The premise, said Smiley when they had resettled, was that Haydon had done nothing against the Circus that was not directed, and that the direction came from one man personally: Karla.
The premise was that in briefing Haydon, Karla was exposing the gaps in Moscow Centre’s knowledge; that in ordering Haydon to suppress certain intelligence which came the Circus’s way, in ordering him to downgrade or distort it, to deride it, or even to deny it circulation altogether, Karla was indicating which secrets he did not want revealed.
“So we can take the back-bearings, can’t we, darling?” murmured Connie Sachs, whose speed of uptake put her, as usual, a good length ahead of the rest of the field.
“That’s right, Con. That’s exactly what we can do,” said Smiley gravely. “We can take the back-bearings.” He resumed his lecture, leaving Guillam, for one, more mystified than before.
By minutely charting Haydon’s path of destruction (his pug marks, as Smiley called them); by exhaustively recording his selection of files; by reassembling—after aching weeks of research, if necessary—the intelligence culled in good faith by Circus outstations, and balancing it, in every detail, against the intelligence distributed by Haydon to the Circus’s customers in the Whitehall market-place, it would be possible to take back-bearings (as Connie so rightly called them) and establish Haydon’s, and therefore Karla’s, point of departure. Said Smiley.
Once a correct back-bearing had been taken, surprising doors of opportunity would open, and the Circus, against all outward likelihood, would be in a position to go over to the initiative—or, as Smiley put it, “to act, and not merely to react.”
The premise, to use Connie Sachs’s joyous description later, meant “Looking for another bloody Tutankhamun, with George Smiley holding the light and us poor Charlies doing the digging.”
At that time, of course, Jerry Westerby was not even a twinkle in their operational eye.
They went into battle next day, huge Connie to one corner, the crabbed little di Salis to his. As di Salis said, in a nasal, deprecating tone that had a savage force, “At least we do finally know why we’re here.” Their families of pasty burrowers carved the archive in two. To Connie and “my Bolshies,” as she called them, went Russia and the Satellites. To di Salis and his “yellow perils” China and the Third World. What fell between—source reports on the nation’s theoretical Allies, for instance—was consigned to a special wait-bin for later evaluation.
They worked, like Smiley himself, impossible hours. The canteen complained, the janitors threatened to walk out, but gradually the sheer energy of the burrowers infected even the ancillary staff, and they shut up. A bantering rivalry developed. Under Connie’s influence, back-room boys and girls who till now had scarcely been seen to smile learned suddenly to chaff each other in the language of their great familiars in the world outside the Circus. Czarist imperialist running dogs drank tasteless coffee with divisive, deviationist, chauvinist Stalinists and were proud of it.
But the most impressive blossoming was unquestionably in di Salis, who interrupted his nocturnal labours with short but vigorous spells at the Ping-Pong table, where he would challenge all comers, leaping about like a lepidopterist after rare specimens. Soon the first fruits appeared, and gave them fresh impetus. Within a month, three reports had been nervously distributed, under extreme limitation, and even found favour with the sceptical Cousins. A month later, a hard-bound summary wordily entitled “Interim Report on Lacunae in Soviet Intelligence Regarding Nato Sea-to-Air Strike Capacity” earned grudging applause from Martello’s parent factory in Langley, Virginia, and an exuberant phone call from Martello himself.
“George, I told them!” he yelled, so loud that the telephone line seemed an unnecessary extravagance. “I told them, ‘The Circus will deliver.’ Did they believe me? Did they hell!”
Meanwhile, sometimes with Guillam for company, sometimes with silent Fawn to baby-sit, Smiley conducted his own dark peregrinations and marched till he was half dead with tiredness. And, still without reward, kept marching. By day and often by night as well, he trailed the home counties and points beyond, questioning past officers of the Circus and former agents out to grass.
