John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels

by John le Carré

  Smiley looked sleepier than ever. “Well, of course, if he’s given to being indiscreet,” he murmured meekly, “I suppose one might argue that he’s not a suitable person to be informed anyway.”

  In the icy silence, Enderby once more languidly took the matchstick from his mouth. “Bloody odd it would be, wouldn’t it, Chris,” he called cheerfully down the table to Wilbraham, “if Peking woke up one morning to the glad news that the Governor of Hong Kong, Queen’s representative and what have you, head of the troops and so forth, made a point of entertaining Moscow’s ace spy at his dinner table once a month. And gave him a medal for his trouble. What’s he got so far? Not a K, is it?”

  “An O.B.E.,” said somebody sotto voce.

  “Poor chap. Still, he’s on his way, I suppose. He’ll work his way up, same as we all do.”

  Enderby, as it happened, had his knighthood already, whereas Wilbraham was stuck in the bulge, owing to the growing shortage of colonies.

  “There is no case, ” said Wilbraham stoutly, and laid a hairy hand flat over the lurid folder before him.

  A free-for-all followed, to Guillam’s ear an intermezzo, in which by tacit understanding the minor parts were allowed to chime in with irrelevant questions in order to get themselves a mention in the minutes. The Welsh Hammer wished to establish here and now what would happen to Moscow Centre’s half million dollars of reptile money if by any chance they fell into British hands. There could be no question of their simply being recycled through the Circus, he warned. Treasury would have sole rights. Was that clear?

  It was clear, Smiley said.

  Guillam began to discern a gulf. There were those who assumed, even if reluctantly, that the investigation was a fait accompli; and those who continued to fight a rear-guard action against its taking place. Hammer, he noticed to his surprise, seemed reconciled to an investigation.

  A string of questions on “legal” and “illegal” residencies, though wearisome, served to entrench the fear of a Red peril. Luff, the parliamentarian, wanted the difference spelt out to him. Smiley patiently obliged. A “legal” or “above-the-line” resident, he said, was an intelligence officer living under official or semi-official protection. Since the Hong Kong government, out of deference to Peking’s sensitivities about Russia, had seen fit to banish all forms of Soviet representation from the Colony—embassy, consular, Tass, Radio Moscow, Novosti, Aeroflot, Intourist, and the other flags of convenience which legals traditionally sailed under—then by definition it followed that any Soviet activity on the Colony had to be carried out by an illegal or below-the-line apparatus.

  It was this presumption which had directed the efforts of the Circus’s researches toward discovering the replacement money route, he said, avoiding the jargon “gold seam.”

  “Ah, well, then, we’ve forced the Russians into it,” said Luff with satisfaction. “We’ve only ourselves to thank. We victimise the Russians, they bite back. Well, who’s surprised by that? It’s the last government’s hash we’re settling. Not ours at all. Go in for Russian-baiting, you get what you deserve. Natural. We’re just reaping the whirlwind, as usual.”

  “What have the Russians got up to in Hong Kong before this?” asked a clever back-room boy from the Home Office.

  The Colonialists at once sprang to life. Wilbraham began feverishly leafing through a folder, but seeing his red-headed assistant straining at the leash, he muttered, “You’ll do that one, then, John, will you? Good,” and sat back looking ferocious. The brown-clad lady smiled wistfully at the baize cloth. So the sixth-former made his second disastrous sally.

  “We consider the precedents here very enlightening indeed,” he began aggressively. “Moscow Centre’s previous attempts to gain a toe-hold on the Colony have been one and all, without exception, abortive and completely low grade.” He reeled off a bunch of boring instances.

  Five years ago, he said, a bogus Russian Orthodox archimandrite flew in from Paris in an effort to make links with remnants of the White Russian community.

