The Night Manager

by John le Carré

  Notary Mulder’s office had rosewood furniture and plastic flowers and gray Venetian blinds. The many happy faces of the Dutch royal family beamed down from the paneled walls, and Notary Mulder beamed with them. Langbourne and the substitute lawyer, Moranti, sat at a table, Langbourne his usual sullen self, leafing through a folder of papers, but Moranti watchful as an old pointer dog, following Jonathan’s every movement with his shaggy brown eyes. He was a broad-headed Latin in his sixties, white-haired and brown-skinned, with a pitted face. Even motionless, he brought something disturbing to the room: a whiff of popular justice, of peasant struggles for survival. Once, he let out a furious grunt and smashed his big paw on the table. But it was only to pull the paper across the table to inspect it, then shove it back. Once, he tilted back his head and peered into Jonathan’s eyes as if he were examining them for colonialist sentiments.

  “You are an English, Mr. Thomas?”

  “New Zealander.”

  “You are welcome to Curaçao.”

  Mulder by contrast was plump and Pickwickian in a risible world. When he beamed, his cheeks twinkled like red apples. And when he stopped beaming, you wanted to hurry forward and ask him tenderly what you had done wrong.

  But his hand shook.

  Why it shook, who shook it, whether it shook from debauchery, or disability, or drink, or fear, Jonathan could only guess. But it shook as if it were someone else’s hand. It shook as it received Jonathan’s passport from Langbourne, and as it painstakingly copied the false details onto a form. It shook as it returned the passport to Jonathan instead of Langbourne. It shook again as it set the papers on the table. Even his pudgy forefinger shook as it indicated to Jonathan the place where he should sign his life away and the place where just initials would do the job.

  And when Mulder had made Jonathan sign every sort of document he had ever heard of, and many he had not, the shaking hand produced the bearer bonds themselves, in a tremulous bundle of weighty-looking blue documents issued by Jonathan’s very own Tradepaths Limited, each numbered and embossed with a ducal seal and engraved in copper-plate like bank notes, which in theory they were, since their purpose was to enrich the bearer without revealing his identity. And Jonathan knew at once—he needed no confirmation from anybody—that the bonds were of Roper’s own design: for gas, as he would say; to raise the ante; to impress the clowns.

  Then, on Mulder’s cherubic nod, Jonathan signed the bonds too, as sole signatory to the company’s bank account. And in the afterglow, he signed a little typed love letter to Notary Mulder, reaffirming him in his appointment as Curaçaoan resident manager of Tradepaths Limited in accordance with the local law.

  And suddenly they were finished, and all that remained was for them to shake the hand that had performed so much hard work. Which they duly did—even Langbourne shook it—and Mulder, the rubicund schoolboy of fifty, waved them down the steps with vertical motions of his chubby hand, practically promising to write to them each week.

  “I’ll just have that passport back, Tommy, if you don’t mind,” said Tabby with a wink.

  “But Derek and I have already met, I think, Dicky!” the Dutch banker caroled to Roper, who was standing before the place where the marble fireplace would have been, if Curaçaoan banks had had fireplaces. “Not only last night, I think! We are old friends from Crystal, I would say! Nettie, bring Mr. Thomas some tea, please!”

  For a moment the close observer’s mind refused to engage. Then he remembered a night at Crystal, and Jed seated at her end of the table in low blue satin and pearls against her skin, and this same oafish Dutch banker who now stood before him boring everybody with his connections with great statesmen of the day.

  “But of course! Good to see you again, Piet,” the smooth hotelier exclaimed, a little late, offering his signer’s hand. And then, as if he had never set eyes on them before, Jonathan found himself shaking hands with Mulder and Moranti for the second time in twenty minutes. But Jonathan made nothing of this, and neither did they, because he was beginning to understand that in the theater he had entered, one actor could play many parts in a single working day.

  They sat down, using all four sides of the table, Moranti watching and listening like an umpire, and the banker at the head doing the talking, because he apparently saw it as his first duty to acquaint Jonathan with a mountain of useless information.

  The share capital of a Curaçaoan offshore company could be denominated in any currency, said the Dutch banker. There was no limitation on foreign ownership of shares.

