my solemn oath, nobody has betrayed you, there has been no indiscretion on the part of House of Single, this is all a dirty fiction from Mirsky and the no-name courtiers.’ Mr. Yevgeny is very suggestible, I believe. This way, that way, like a pendulum. Also your father made certain concessions. It was necessary. This agreement would be made, that one canceled, it was a package. But still, inside the package we had a very fa
miliar, very fragile human situation, namely an old man who did not know which voice he should listen to. Orlov Senior puts down the telephone, whom does he see? Courtiers. Each with a dagger behind his back.” Dr. Conrad thrust a fist behind his own back by way of demonstration. “How long will the agreement last? Not long, I believe. Only till the old man’s mind is changed again or the next disaster happens.”

  “And it did,” Oliver suggested, when they had shared another tense silence, broken only by the words “My God,” whispered several times by a temporarily exhausted Dr. Conrad. And Oliver resumed: “The Free Tallinn was boarded, there was a shoot-out, a few days later Winser had his head blown off, my father panicked and rushed over here to put the fire out.”

  “With this fire, it was impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “It was too hot. More advanced. More dangerous.”

  “Why?”

  “In the first place we have an actual episode—an arrested boat, confiscated materials, dead crew, maybe captured crew, we don’t know. These were matters that could not be overlooked, even if they were not in any way the responsibility of your father, let alone myself, similarly the contents of the cargo—”

  “And in the second place?”

  “There was no answer.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nobody answered us. Literally.”

  “From where? Who?”

  “All the telephone numbers, fax machines, all the offices. In Istanbul, Moscow, Petersburg. Trans-Finanz here, Trans-Finanz there, the private numbers, the public numbers. Nothing responded positively.”

  “You mean they were cut off?”

  A weary shrug. “There was a wall. Mr. Yevgeny Orlov was not available, neither was his brother. His whereabouts were not known, he could not be contacted. We were informed that all appropriate communications with House of Single had already been made, it was now only necessary for House of Single to meet its financial obligations or face the consequences. Amen and thank you.”

  “Who said that part? About the consequences—who said it?”

  “Mr. Hoban from Vienna said it, except that he was not in Vienna. He was somewhere I don’t know, speaking on a cell phone, maybe in a helicopter, maybe in a crevasse, maybe on the moon. We are calling this modern communication.”

  “How about Mirsky?”

  “Dr. Mirsky also could not be contacted. It was the wall again, your father was convinced of it. They wished to put a wall of silence round him. Pressure and fear. It is a well-known combination. Also very effective. On me as well.” He was losing his courage before Oliver’s eyes. He was dabbing his flews and shrugging and, as a conscientious lawyer, seeing the force of the other side’s argument even as he protested its monstrosity. “Listen. It’s not so unreasonable. They have suffered a big loss, Single’s have provided a service, the service is maybe not totally satisfactory, they hold Single’s liable, so they are seeking compensation. Objectively, this is normal commercial practice. Look at America. You are a worker, you break your finger on I don’t know what, one hundred million dollars, please. Single’s will pay, or they will not pay. Maybe they pay part. Maybe there will be a negotiation.”

  “Has my father instructed you to negotiate?”

  “It’s impossible. You heard. No answer. How can one negotiate with a wall?” He stood up. “I have been frank with you, Oliver, maybe too frank. You are not only a lawyer, you are your father’s son. Goodbye, huh? Good luck. Break your leg and neck, as we are saying.”

  Oliver remained in his chair, ignoring Conrad’s extended hand. “So what happened? He came here. He telephoned. There was no answer. What did you do?”

  “He had other engagements.”

  “Where was he staying? It was evening already. Did you bother to ask him? Where did he go? You’ve been his lawyer for twenty years. Did you just throw him into the night?”

  “Please. You are being emotional. You are his son. But you are a lawyer also. Listen, please.” Oliver was listening, but he had to wait a while. And the message, when it came, was punctuated by painful, heavy breaths. “I also have my problems. The Swiss bar association—certain other authorities—the police also—they have spoken to me. They are not accusing me, but they are not respectful and they are coming closer.” He licked his lips, pursed them. “Regretfully I had to inform your father that these matters were outside my professional competence. Difficulties with banks— fiscal matters—frozen accounts, perhaps—these we can discuss. But dead sailors—illegal cargoes—a dead lawyer, and maybe not the only one—they are too much. Please.”

  “You mean you dumped my father as a client? Signed him off? Bye-bye?”

  “I was not hard with him, Oliver. Listen to me. We were not heartless. Frau Marty drove him to the bank. He wanted the bank. He must see what cards he had to play. Those were his words. I offered to lend him money. Not much, I am not rich, maybe a few hundred thousand francs. I have friends who are richer. Maybe they will help him. He was dirty. An old brown coat, dirty shirt. You are right. He was not himself. One cannot advise a man who is not himself. What are you doing, please?”

