“So long.”
He had no torch, but when he crouched and groped under the chassis in the gloom, he again found nothing.
“You lost something, horse-writer?” Ricardo called again, cupping his hands to his mouth.
“Start the engine,” Jerry said and got into the car.
“Lights on, Mister?”
“Yes, Mickey. Lights on.”
“Why he call you horse-writer?”
“Mutual friends.”
If Ricardo has tipped off the C.T.s, thought Jerry, it won’t make any damn difference either way. Mickey put on the lights, and inside the car the American dashboard lit up like a small city.
“Let’s go,” said Jerry.
“Quick-quick?”
“Yes, quick-quick.”
They drove five miles, seven, nine. Jerry was watching them on the indicator, reckoning twenty to the first check-point and forty-five to the second. Mickey had hit seventy and Jerry was in no mood to complain. They were on the crown of the road and the road was straight, and beyond the ambush strips the tall teaks slid past them like orange ghosts.
“Fine man,” Mickey said. “He plenty fine lover. Those girls say he some pretty fine lover.”
“Watch for wires,” Jerry said.
On the right the trees broke and a red dust track disappeared into the cleft.
“He get pretty good time in there,” said Mickey. “Girls, he get kids, he get whisky. He get real good time.”
“Pull in, Mickey. Stop the car. Here in the middle of the road where it’s level. Just do it, Mickey.”
Mickey began laughing.
“Girls get good time, too,” Mickey said. “Girls get candy, little baby get candy, everybody get candy!”
“Stop the damn car!”
At his own leisurely pace, Mickey brought the car to a halt, still giggling about the girls.
“Is that thing accurate?” Jerry asked, his finger pressed to the petrol gauge.
“Accurate?” Mickey echoed, puzzled by the English.
“Petrol. Gas. Full? Or half full? Or three-quarters? Has it been reading right on the journey?”
“Sure. He right.”
“When we arrived at the burnt village, Mickey, you had half-full gas. You still have half-full gas.”
“Sure.”
“You put any in? From a can? You fill car?”
“No.”
“Get out.”
Mickey began protesting, but Jerry leaned across him, opened his door, shoved Mickey straight through it onto the tarmac, and followed him. Seizing Mickey’s arm, he jammed it into his back and frog-marched him at a gallop across the road to the edge of the wide soft shoulder and twenty yards into it, then threw him into the scrub and fell half beside him, half onto him, so that the wind went out of Mickey’s stomach in a single astonished hiccup, and it took him all of half a minute before he was able to give vent to an indignant “Why for?”
But Jerry by that time was pushing his face into the earth to keep it out of the blast.
The old Ford seemed to burn first and explode afterwards, finally lifting into the air in one last assertion of life, before collapsing dead and flaming on its side. While Mickey gasped in admiration, Jerry looked at his watch. Eighteen minutes since they had left the stilt house. Maybe twenty. Should have happened sooner, he thought. Not surprising Ricardo was keen for us to go. At Sarratt they wouldn’t even have seen it coming; this was an Eastern treat, and Sarratt’s natural soul was with Europe and the good old days of the cold war—Czecho, Berlin, and the old fronts. Jerry wondered which brand of grenade it was. The Vietcong preferred the American type; they loved its double action. All you needed, they said, was a wide throat to the petrol tank. You took out the pin, you put an elastic band over the spring, you slipped the grenade into the petrol tank, and you waited patiently for the petrol to eat its way through the rubber. The result was one of those Western inventions it took the Vietcong to discover. Ricardo must have used fat elastic bands, he decided.
They made the first check-point in four hours, walking on the road. Mickey was extremely happy about the insurance situation, assuming that since Jerry had paid the premium, the money was automatically theirs to squander. Jerry could not deter him from this view. But Mickey was also scared: first of C.T.s, then of ghosts, then of the colonel. So Jerry explained to him that neither the ghosts nor the C.T.s would venture near the road after that little episode. As for the colonel—though Jerry didn’t mention this to Mickey—well, he was a father and a soldier and he had a dam to build. Not for nothing was he building it with Drake Ko’s cement and China Airsea’s transport.
