I stretched, shook my head, yawned. I’m of an age, for God’s sake. But Bunny wasn’t buying, and Laura had given up on me long ago. They were eyeing me like a couple of people who’d had about enough of me, and coffee was off the menu.
*
Bunny had put on his legal face. No more squeezing of the eyes. No more raising the voice for a slow-witted older man who doesn’t hear too well.
‘I want to go back to where we came in – that all right with you? You and the Rule of Law. The Service and the Rule of Law. Do I have your full attention?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I mentioned to you the British public’s insatiable interest in historic crime. Something by no means lost on our gallant parliamentarians.’
‘Did you? Probably.’
‘Or the law courts. The historic blame game that is the current rage. Our new national sport. Today’s blameless generation versus your guilty one. Who will atone for our fathers’ sins, even if they weren’t sins at the time? But you’re not a father, are you? Whereas your file rather suggests you should be overrun by grandchildren.’
‘I thought you said my file had been filleted. Are you now telling me it hasn’t?’
‘I’m trying to read your emotions. I can’t. You either have none, or you have too many. You go lightly over Liz Gold’s death. Why? You go lightly over Alec Leamas’s death. You pretend total amnesia about Windfall, whereas we know perfectly well that you were Windfall cleared. Significantly, your late friend Alec Leamas was not so cleared, despite the fact that he died in harness to an operation he wasn’t cleared for. I’m not asking you to interrupt, so kindly don’t. However,’ he went on, forgiving me my ill manners, ‘I do begin to discern the outlines of a deal between us. You admitted that Operation Windfall might ring a distant bell for you. Possibly a training exercise, you said graciously and idiotically. So how’s this? In exchange for greater transparency on our side, might the distant chimes of that bell get a little clearer on yours?’
I ponder, shake my head, try to capture those distant chimes. I have a sense of fighting to the last man, and the last man is me.
‘The way I think I dimly remember it, Bunny,’ I concede, signalling a slight change of direction in his favour, ‘Windfall, if it comes back to me at all, wasn’t an operation, it was a source. A dud one. I think that’s where we’ve been misunderstanding each other’ – hoping for some sort of easing from the other side of the table and not getting any – ‘a potential source who fell flat on his back at the first fence. And was promptly, and very sensibly, dumped. File and forget.’ I plunge on: ‘Source Windfall was a relic from George’s past. Another historic case, if you like’ – deferential nod to Laura – ‘an East German professor of Baroque Literature at Weimar University. A pal of George’s from the war years who’d done a bit of this and that for us. He got in touch with George through some Swedish academic or other, back in ’59 or so’ – keep it flowing, keep it imprecise, a golden rule. ‘The Prof, as we called him, claimed to have red-hot news about a super-secret compact being struck between the two halves of Germany and the Kremlin. Said he’d heard all about it from some like-minded pal in the East German administration.’ It’s really tripping off the tongue by now, just like old times. ‘The two halves of Germany were to be reunited on condition they remained neutral and disarmed. In other words, exactly what the West didn’t want: a power vacuum bang in the centre of Europe. If the Circus would just spirit the Prof to the West, he would give us chapter and verse.’
Rueful smile, shake of the old white head. And nothing coming back to me across the big divide.
‘Turned out all the Prof wanted for himself was a chair at Oxford, a job for life, a knighthood and tea with the Queen’ – chuckle. ‘And of course he’d made the whole thing up. Pure bollocks. Case closed,’ I ended, feeling it was a job well done nonetheless, and Smiley, wherever he was, would be silently applauding.
But Bunny was not applauding. Neither was Laura. Bunny looked insincerely worried, Laura plain incredulous.
‘You see, the problem is, Peter,’ Bunny explained after a while, ‘what you’ve just pitched us is exactly the same tired bullshit that we’re getting from the dummy files on Windfall in the old central archive. Am I right, Laura?’
Evidently he was, because she came in bang on cue.