In Chiswick, perched meekly in the office of a cut-price travel agent and talking in murmurs to a former Polish colonel of cavalry resettled as a clerk there, he thought he had glimpsed it; but like a mirage, the promise dissolved as he advanced on it. In a second-hand radio shop in Sevenoaks, a Sudeten Czech held out the same hope to him, but when he and Guillam hurried back to confirm the story from Circus records, they found the actors dead and no one left to lead him further. At a private stud in Newmarket, to Fawn’s near-violent fury, he suffered insult at the hand of a tweedy and opinionated Scot, a protégé of Smiley’s predecessor Alleline, all in the same elusive cause. Back home, he called for the papers, only once more to see the light go out.
For this was the last and unspoken conviction of the premise Smiley had outlined in the rumpus room: that the snare with which Haydon had trapped himself was not unique. That in the end analysis, it was not Haydon’s paperwork which had caused his downfall, not his meddling with reports, or his “losing” of inconvenient records. It was Haydon’s panic. It was Haydon’s spontaneous intervention in a field operation, where the threat to himself, or perhaps to another Karla agent, was suddenly so grave that his one hope was to suppress it despite the risk.
This was the trick which Smiley longed to find repeated. And this was the question which never directly, but by inference, Smiley and his helpers in the Bloomsbury reception centre canvassed: “Can you remember any incident during your service in the field when in your opinion you were unreasonably restrained from following an operational lead?”
And it was dapper Sam Collins, in his dinner-jacket, with his brown cigarette and his trim moustache and his Mississippi dandy’s smile, summoned for a quiet chat one day, who breezed in to say, “Come to think of it, yes, old boy, I can.”
But behind this question again, and Sam’s crucial answer, stalked the formidable person of Miss Connie Sachs and her pursuit of Russian gold.
And behind Connie again, as ever, the permanently misted photograph of Karla.
“Connie’s got one, Peter,” she whispered to Guillam over the internal telephone late one night. “She’s got one, sure as boots.”
It was not her first find, by any means, not her tenth, but her devious instinct told her straight away it was “the genuine article, darling, mark old Connie’s words.” So Guillam told Smiley and Smiley locked up his files and cleared his desk and said, “All right, send her in.”
She was a huge, crippled, cunning woman, a don’s daughter, a don’s sister, herself some sort of academic, and known to the older hands as Mother Russia. The folklore said Control had recruited her over a rubber of bridge while she was still a débutante, on the night Neville Chamberlain promised “peace in our time.” When Haydon came to power in the slip-stream of his protector Alleline, one of his first and most prudent moves was to have Connie put out to grass.
For Connie knew more about the byways of Moscow Centre than most of the wretched brutes, as she called them, who toiled there, and Karla’s private army of moles and recruiters had always been her very special joy. Not a Soviet defector, in the old days, but his debriefing report had passed through Mother Russia’s arthritic fingers; not a coat-trailer who had manoeuvred himself alongside an identified Karla talent-spotter, but Connie greedily rehearsed him in every detail of the quarry’s choreography; not a scrap of hearsay over nearly forty years on the beat that had not been assumed into her pain-wracked body, and lodged there among the junk of her compendious memory, to be turned up the moment she rummaged for it. Connie’s mind, said Control once, in a kind of despair, was like the back of one enormous envelope.
Dismissed, she went back to Oxford and the devil. At the time Smiley reclaimed her, her only recreation was the Times crossword and she was running at a comfortable bottle of gin a day.
&nb
sp; But that night, that modestly historic night, as Connie hauled her great frame along the fifth-floor corridor toward George Smiley’s inner room, she sported a clean grey caftan, she had daubed a pair of rosy lips not far from her own, and she had taken nothing stronger than a vile peppermint cordial all day long—of which the reek lingered in her wake. A sense of occasion, they all decided afterwards, was stamped on her from the first. She carried a heavy plastic shopping bag, for she would countenance no leather. In her lair on a lower floor, her mongrel dog, christened Trot and recruited on a wave of remorse for its late predecessor, whimpered disconsolately from beneath her desk, to the lively fury of her roommate di Salis, who would often privily lash at the beast with his foot; or in more jovial moments content himself with reciting to Connie the many tasty ways in which the Chinese prepared their dogs for the pot. Outside the Edwardian dormers, as she passed them one by one, a racing late-summer rain was falling, ending a long drought, and she saw it—she told them all later—as symbolic, if not Biblical. The drops rattled like pellets on the slate roof, flattening the dead leaves which had settled there. In that ante-room, the mothers continued stonily with their business, accustomed to Connie’s pilgrimages, and not liking them the better for it.