At the check-point they eventually found a truck to take Mickey home. Riding with him a distance, Jerry promised the comic’s support in any insurance haggle, but Mickey in his euphoria was deaf to doubts. Amid much laughter they exchanged addresses and many hearty handshakes; then Jerry dropped off at a roadside café to wait half a day for the bus that would carry him eastwards toward a fresh field of war.
Need Jerry have ever gone to Ricardo in the first place? Would the outcome, for himself, have been different if he had not? Or did Jerry, as Smiley’s defenders to this day insist, by his pass at Ricardo, supply the last crucial heave which shook the tree and caused the coveted fruit to fall?
For the George Smiley Supporters’ Club there is no question: the visit to Ricardo was the final straw, and Ko’s back broke under it. Without it he might have gone on dithering until the open season started, by which time Ko himself, and the intelligence on him, would be up for grabs. End of argument. And on the face of it, the facts demonstrate a wonderful causality. For this is what happened.
A mere six hours after Jerry and his driver Mickey had picked themselves out of the dust of that roadside in North East Thailand, the whole of the Circus fifth floor exploded into a blaze of ecstatic jubilation which would have outshone the pyre of Mickey’s borrowed Ford car any night. In the rumpus room, where Smiley announced the news, Doc di Salis actually danced a stiff little jig, and Connie would unquestionably have joined him if her arthritis had not held her to that wretched chair. Trot howled, Guillam and Molly embraced, and only Smiley amid so much revelry preserved his usual slightly startled air, though Molly swore she saw him redden as he blinked around the company.
He had just had word, he said. A flash communication from the Cousins. At seven this morning, Hong Kong time, Tiu had telephoned Ko at Star Heights, where he had been spending the night relaxing with Lizzie Worth. Lizzie herself took the call in the first instance, but Ko came in on the extension and sharply ordered Lizzie to ring off, which she did. Tiu had proposed breakfast in town at once: “At George’s place,” said Tiu, to the great entertainment of the transcribers. Three hours later Tiu was on the phone to his travel agent making hasty plans for a business trip to mainland China. His first stop would be Canton, where China Airsea kept a representative, but his ultimate destination was Shanghai.
So how did Ricardo get through to Tiu so fast without the telephone? The most likely theory is the colonel’s police link to Bangkok. And from Bangkok? Heaven knows. Trade telex, the exchange-rate network—anything is possible. The Chinese have their own ways of doing these things.
On the other hand, it may just be that Ko’s patience chose this moment to snap of its own accord, and that the breakfast at George’s place was about something entirely different. Either way, it was the breakthrough they had all been dreaming of, the triumphant vindication of Smiley’s footwork. By lunch-time Lacon had called in person to offer his congratulations, and by early evening Saul Enderby had made a gesture nobody from the wrong side of Trafalgar Square had ever made before. He had sent round a crate of champagne from Berry Brothers & Rudd, a vintage Krug, a real beauty. Attached to it was a note to George saying “To the first day of summer.” And indeed, though late April, it seemed to be just that. Through the thick net curtains of the lower floors, the plane trees were already in leaf. Higher up a cluster of hy
acinths had bloomed in Connie’s window-box. “Red,” she said as she drank Saul Enderby’s health. “Karla’s favourite colour, bless him.”
18
The River Bend
The air base was neither beautiful nor victorious. Technically—since it was in North East Thailand—it was under Thai command, and in practice the Thais were allowed to collect the garbage and occupy the stockade close to the perimeter. The check-point was a separate town. Amid smells of charcoal, urine, pickled fish, and Calor gas, chains of collapsing tin hovels plied the historic trades of military occupation. The brothels were manned by crippled pimps, the tailor shops offered wedding tuxedos, the bookshops offered pornography and travel, the bars were called Sunset Strip, Hawaii, and Lucky Time. At the M.P. hut, Jerry asked for Captain Urquhart of public relations, and the black sergeant squared to throw him out when he said he was press. On the base telephone Jerry heard a lot of clicking and popping before a slow Southern voice said, “Urquhart isn’t around just now. My name is Masters. Who’s this again?”
“We met last summer at General Crosse’s briefing,” Jerry said.