  Still seated, Oliver was fidgeting with the briefcase. Having fidgeted to his satisfaction, he stood up, plodded round the desk and grabbed a handful of Conrad’s cardigan and shirt front with the intention of carting him to the nearest wall and hoisting him up it by the armpits while he asked him a few more questions. But the act was easier in the imagining than in the fulfillment. As Tiger always likes to say, I lack the killer instinct. So he released Conrad and left him quaking and whining in a heap on the floor. And as a consolation he helped himself to the folder containing Mirsky’s sixty-eight-page Christmas ultimatum and shoved it in the briefcase among the dummy files. While he was at it, he also took a look through the desk drawers, but the only thing that caught his eye was a cumbersome service revolver, presumably a relic of Conrad’s heroic days in the Swiss army. He walked to the antechamber where Frau Marty was busily typing and, having closed the door behind him, leaned flirtatiously over her desk.

  “I wanted to thank you for driving my father to the bank,” he said. “Oh, you are very welcome.”

  “He didn’t by any chance mention where he was going after that, did he?”

  “Alas, he did not, I am afraid.”

  Briefcase in hand, he trotted down the little garden path, gained the pavement and turned down the hill. Derek fell in behind him. The afternoon was muggy. They descended a steep cobbled alley wide enough for one car. Oliver was striding out fast, head reeling, heels jolting on the cobble. He was passing small villas and familiar faces. In one garden he saw Carmen on a swing in her white party dress, being pushed by Sammy Watmore. Next door to them Tiger was mowing the lawn, watched by dead Jeffrey with his flowing gold mane. From an attic window, naked Zoya waved to him. A lane opened to his left. He entered it and ran for a while, Derek following. He reached a wide road and saw the yellow Audi waiting ahead of him in a lay-by next to a tram stop. The back door opened, Derek jumped in after him. The girls’ elected names were Pat and Mike. Pat was a brunette today. Mike, her co-driver, wore a scarf round her head.

  “Why did you switch off, Ollie?” Mike demanded over her shoulder as they drove.

  “I didn’t.”

  They were heading downhill toward the lake and town.

  “You did. It was when you were about to leave.”

  “Probably jogged it or something,” Oliver said, with his legendary vagueness. “Conrad gave me a document to read,” he told Derek, handing him the briefcase.

  “When did he do that?” Mike persisted from the front, holding Oliver’s gaze in the mirror.

  “Do what?”

  “Give you the document.”

  “Just shoved it at me,” said Oliver, as vague as before. “Didn’t want to admit he was doing it, most likely. He’s dropped Tiger down a hole.”

  “We heard that part,” said Mike.

  They set him down at the lakeside where
the Bahnhofstrasse begins.

  15

  Oliver was not entirely present for his progress through the bank. He smiled and lied, he smiled and shook hands, he sat and stood and smiled and sat again. He waited for signs of panic or aggression on the part of his hosts and encountered none. The mounting rage that had guided him through his meeting with Conrad had given way to a drugged apathy. Wafted from one teak-paneled office to another, lectured on the latest dramatic shifts by old acquaintances whom he barely remembered—Herr Somebody has taken over Loans Department but sends his regards, Frau Dr. Somebody Else is now regional director for Glarus and will be sad not to have met him—Oliver floated in a state of intermittent consciousness that reminded him of the recovery room after his appendix operation. He was nobody, doing everybody’s bidding. He was an understudy who hadn’t learned his lines.

  From the bank’s lobby he had ascended in a satin-steel lift with no controls. He was greeted by a carrot-haired man called Herr Albrecht, whom he at first sight mistook for one of his several headmasters. “We are so pleased to see you here again, Mr. Single, after all these years, and so soon after your good father,” said Herr Albrecht as they shook hands. So how was my good father or did you drop him down a hole like that bastard Conrad? Oliver replied. But it was evident that he had only asked these questions in his head, because the next thing he knew was that he was being wafted down a river of blue carpet at the side of a kind matron on his way to see a Herr Dr. Lilienfeld, who will take a photocopy of your passport in view of the new regulations.—“How new?”—“Oh, very new. Also it is a long time since you were here. We have to be sure you are the same person.” So do I, thought Oliver.

  Herr Dr. Lilienfeld required a sample of Oliver’s new signature after the rounder, younger version of five years ago. If he had asked for a blood sample, Oliver would have provided it. But when the kind matron returned him to Headmaster Albrecht, there sat Tiger in the very rosewood chair Oliver had occupied minutes before. He was looking much as Oliver expected, unwashed and wearing his brown love coat. But it was Oliver, not Tiger, whom Herr Albrecht addressed while the world’s prices rallied and collapsed on monitors along the wall behind him. And it was a round-eyed pixie called Herr Stämpfli, not Tiger, who stepped forward out of the shadows to present himself as the official now responsible for the extended family of Single accounts. Everything was satisfactory, Herr Stämpfli assured Oliver. The original authorization was still valid— it was in perpetuity—and of course—sycophantic smirk—Oliver required no authorization to examine his own personal account, which, Herr Albrecht was pleased to report, was in excellent health.