“Darlings,” Connie murmured, waving her hand to them like royalty. “So loyal. So very loyal.”
There was one step down into the throne-room—the uninitiated tended to stumble on it despite the faded warning notice—and Connie, with her arthritis, negotiated it as if it were a ladder while Guillam held her arm.
Smiley watched her, plump hands linked on his desk, as she began solemnly unpacking her offerings from the carrier: not eye of newt, or the finger of a birth-strangled babe—Guillam speaking once more—but files, a string of them, flagged and annotated, the booty of yet another of her impassioned skirmishes through the Moscow Centre archive, which until her return from the dead a few months before had, thanks to Haydon, lain gathering dust for all of three long years. As she pulled them out, and smoothed the notes that she had pinned on them like markers in her paper-chase, she smiled that brimming smile of hers—Guillam again, for curiosity had obliged him to down tools and come and watch—and she was muttering, “There, you little devil,” and, “Now where did you get to, you wretch?” not to Smiley or Guillam, of course, but to the documents themselves, for Connie had the affectation of assuming everything was alive and potentially recalcitrant, whether it was Trot her dog or a chair that obstructed her passage, or Moscow Centre, or finally Karla himself.
“A guided tour, darlings,” she announced; “that’s what Connie’s been having. Super fun. Reminded me of Easter, when Mother hid painted eggs round the house and sent us gals off hunting for them.”
For perhaps three hours after that, interspersed with coffee and sandwiches and other unwanted treats, which dark Fawn insisted on bringing to them, Guillam struggled to follow the twists and impulsions of Connie’s extraordinary journey, to which her subsequent research had by now supplied the solid basis. She dealt Smiley papers as if they were playing cards, shoving them down and snatching them back with her crumpled hands almost before he had had a chance to read them. Over it all she was keeping up what Guillam called “her fifth-rate conjurer’s patter,” the abracadabra of the obsessive burrower’s trade.
At the heart of her discovery, so far as Guillam could make out, lay what Connie called a Moscow Centre “gold seam”; a Soviet laundering operation to move clandestine funds into open-air channels. The charting of it was not complete. Israeli liaison had supplied one section, the Cousins another, Steve Mackelvore, head resident in Paris, now dead, a third. From Paris the trail turned East, by way of the Banque de l’Indochine. At this point also, the papers had been put up to Haydon’s London Station, as the operational directorate was called, together with a recommendation from the Circus’s depleted Soviet research section that the case be thrown open to full-scale enquiry in the field.
London Station killed the suggestion stone dead: “Potentially prejudicial to a highly delicate source,” wrote one of Haydon’s minions, and that was that.
“File and forget,” Smiley muttered, distractedly turning pages. “File and forget. We always have good reasons for doing nothing.”
Outside, the world was fast asleep.
“Exactly, dear,” said Connie very softly, as if she were afraid to wake him.
Files and folders were by then strewn all over the throne-room. The scene looked a lot more like a disaster than a triumph. For an hour longer, Guillam and Connie gazed silently into space or at Karla’s photograph while Smiley conscientiously retraced her steps, his anxious face stooped to the reading-lamp, its pudgy lines accentuated by the beam, his hands skipping over the papers and occasionally lifting to his mouth so that he could lick his thumb. Once or twice, he started to glance at her or open his mouth to speak, but Connie had the answer ready before he put his question. In her mind, she was walking beside him along the path.
When he had finished he sat back, and took off his spectacles and polished them—not on the fat end of his tie, for once, but on a new silk handkerchief in the top pocket of his black jacket, for he had spent most of the day cloistered with the Cousins on another fence-mending mission. While he did this, Connie beamed at Guillam and mouthed “Isn’t he a love?”—a favourite dictum when she was talking of her Chief, which drove Guillam nearly mad with rage.