  “Great,” said Jonathan.

  Langbourne’s eyes lifted to him. Moranti’s didn’t flinch. Roper, who had his head back and was studying the old Dutch moldings on the ceiling, pulled a private grin.

  The company was exempt from all capital gains, all withholding, gift or estate taxes, said the banker. Transfer of shares was unrestricted. There was no transfer tax and no ad valorem stamp duty.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” said Jonathan, in the same enthusiastic tone as before.

  Mr. Derek Thomas was under no legal requirement to appoint external auditors, the banker said gravely, as if this elevated him to a higher monastic order. Mr. Thomas was at liberty at any time to move his company’s seat to another jurisdiction, provided receptive legislation applied in the jurisdiction of his choice.

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” said Jonathan, and this time, to his surprise, the impassive Moranti broke into a sunny smile and said “New Zealand,” as if he had decided that the place had a good ring to it after all.

  A minimum of six thousand U.S. dollars was required as paid-up share capital, but the requirement in this case was met, the banker continued. All that remained was for “our good friend Derek here” to put his name to certain pro forma documents. The banker’s smile stretched like an elastic band as he indicated a black desk pen that stood nose down on a teak stand.

  “I’m sorry, Piet,” said Jonathan, puzzled but still smiling. “I didn’t quite catch what you said back there. What requirement is met, exactly?”

  “Your company is fortunate to be in an excellent state of liquidity, Derek,” said the Dutch banker, in his best informal manner.

  “Oh, splendid. I didn’t realize. Then perhaps you’ll allow me to take a look at the accounts.”

  The Dutch banker’s eyes stayed on Jonathan. Only the slightest inclination of his head referred the question to Roper, who finally removed his gaze from the ceiling.

  “Course he can see the accounts, Piet. It’s Derek’s company, for heaven’s sake, Derek’s name on the paper, Derek’s deal. Let him see his accounts, if he wants to. Why not?”

  The banker extracted a slim, unsealed orange envelope from a drawer of his desk and passed it across the table. Jonathan lifted the flap and drew out a monthly statement declaring that the current account of Tradepaths Limited of Curaçao stood at one hundred million U.S. dollars.

  “Anyone else want to see it?” Roper asked.

  Moranti’s hand came out. Jonathan passed him the statement. Moranti examined it and passed it to Langbourne, who pulled a bored face and returned it unread to the banker.

  “Give him the bloody check and let’s get this over,” said Langbourne, tilting his blond head at Jonathan but keeping his back to him.

  A girl who had been hovering in the background with a folder under her arm processed ceremoniously round the table till she reached Jonathan. The folder was of leather and smudgily embossed by local craftsmen. Inside it lay a check made out to the bank drawn on the account of Tradepaths, in the sum of twenty-five million U.S. dollars.

  “Go on, Derek, sign it,” said Roper, amused by Jonathan’s hesitation. “Won’t bounce. Kind of money we leave under the plate—right, Piet?”

  Everyone laughed except Langbourne.

  Jonathan signed the check. The girl put it back in the folder and closed the panels for decency. She was of mixed blood and very beautiful, with huge, puzzled eyes and a churchy demureness.

 
; Roper and Jonathan were sitting apart on a sofa in the window bay while the Dutch banker and the three lawyers did business of their own.

  “Hotel all right?” Roper asked.

  “Fine, thanks. Rather well run. It’s hell staying in hotels when you know the trade.”

  “Meg’s a good sport.”

  “Meg’s terrific.”

  “Clear as mud, I should think, all this legal bollocks?”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Jed sends love. Dans won a pot at the kids’ regatta yesterday. Chuffed him no end. Taking the replica back to his mother. Wanted you to know.”

  “That’s marvelous.”

  “Thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I am. It’s a triumph.”

  “Well, save your powder. Big night tonight.”

  “Another party?”

  “Could call it that.”

  There was a last formality, and it required a tape recorder and a script. The girl operated the recorder, the Dutch banker coached Jonathan in the part.

  “In your normal voice, please, Derek. Just as you were speaking here today, I think. For our records. Would you be so awfully kind?”