A long silence followed, presumably while the code words “Urquhart” and “Crosse” were hunted down in the contingency book.
“Well now, so we did, man,” said the same amazingly slow voice, reminding him of Deathwish. “Pay off your cab. Be right down. Blue jeep. Wait for the whites of its eyes.”
A flow of air-force personnel was drifting in and out of the camp, blacks and whites, in scowling segregated groups. A white officer passed. The blacks gave him the black-power salute. The officer warily returned it. The enlisted men wore Charlie Marshall-style patches on their uniforms, mostly in praise of drugs. The mood was sullen, defeated, and innately violent. The Thai troops greeted nobody. Nobody greeted the Thais.
A blue jeep with lights flashing and siren wailing pulled up with a ferocious skid on the other side of the boom. The sergeant waved Jerry through. A moment later he was careering over the runway at breakneck speed toward a long string of low white huts at the centre of the airfield. His driver was a lanky boy with all the signs of a probationer.
“You Masters?” Jerry asked.
“No, sir. Sir, I just carry the Major’s bags,” he said.
They passed a ragged baseball game, siren wailing all the time, lights still flashing.
“Great cover,” said Jerry.
“What’s that, sir?” the boy yelled above the din.
“Forget it.”
It was not the biggest base. Jerry had seen larger. They passed lines of Phantoms and helicopters, and as they approached the white huts he realised that they comprised a separate spook encampment, with their own compound and aerial masts and their own cluster of little black-painted small planes—“weirdos,” they used to be called—which before the pull-out had dropped and collected God knew whom in God knew where.
They entered by a side door which the boy unlocked. The short corridor was empty and soundless. A door stood ajar at the end of it, made of traditional fake rosewood. Masters wore a short-sleeved air-force uniform with few insignia. He had medals and the rank of major and Jerry guessed he was the paramilitary type of Cousin, maybe not even career. He was sallow and wiry, with resentful tight lips and hollow cheeks. He stood before a fake fireplace, under an Andrew Wyeth reproduction, and there was something strangely still about him, and disconnected. He was like a man being deliberately slow when everyone else was in a hurry. The boy made the introductions and hesitated. Masters stared at him until he left, then turned his colourless gaze to the table where the coffee was.
“Look like you need breakfast,” Masters said. He poured coffee and proffered a plate of doughnuts, all in slow motion.
“Facilities,” he said.
“Facilities,” Jerry agreed.
An electric typewriter lay on the desk, and plain paper beside it. Masters walked stiffly to a chair and perched on the arm. Taking up a copy of Stars & Stripes, he held it in front of him while Jerry settled at the desk.
“Hear you’re going to win it all back for us single-handed,” said Masters to his Stars & Stripes. “Well now.”
Jerry set up his portable in preference to the electric, and stabbed out his report in a series of quick smacks, which to his own ear grew louder as he laboured. Perhaps to Masters’s ear also, for he looked up frequently, though only as far as Jerry’s hands and the toy-town portable.
Jerry handed him his copy.
“Your orders are to remain here,” Masters said, articulating each word with great deliberation. “Your orders are to remain here while we dispatch your signal. Man, will we dispatch that signal. Your orders are to stand by for confirmation and further instructions. That figure? Does that figure, sir?”
“Sure,” said Jerry.
“Heard the glad news by any chance?” Masters enquired. They were facing each other. Not three feet lay between them. Masters was staring at Jerry’s signal, but his eyes did not appear to be scanning the lines.
“What news is that, sport?”
“We just lost the war, Mr. Westerby. Yes, sir. Last of the brave just had themselves scraped off the roof of the Saigon Embassy by chopper, like a bunch of rookies caught with their pants down in a whore-house. Maybe that doesn’t affect you. Ambassador’s dog survived, you’ll be relieved to hear. Newsman took it out on his damn lap. Maybe that doesn’t affect you either. Maybe you’re not a dog-lover. Maybe you feel about dogs the same way I personally feel about newsmen, Mr. Westerby, sir.”
Jerry had caught the smell of brandy on Masters’s breath, which no amount of coffee could conceal, and he guessed he had been drinking for a long time without succeeding in getting drunk.