Smiley’s next utterance had the ring of mild objection: “All the same, Con, a formal search request did go out from London Station to our residency in Vientiane.”
“Happened before Bill had time to get his hoof on it,” she replied.
Not seeming to hear, Smiley picked up an open file and held it to her across the desk. “And Vientiane did send a lengthy reply. It’s all marked up in the index. We don’t seem to have that. Where is it?”
Connie had not bothered to receive the offered file. “In the shredder, darling,” she said, and beamed contentedly at Guillam.
The morning had come. Guillam strolled round switching out the lights.
The same afternoon, he dropped in at the quiet West End gaming club where, in the permanent night-time of his elected trade, Sam Collins endured the rigours of retirement. Expecting to find him overseeing his usual afternoon game of chemin de fer, Guillam was surprised at being shown to a sumptuous room marked “Management.” Sam was roosting behind a fine desk, smiling prosperously through the smoke of his habitual brown cigarette.
“What the hell have you done, Sam?” Guillam demanded in a stage whisper, affecting to look round nervously. “Taken over the Mafia? Jesus!”
“Oh, that wasn’t necessary,” said Sam, with the same raffish smile. Slipping a mackintosh over his dinner-jacket, he led Guillam down a passage and through a fire door into the street, where the two men hopped into the back of Guillam’s waiting cab, while Guillam still secretly marvelled at Sam’s new-found eminence.
Fieldmen have different ways of showing no emotion, and Sam’s was to smile, smoke slower, and fill his eyes with a dark glow of particular indulgence, fixing them intently on his partner in discussion. Sam was an Asian hand, old Circus, with a lot of time behind him in the field: five years in Borneo, six in Burma, five more in Northern Thailand and latterly three in the Laotian capital of Vientiane, all under natural cover as a general trader. The Thais had sweated him twice but let him go. He’d had to leave Sarawak in his socks. When he was in the mood, he had stories to tell about his journeying among the northern hill tribes of Burma and the Shans, but he was seldom in the mood. Sam was a Haydon casualty. There had been a moment, five years back, when Sam’s lazy brilliance had made him a serious contender for promotion to the fifth floor—even, said some, to the post of Chief itself, had not Haydon put his weight behind the preposterous Percy Alleline. So in place of power, Sam was left to moulder in the field until Haydon contrived to recall him, and have him sacked for a trumped-up misdemeanour.
“Sam! How good of you! Take a pe
w,” said Smiley, all conviviality for once. “Will you drink? Where are you in your day? Perhaps we should be offering you breakfast?”
At Cambridge, Sam had taken a dazzling first, thus confounding his tutors, who till then had dismissed him as a near idiot. He had done it, the dons afterwards told each other consolingly, entirely on memory. The more worldly tongues told a different tale, however. According to them, Sam had trailed a love affair with a plain girl at the Examination Schools, and obtained from her a preview of the papers.
4
The Castle Wakes
Now at first Smiley tested the water with Sam—and Sam, who liked a poker hand himself, tested the water with Smiley. Some fieldmen, and particularly the clever ones, take a perverse pride in not knowing the whole picture. Their art consists in the deft handling of loose ends, and stops there stubbornly. Sam was inclined that way. Having raked a little in his dossier, Smiley tried him out on several old cases, which had no sinister look at all but which gave a clue to Sam’s present disposition and confirmed his ability to remember accurately. He received Sam alone because with other people present it would have been a different game—either more or less intense, but different.
Later, when the story was out in the open and only follow-up questions remained, he did summon Connie and Doc di Salis from the nether regions, and let Guillam sit in too. But that was later, and for the time being Smiley plumbed Sam’s mind alone, concealing from him entirely the fact that all case papers had been destroyed, and that since Mackelvore was dead, Sam was at present the only witness to certain key events.
“Now, Sam, do you remember at all,” Smiley asked, when he finally judged the moment right, “a request that came in to you in Vientiane once, from here in London, concerning certain money drafts from Paris? Just a standard request it would have been, asking for ‘unattributable field enquiries please, to confirm or deny’—that sort of thing? Ring a bell, by any chance?”
John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels Page 44