  “This gentleman tried to press-gang an elderly restaurateur into Moscow Centre’s service and was promptly arrested. More recently, we have had cases of ship’s crew coming ashore from Russian freighters which have put in to Hong Kong for repair. They have made ham-fisted attempts to suborn longshoremen and dock workers whom they consider to be leftist oriented. They have been arrested, questioned, made complete fools of by the press, and duly confined to their ship for the rest of its stay.” He gave other equally milk-and-water examples and everyone grew sleepy, waiting for the last lap. “Our policy has been exactly the same each time. As soon as they’re caught, right away, culprits are put on public show. Press photographs? As many as you like, gentlemen. Television? Set up your cameras. Result? Peking hands us a nice pat on the back for containing Soviet imperialist expansionism.”

  Thoroughly over-excited, he found the nerve to address himself directly to Smiley. “So you see, as to your networks of illegals, to be frank, we discount them. Legal, illegal, above-the-line, below it—our view is, the Circus is doing a bit of special pleading in order to get its nose back under the wire!”

  Opening his mouth to deliver a suitable rebuke, Guillam felt a restraining touch on his elbow and closed it again.

  There was a long silence, in which Wilbraham looked more embarrassed than anybody.

  “Sounds more like smoke to me, Chris,” said Enderby drily.

  “What’s he driving at?” Wilbraham demanded nervously.

  “Just answering the point your bully-boy made for you, Chris. Smoke. Deception. Russians are waving their sabres where you can watch ’em, and while your heads are all turned the wrong way, they get on with the dirty work t’other side of the Island. To wit, Brother Ko. Right, George?”

  “Well, that is our view, yes,” Smiley conceded. “And I suppose I should remind you—it’s in the submission, actually—that Haydon himself was always very keen to argue that the Russians had nothing going in Hong Kong.”

  “Lunch,” Martindale announced without much optimism. They ate it upstairs, glumly, off plastic catering trays delivered by van. The partitions were too low, and Guillam’s custard flowed into his meat.

  Thus refreshed, Smiley availed himself of the after-luncheon torpor to raise what Lacon had called the panic factor. More accurately, he sought to entrench in the meeting a sense of logic behind a Soviet presence in Hong Kong, even if, as he put it, Ko did not supply the example.

  How Hong Kong, as mainland China’s largest port, handled 40 percent of her foreign trade.

  How an estimated one out of every five Hong Kong residents travelled legally in and out of China every year, though many-time travellers doubtless raised the average.

  How Red China maintained in Hong Kong, sub rosa but with the full connivance of the authorities, teams of first-class negotiators, economists, and technicians to watch over Peking’s interest in trade, shipping, and development; and how every man jack of them constituted a natural intelligence target for “enticement, or other forms of secret persuasion,” as he put it.

  How Hong Kong’s fishing fleets and junk-fleets enjoyed dual registration in Hong Kong and along the China coast, and passed freely in and out of China waters—

  Interrupting, Enderby drawled a supporting question: “And Ko owns a junk-fleet. Didn’t you say he’s one of the last of the brave?”

  “Yes, yes, he does.”

  “But he doesn’t visit the mainland himself?”

  “No, never. His assistant goes, but not Ko, we gather.”

  “Assistant?”

  “He has a manager body named Tiu. They’ve been together for twenty years. Longer. They share the same background—Hakka, Shanghai, and so forth. Tiu’s his front man on several companies.”

  “And Tiu goes to the mainland regularly?”

  “Once a year, at least.”

  “All over?”

  “Canton, Peking, Shanghai are on record. But the record is not necessarily complete.�
��

  “But Ko stays home. Queer.”

  There being no further questions or comments on that score, Smiley resumed his Cook’s tour of the charms of Hong Kong as a spy base. Hong Kong was unique, he stated simply. Nowhere on earth offered a tenth of the facilities for getting a toe-hold on China.

  “Facilities!” Wilbraham echoed. “Temptations, more like.”