“Mr. Westerby, sir?”
“Yes, old boy.”
Masters held out his hand. “Old boy, I want you to shake me by the hand.”
The hand stuck between them, thumb upward.
“What for?” said Jerry.
“I want you to extend to me the hand of welcome, sir. The United States of America has just applied to join the club of second-class powers, of which I understand your own fine nation to be chairman, president, and oldest member. Shake it!”
“Proud to have you aboard,” said Jerry and obligingly shook the Major’s hand.
He was at once rewarded by a brilliant smile of false gratitude.
“Why, sir, I call that real handsome of you, Mr. Westerby. Anything we can do to make your stay with us more comfortable, I invite you to let me know. If you want to rent the place, no reasonable offer refused, we say.”
“You could shove a little Scotch through the bars,” Jerry said, pulling a dead grin.
“Mah pleasure,” said Masters, in a drawl so long it was like a slow punch. “Man after my own heart. Yes, sir.”
Masters left him with a half-bottle of J & B from the cupboard, and some back numbers of Playboy.
“We keep these handy for English gentlemen who didn’t see fit to lift a damn finger to help us,” he explained confidingly.
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Jerry.
“I’ll go send your letter home to Mummy. How is the Queen, by the way?”
Masters didn’t turn a key, but when Jerry tested the door handle it was locked. The windows overlooking the airfield were smoked and double glazed. On the runway aircraft landed and took off without making a sound. This is how they tried to win, Jerry thought: from inside sound-proof rooms, through smoked glass, using machines at arm’s length. This is how they lost. He drank, feeling nothing. . . . Waiting. So it’s over, he thought, and that was all. So what was his next stop? Charlie Marshall’s old man? Little swing through the Shans, heart-to-heart chat with the General’s bodyguard? He waited, his thoughts crowding formlessly. He sat down, then lay on the sofa and for a while slept. He woke abruptly to the sound of canned music occasionally interrupted by an announcement of homely-wise assurance. Would Captain somebody do so and so? Once the speaker offered higher education. Once
cut-price washing-machines. Once prayer. Jerry prowled the room, made nervous by the crematorium quiet and the music.
He crossed to the other window, and in his mind Lizzie’s face bobbed along at his shoulder, the way the orphan’s once had, but no longer. He drank more whisky. I should have slept in the truck, he thought. Altogether I should sleep more. So they’ve lost the war at last. It seemed a long time since he’d slept the way he’d like to. Old Frostie had rather put an end to that. His hand was shaking: Christ, look at that. He thought of Luke. Time we went on a bender together. He must be back by now, if he hasn’t had his arse shot off. Got to stop the old brain a bit, he thought. But sometimes the old brain hunted on its own these days. Bit too much, actually. Got to tie it down, he told himself sternly. Man.
He thought of Ricardo’s grenades. Hurry up, he thought. Come on, let’s have a decision. Where next? Who now? No whys. His face was dry and hot, and his hands moist. He had a headache just above the eyes. Bloody music, he thought. Bloody, bloody end-of-world music. He was casting round urgently for somewhere to switch it off when he saw Masters standing in the doorway, an envelope in his hand and nothing in his eyes. Jerry read the signal. Masters settled on the chair arm again.
“‘Son, come home,’” Masters intoned, mocking his own Southern drawl. “‘Come directly home. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.’ The Cousins will fly you to Bangkok. From Bangkok you will proceed immediately to London, England, not repeat not London, Ontario, by a flight of your own choosing. You will on no account return to Hong Kong. You will not! No sir! Mission accomplished, son. Thank you and well done. Her Majesty is so thrilled. So hurry home to dinner, we got hominy grits and turkey, and blueberry pie. Sounds like a bunch of fairies you’re working for, man.”
Jerry read the signal a second time.
“Plane leaves for Bangkok one one hundred,” Masters said. He wore his watch on the inside of his wrist, so that its information was private to himself. “Hear me?”
Jerry grinned. “Sorry, sport. Slow reader. Thanks. Too many big words. Lot to get the old mind round. Look, left my things at the hotel.”
John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels Page 87