‘Practically word for word, Bunny. Concocted with the sole purpose of leading any nosy enquirer up the garden path. No such professor ever existed, and the story is total fabrication from start to finish. And I mean all fair and good: if Windfall had to be protected from the prying eyes of the Haydons of this world, a dummy file for smoke in the central archive makes good sense.’
‘What doesn’t make sense however, Peter, is that you sit here at your great age trying to sell us the same shitload of disinformation that you and George Smiley and the rest of Covert were putting out a generation ago,’ Bunny said, and managed a half-squeeze of the eyes for friendly.
‘We’ve found the reigning Control’s old financial returns, you see, Pete,’ Laura explained helpfully, while I’m still considering my reply. ‘For his reptile fund. That’s the slice of the secret vote that Control gets for his personal pocket money, but it still has to be accounted down to the last penny, right, Peter?’ – as to a child. ‘Hand-submitted by the man himself to his trusted ally at Treasury. Oliver Lacon his name was, later Sir Oliver, now the late Lord Lacon of Ascot West—’
‘Do you mind telling me what all this has got to do with me?’
‘Everything actually,’ Laura said calmly. ‘In his financial returns to Treasury, Lacon’s eyes only, Control gives the names of two Circus officers who, if requested, will provide full and frank disclosure regarding the costs pertaining to a certain Operation Windfall. That’s in case the extra expenditure should ever be challenged by posterity. Control was very high-minded in such regards, whatever else he wasn’t. Name One was George Smiley. Name Two was Peter Guillam. You.’
For a while Bunny seemed not to have heard anything of this exchange. He was head down again, eyes below the parapet, and whatever he was reading required his full attention. Eventually he emerged.
‘Tell him about the Windfall safe flat you’ve unearthed, Laura. Covert’s shady nook where Peter stashed all the files he stole,’ he suggested in a tone to imply he was busy with other matters.
‘Yes, well, there’s this safe flat that’s mentioned in the accounts, like Bunny says,’ Laura explained obligingly. ‘And a safe flat housekeeper, what’s more’ – indignantly – ‘and a mysterious gentleman called Mendel, who isn’t even on the Service’s books but has been hired by Covert exclusively on an agent basis for Windfall. Two hundred quid a month to his Post Office savings account in Weybridge, plus travel and exes up to another two hundred, accountable, paid out of an unnamed client account run by a chichi City law firm. And one George Smiley with effective power of attorney over the account in its entirety.’
‘Mendel being who?’ Bunny enquired.
‘Retired police officer, Special Branch,’ I replied, by now on autopilot. ‘First name Oliver. Not to be confused with Oliver Lacon.’
‘Acquired how and where?’
‘George and Mendel went way back. George had worked with him on an earlier case. Liked the cut of his jib. Liked it that he wasn’t Circus. My breath of clean air, he called him.’
Bunny was suddenly exhausted by the whole discussion. He had flopped back in his chair and was flapping his wrists around, easing his body on a long flight.
‘So let’s just get real, for a change, can we?’ he suggested, with an implicit yawn. ‘Control’s reptile fund is at this exact point or moment in time the sole, exclusive piece of credible evidence that provides us with (a) a path to the conduct and purpose of Operation Windfall, and (b) a means to defend ourselves in any frivolous civil action or private prosecution brought against this Service, a
nd against you Peter Guillam personally, by one Christoph Leamas, sole heir of the late Alec, and one Karen Gold, spinster, sole daughter of the late Elizabeth or Liz. Did you hear any of that? You did. Don’t say we’ve surprised you at last.’
Still slumped in his chair, he emitted a low ‘Jesus’ while he waited for my reaction. And probably it was a long time coming because I also have a memory of him bellowing an imperious ‘Well?’ at me.
*
‘Liz Gold had a child?’ I hear myself ask.
‘A feisty edition of herself, on present showing. She had just turned fifteen when she was knocked up by some oaf at her local grammar. On her parents’ insistence she gave the baby into adoption. Somebody christened it Karen. Or maybe not christened. She’s Jewish. Having grown to woman’s estate, the said Karen exercised her legal right to know the identity of her natural parent, and became understandably curious about the place and manner of her mother’s death.’