  Smiley shrugged. “If you like, temptations,” he agreed. “The Soviet service is not famous for resisting them.” And amid some knowing laughter, he went on to recount what was known of Centre’s attempts till now against the China target as a whole: a joint précis by Connie and di Salis. He described Centre’s efforts to attack from the north, by means of the wholesale recruitment and infiltration of her own ethnic Chinese. Abortive, he said. He described a huge network of listening-posts all along the 4,500-mile Sino-Soviet land border: unproductive, he said, since the yield was military, whereas the threat was political. He recounted the rumours of Soviet approaches to Taiwan, proposing common cause against the China threat through joint operations and profit-sharing: rejected, he said, and probably designed for mischief to annoy Peking, rather than to be taken at face value. He gave instances of the Russian use of talent-spotters among overseas Chinese communities in London, Amsterdam, Vancouver, and San Francisco; and touched on Centre’s veiled proposals to the Cousins some years ago for the establishment of an “intelligence pool” available to China’s common enemies. Fruitless, he said. The Cousins wouldn’t play. Lastly he referred to Centre’s long history of savage burning and bribery operations against Peking officials in overseas posts: product indeterminate, he said.

  When he had done all this, he sat back and restated the thesis that was causing all the trouble:

  “Sooner or later,” he repeated, “Moscow Centre has to come to Hong Kong.”

  Which brought them to Ko once more, and to Roddy Martindale, who, under Enderby’s eagle eye, made the next real passage of arms.

  “Well, what do you think the money’s for, George? I mean we’ve heard all the things it isn’t for, and we’ve heard it’s not being spent. But we’re no forrarder, are we, bless us? We don’t seem to know anything. It’s the same old question: how’s the money being earned, how’s it being spent, what should we do?”

  “That’s three questions,” said Enderby cruelly under his breath.

  “It is because we don’t know,” said Smiley woodenly, “that we are asking permission to find out.”

  Someone from the Treasury benches said, “Is half a million a lot?”

  “In my experience, unprecedented,” said Smiley. “Moscow Centre”—dutifully he avoided “Karla”—“detests having to buy loyalty at any time. For them to buy it on this scale is unheard of.”

  “But whose loyalty are they buying?” someone complained.

  Martindale, the gladiator, back to the charge: “You’re selling us short, George. I know you are. You have an inkling—of course you have. Now cut us in on it. Don’t be so coy.”

  “Yes, can’t you kick a few ideas around for us?” said Lacon, equally plaintively.

  “Surely you can go down the line a little,” Hammer pleaded.

  Even under this three-pronged attack Smiley still did not waver. The panic factor was finally paying off; Smiley himself had triggered it. Like scared patients they were appealing to him for a diagnosis. And Smiley was declining to provide one, on the grounds that he lacked the data.

  “Really, I cannot do more than give you the facts as they stand. For me to speculate aloud at this stage would not be useful.”

  For the first time since the meeting had begun, the Colonial lady in brown opened her mouth and asked a question. Her voice was melodious and intelligent.

  “On the matter of precedents then, Mr. Smiley—?” Smiley ducked his head in a quaint little bow. “Are there, for instance, precedents for secret Russian moneys being paid to a stakeholder? In other theatres, for instance?”

  Smiley did not immediately answer. Seated only a few inches from him, Guillam swore he sensed a sudden tension, like a surge of energy, passing through his neighbour. But when he glanced at the impassive profile, he saw only a deepening somnolence in his master, and a slight lowering of the weary eyelids.

  “There have been a few cases of what we call alimony,” he conceded finally.

  “Alimony, Mr. Smiley?” the Colonial lady echoed, while her red-haired companion scowled more terribly, as if divorce were something else he disapproved of.

  Smiley picked his way with extreme care. “Clearly there are agents, working in hostile countries—hostile from the Soviet point of view—who for reasons of cover cannot enjoy their pay while they are in the field.” The brown-clad lady delicately nodded her understanding. “The normal practice in such cases is to bank the money in Moscow and make it available to the agent when he is free to spend it. Or to his dependents if—”

  “If he gets the chop,” said Martindale with relish.

  “But Hong Kong is not Moscow,” the Colonial lady reminded him with a smile.

  Smiley had all but come to a halt. “In rare cases where the incentive is money, and the agent perhaps has no stomach for eventual resettlement in Russia, Moscow Centre has been known, under duress, to make a comparable arrangement in, say, Switzerland.”

  “But not in Hong Kong?” she persisted.