  Jonathan first read the two typed lines to himself, then read them aloud: “This is your friend George speaking to you. Thank you for staying awake tonight.”

  “And again, please, Derek. Maybe you are a little bit nervous. Just relax, please.”

  He read it again.

  “Once more, please, Derek. You are somewhat tense, I think. Maybe those large sums have affected you.”

  Jonathan smiled his most affable smile. He was their star, and stars are expected to show a little temperament. “Actually, Piet, I think I’ve rather given it my best shot, thank you.”

  Roper agreed. “Piet, you’re being an old woman. Switch the bloody thing off. Come on, Señor Moranti. Time you had a decent meal.”

  The handshaking again: everyone to everyone in turn, like dear friends at the changing of the year.

  “So what d’you reckon?” Roper asked, through his dolphin smile, as he lay sprawled in a plastic chair on the balcony of Jonathan’s suite. “Worked it out yet? Or still over your head?”

  It was the nervous time. Time to be waiting in the truck with your face blacked, exchanging casual intimacies to keep the adrenaline at bay. Roper had propped his feet on the balustrade. Jonathan was arched forward over his glass, gazing at the darkening sea. There was no moon. A steady wind was flicking the waves. The first stars were pricking through the stacks of blue-black cloud. In the lighted drawing room behind them, Frisky, Gus and Tabby were making murmured conversation. Only Langbourne, draped on a sofa and reading Private Eye, seemed unaware of the tension.

  “There’s a Curaçaoan company called Tradepaths, and it owns a hundred million U.S. dollars, less twenty-five,” Jonathan said.

  “Except,” Roper suggested, his smile widening.

  “Except it doesn’t own a damn thing because Tradepaths is a wholly owned subsidiary of Ironbrand.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Officially, Tradepaths is an independent company, no connection with any other firms. In reality it’s your creature and can’t move a finger without you. Ironbrand can’t be seen to be investing in Tradepaths. So Ironbrand lends the investors’ money to a tame bank, and the tame bank happens to invest the money in Tradepaths. The bank’s the cutout. When the deal’s done, Tradepaths pays off the investors with a handsome profit, everybody goes away happy and you keep the rest.”

  “Who gets hurt?”

  “I do. If it goes wrong.”

  “It won’t. Anyone else?”

  It occurred to Jonathan that Roper required his absolution.

  “Somebody does, for sure.”

  “Put it another way. Who gets hurt who wouldn’t get hurt anyway?”

  “We’re selling guns, aren’t we?”

  “So?”

  “Well, presumably they’re being sold to be used. And since it’s a disguised deal, one might reasonably assume they’re being sold to people who shouldn’t have them.”

  Roper shrugged. “Who says? Who says who shoots who in the world? Who makes the bloody laws? The big powers? Jesus!” Unusually animated, he flung a hand at the darkening seascape. “You can’t change the color of the sky. Told Jed. Wouldn’t listen. Can’t blame her. She’s young like you. Give her ten years, she’ll come round.”

  Emboldened, Jonathan went over to the attack. “So who’s buying?” he demanded, repeating the question he had put to Roper on the airplane.

  “Moranti.”

  “No, he’s not. He hasn’t paid you a cent. You’ve put up a hundred million dollars—or the investors have. What’s Moranti putting up? You’re selling him guns. He’s buying them. So where’s his money? Or is he paying you in something that’s better than money? Something you can sell for much, much more than a hundred mil?”

  Roper’s face was sculptured marble in the darkness, but it wore the long, bland smile.

  “Been there yourself, haven’t you? You and the Aussie you killed. All right, you deny it. Didn’t see it big enough, your trouble. See it big or don’t see it at all, my view. You’re a smart chap all the same. Pity we didn’t meet earlier. Could have done with you in a few other places.”

  A phone rang in the room behind them. Roper turned sharply, and Jonathan followed his gaze in time to see Langbourne standing with the receiver to his ear, looking at his wristwatch while he talked. He replaced the receiver, shook his head at Roper and returned to the sofa and Private Eye. Roper settled back into his plastic chair.

  “Remember the old China trade?” he asked nostalgically.

  “I thought that was in the 1830s.”