He paused in case I had a question. Belatedly, I had: where the hell did Christoph and Karen get our names from? He ignored it.
‘Karen was much encouraged in her quest for truth and reconciliation by Christoph, son of Alec, who ever since the Wall came down had, unknown to her, been busting a gut to find out how and why his father had died – not, I have to say, with the enthusiastic assistance of this Service, which has gone out of its way to put every fucking obstacle in their path that we could think of, and then some. Unfortunately, our best efforts have proved counter-productive, despite the fact that the said Christoph Leamas has a German police record as long as your arm.’
Another pause. And still no question from me.
‘The two plaintiffs have now bonded. They have convinced themselves, not without reason, that their respective parents died as a consequence of what appears to have been a five-star cock-up by this Service, and by you and George Smiley personally. They are seeking full disclosure, punitive damages and a public apology that will name names. Yours for one. Were you aware that Alec Leamas had engendered a son?’
‘Yes. Where’s Smiley? Why isn’t he here instead of me?’
‘So do you happen to know who was the fortunate mother?’
‘A German woman he met in the war when he was operating behind the lines. She later married a Düsseldorf lawyer called Eberhardt. Eberhardt adopted the boy. His name isn’t Leamas, it’s Eberhardt. I asked you where George is.’
‘Later. And thank you for your excellent powers of recall. Were other people aware of the boy’s existence? Your friend Leamas’s other colleagues? We’d know, except his file’s been stolen, you see.’ And already sick of waiting for my answer: ‘Was it, or was it not, generally known in and around this Service that Alec Leamas had sired a German bastard named Christoph, resident in Düsseldorf? Yes or no?’
‘No.’
‘How the fuck not?’
‘Alec didn’t talk a lot about himself.’
‘Except to you apparently. Did you meet him?’
‘Who?’
‘Christoph. Not Alec. Christoph. I think you’re back to being deliberately obtuse.’
‘I’m being nothing of the kind, and the answer’s no, I did not meet Christoph Leamas,’ I retorted, because why spoil him with the truth? And while he is still digesting this: ‘I asked you where Smiley is.’
‘And I ignored the question, as you may have noticed.’
A pause while we both waited to collect ourselves and Laura stared moodily out of the window.
‘Christoph, as we may call him,’ Bunny resumed in a lethargic tone, ‘is not without his talents, Peter, criminal or semi-criminal though they may be. Perhaps the genes help. Having confirmed that his natural father died at the Berlin Wall on the Eastern side, he wangled his way, by what means we know not but respect, into a stash of supposedly sealed Stasi archives, and came up with three significant names. Yours, the late Elizabeth Gold’s and George Smiley’s. Within weeks he was on the scent of Elizabeth, thence by way of public records to her daughter. A tryst was arranged. The unlikely pair bonded – to what extent, not ours to pry. Together they consulted one of those admirably high-minded civil rights lawyers with open-toed sandals who are the bane of this Service. We in response are considering offering the plaintiffs a fortune of public money in exchange for their silence, but are only too aware that, in doing so, we confirm to them that they have a decent case, and thus encourage them to become even more strident than they are at present. “To hell with your money, you men of evil. History must be allowed to speak. The canker must be cut out. Heads must roll.” Yours for one, I fear.’
‘And George’s too, presumably.’
‘We are therefore faced with the ludicrous Shakespearean premise whereby the ghosts of two victims of a fiendish Circus plot rise up to accuse us in the form of their offspring. Thus far, we have managed to contain the media by implying – not entirely truthfully, but who’s counting? – that, in the event of Parliament stepping aside to make way for the legal process, the case will be heard in the decent seclusion of a secret court, and we alone will decide who gets the tickets. The plaintiffs in response, egged on as ever by their thoroughly annoying lawyers, are saying “screw that, we want openness, we want full disclosure.” You asked, somewhat ingenuously, where the Stasi could have got your names from. Why, from Moscow Centre, of course, who duly passed them on to the Stasi. Where did Moscow Centre get your names from? From this Service, of course, thanks yet again to the ever-diligent Bill Haydon, at that time very much at large, and destined to remain so for another six years, until St George rode up on his white horse and smoked him out. Are you still in touch?’