  “No. Not. And it is unimaginable, on past showing, that Moscow would contemplate parting with alimony on such a scale. For one thing, it would be an inducement to the agent to retire from the field.”

  There was laughter, but when it died, the brown-clad lady had her next question ready.

  “But the payments began modestly,” she persisted pleasantly. “The inducement is only of relatively recent date?”

  “Correct,” said Smiley.

  Too damn correct, thought Guillam, starting to get alarmed.

  “Mr. Smiley, if the dividend were of sufficient value to them, do you think the Russians would be prepared to swallow their objections and pay such a price? After all, in absolute terms the money is entirely trivial beside the value of a great intelligence advantage.”

  Smiley had simply stopped. He made no particular gesture. He remained courteous, he even managed a small smile, but he was plainly finished with conjecture. It took Enderby, with his blasé drawl, to blow the question away.

  “Look, children, we’ll be doing the theoreticals all day if we’re not careful,” he said, looking at his watch. “Chris, do we wheel the Americans in here? If we’re not telling the Governor, where do we stand on telling the gallant Allies?”

  George saved by the bell, thought Guillam.

  At the mention of the Americans, Colonial Wilbraham came in like an angry bull. Guillam guessed he had sensed the issue looming, and determined to kill it immediately it showed its head.

  “Vetoed, I’m afraid,” he snapped. “Absolutely. Whole host of grounds. Demarcation for one. Hong Kong’s our patch. Americans have no fishing rights there. None. Ko’s a British subject, for another, and entitled to some protection from us. I suppose that’s old-fashioned. Don’t care too much, to be frank. Americans would go clean overboard. Seen it before. God knows where it would end. Three: small point of protocol.” He meant this ironically. He was appealing to the instincts of an ex-Ambassador, trying to rouse his sympathy. “Just a small point, Enderby. Telling the Americans and not telling the Governor—if I was the Governor, put in that position, I’d turn in my badge. That’s all I can say. You would, too. Know you would. You do. I do.”

  “Assuming you found out,” Enderby corrected him.

  “Don’t worry. I’d find out. I’d have ’em ten deep crawling over his house with microphones, for a start. One or two places in Africa where we let them in. Disaster. Total.” Plonking his forearms on the table, one over the other, he stared at them furiously.

  A vehement chugging, as if from an outboard motor, announced a fault in one of the electronic bafflers. It choked, reco
vered, and zoomed out of hearing again.

  “Be a brave man who diddled you on that one, Chris,” Enderby murmured, with a long admiring smile, into the strained silence.

  “Endorsed,” Lacon blurted out of the blue.

  They know, thought Guillam simply. George has squared them. They know he’s done a deal with Martello, and they know he won’t say so because he’s determined to lie dead. But Guillam saw nothing clearly that day. While the Treasury and Defence factions cautiously concurred on what seemed to be a straight issue—“keep the Americans out of it”—Smiley himself appeared mysteriously unwilling to toe the line.

  “But there does remain the headache of what to do with the raw intelligence,” he said. “Should you decide that my service may not proceed, I mean,” he added doubtfully, to the general confusion.

  Guillam was relieved to find Enderby equally bewildered: “Hell’s that mean?” he demanded, running with the hounds for a moment.

  “Ko has financial interests all over South East Asia,” Smiley reminded them. “Page one of my submission.” Business; clatter of papers. “We have information, for example, that he controls through intermediaries and straw men such oddities as a string of Saigon night-clubs, a Vientiane-based aviation company, a piece of a tanker fleet in Thailand. . . . Several of these enterprises could well be seen to have political overtones which are far within the American sphere of influence. I would have to have your written instruction, naturally, if I were to ignore our side of the existing bilateral agreements.”

  “Keep talking,” Enderby ordered, and pulled a fresh match from the box in front of him.

  “Oh, I think my point is made, thank you,” said Smiley politely. “Really, it’s a very simple one. Assuming we don’t proceed, which Lacon tells me is the balance of probability today, what am I to do? Throw the intelligence on the scrap-heap? Or pass it to our Allies under the existing barter arrangements?”