  “You’ve read about it, though, haven’t you? You’ve read everything else, far as I can see.”

  “Yes.”

  “Remember what those Hong Kong Brits were running up the river to Canton? Dodging the Chinese customs, funding the empire, building themselves fortunes?”

  “Opium,” said Jonathan.

  “For tea. Opium for tea. Barter. Came home to England, captains of industry. Knighthoods, honors, whole shebang. Hell’s the difference? Go for it! That’s all that matters. Americans know that. Why don’t we? Tight-arsed vicars braying from the pulpit every Sunday, old nellies’ tea parties, seedcake, poor Mrs. So-and-so’s died of the whatnots? Screw it. Worse than bloody prison. Know what Jed asked me?”

  “What?”

  “‘How bad are you? Tell me the worst!’ Christ!”

  “What did you say?”

  “‘Not bloody well bad enough!’ I told her. ‘There’s me and there’s the jungle,’ I told her. ‘No policemen on the street corner. No justice handed down by chaps in wigs familiar with the law. Nothing. I thought that was what you liked.’ Shook her a bit. Serves her right.”

  Langbourne was tapping on the glass.

  “So why are you present at the meetings?” Jonathan said. They were standing up. “Why keep a dog and bark yourself?”

  Roper laughed loudly and clapped a hand on Jonathan’s back. “Don’t trust the dog, that’s why, old boy. Any of my dogs, You, Corky, Sandy—wouldn’t trust any o’ you in an empty henhouse. Nothing personal. Way I am.”

  Two cars were waiting among the lighted hibiscus of the hotel forecourt. The first was a Volvo, driven by Gus. Langbourne took the front seat, Roper and Jonathan the back. Tabby and Frisky followed in a Toyota. Langbourne had a briefcase.

  They crossed a high bridge and saw the lights of the town below them, and the black Dutch waterways cutting through the lights. They descended a steep ramp. The old houses gave way to shanties. Suddenly the dark felt dangerous. They were driving on a flat road, water to their right, floodlit containers piled four high to their left, marked with names like Sealand, Nedlloyd and Tiphook. They turned left, and Jonathan saw a low white roof and blue posts and guessed it was a customhouse. The paving changed and made the wheels sing.

  “St
op at the gates and put your lights out,” Langbourne ordered. “All of them.”

  Gus stopped at the gates and doused the car’s lights. Close behind them, Frisky in the Toyota did the same. A barred white gateway stood before them, with warning notices in Dutch and English. Then the lights around the gate went out too, and with the darkness came silence. In the distance, Jonathan saw a surreal landscape of cranes and forklift trucks cross-lit by arc lamps, and the pale outlines of big ships.

  “Let ’em see your hands. No one move,” Langbourne ordered.

  His voice had acquired authority. This was his show, whatever the show was. He opened his door an inch and worked it, making the courtesy light wink twice inside the car. He closed the door, and again they sat in darkness He lowered his window. Jonathan saw an outstretched hand reach in. It was white and male and powerful. It was attached to a bare forearm and the short sleeve of a white shirt.

  “One hour,” Langbourne said, upward into the darkness.

  “That’s too long,” a gruff, accented voice objected.

  “We agreed one hour,” Langbourne said implacably. “One hour or nothing.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Only then did Langbourne pass an envelope through the open window. A pinlight torch went on; the contents were swiftly counted. The white gates swung back. Still without headlights, they drove forward, closely followed by the Toyota. They passed an ancient anchor embedded in concrete and entered an alley of many-colored containers, each marked with a letter combination and seven digits.

  “Left here,” Langbourne said. They swung left, the Toyota after them. Jonathan ducked his head as the arm of an orange crate swooped down on them out of the sky.

  “Now right. Here,” said Langbourne.

  They swung right, and the black hull of a tanker rose out of the sea toward them. Right again, and they were skirting a row of half a dozen moored ships. Two were grand and newly painted.

  The rest were scruffy feeder ships. Each had a lighted gangway to the waterfront.

  “Stop,” Langbourne ordered.

  They stopped, still in darkness, the Toyota on their tail. This time they waited only a few seconds, before another pinlight appeared in the windscreen: first red, then white, then back to red.