‘With George?’
‘With George.’
‘No. Where is he?’
‘And have not been over recent years?’
‘No.’
‘So your last communication with him was when?’
‘Eight years ago. Ten.’
‘Describe.’
‘I was in London. I looked him up.’
‘Where?’
‘In Bywater Street.’
‘How was he?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘We seek him here, we seek him there. The wayward Lady Ann? You’re not in touch with her either? Touch strictly in the metaphorical sense, naturally.’
‘No. And I don’t need the innuendo either.’
‘Well, I need your passport.’
‘What for?’
‘The same one that you presented at reception downstairs, please. Your UK passport’ – hand outstretched above the parapet.
‘Why on earth?’
I gave it to him anyway. What else was I supposed to do? Fight him for it?
‘Is this all of them?’ – mulling thoughtfully through the pages. ‘You’ve had a scad of passports in your time, under various guises. Where are they all now?’
‘Turned in. Shredded.’
‘You have dual nationality. Where’s your French passport?’
‘I was born to a British father, I served as a Brit, Brit’s good enough for me. Now can I have my passport back, please?’
But it had already disappeared beneath the parapet.
‘So, Laura. You again,’ said Bunny, rediscovering her. ‘Can we now go a little deeper into that Windfall safe flat, please?’
It’s over. I’ve fought to the last lie. I’m dead and I’m out of ammunition.
*
Laura once more examines papers below my eye-line, and I do my best to ignore the beads of sweat rolling down my ribcage.
‘Yes, well, safe flat and how, Bunny,’ she agrees as her head comes up again in relish. ‘A dedicated safe flat for sole use of Windfall, and that’s just about the entire job description. To be situate within the purlieus of Inner London, plus a statement that the said flat will be known for cover purposes as the Stables, a
nd a permanent housekeeper to be assigned at Smiley’s discretion. And that’s about our lot.’
‘Ring a bell after all?’ Bunny enquires.
They wait. So do I. Laura resumes her private conversation with Bunny.
‘It’s like Control didn’t want even Lacon to know where the place was, or who looked after it, Bunny. Which, given Lacon’s seat of power at the Treasury and his comprehensive knowledge of other areas of Circus business, strikes me as a touch paranoid on Control’s part, but who are we to criticize?’
‘Who indeed? Stables as in sweep them clean?’ Bunny asks, all curiosity.
‘I assume so,’ she says.
‘Smiley’s choice?’
‘Ask Pete,’ she suggests helpfully.
But Pete, which I detest, has gone even more deaf than he pretends to be.
‘And the good news is’ – Bunny to Laura again – ‘there still is a Windfall safe flat! Because either by design or sheer neglect, I suspect the latter, the Stables has remained on the private imprest of no fewer than four successive Controls. And it’s there now. And our very own top floor doesn’t even know it exists, let alone where it is. Funnier still, in these times of austerity, its existence hasn’t been questioned by the dear old Treasury. They’ve nodded it through, bless them, year after year.’ He affects a homophobe lisp: ‘Too secret to ask, darlings. Sign along the dotted line, and not a word to Mummy. It’s leasehold, and we have not the faintest idea when the lease expires, who holds it or what generous arsehole pays the bills.’ And to me on the same savage note: ‘Peter. Pierre. Pete. You’re very quiet. Enlighten us, please. Who is that generous arsehole?’
When you’re cornered, when you’ve tried all the tricks in your locker and they haven’t worked, there aren’t many ways left to wriggle. You can spin the story within the story. I’d done that, and it hadn’t worked. You can try a partial hangout and hope it ends there. I’d done that too, but it hadn’t ended there. So you accept that you’ve reached the end of the road, and the only option left to you is be bold, tell the truth, or as little as you can get away with, and earn a few Brownie points for being a good boy – none of which struck me as a very likely outcome, but it might at least get me my passport back.
A Legacy of Spies Page 4
