A Legacy of Spies

by John le Carré

  And by then she was into it. The pro in her had woken up. She looked very carefully at her nice new passport (not actually new) and declared it pretty good. And when I told her that a gallant Frenchman would accompany her and pretend to be her husband for the journey, she said that sounded a sensible arrangement, and what did he look like?

  So as ordered I showed her a photograph of Peter G, and she peered at it rather expressionlessly, I have to say, given that, as proxy husbands go, you could do a lot worse than PG. Finally she asked, ‘Is he French or English?’ and I said, ‘Both, and you’re Finnish and French,’ and my dear she hooted with laughter!

  And quite soon after that Alec and Jerry came back from their walk, and with the ice broken we got down to the serious briefing. She listened carefully and calmly.

  By the end of our session, I had the feeling she had really warmed to the whole idea, and in a rather awful way thought it fun. A bit of a danger addict, I thought, and in that way only, very like Alec!

  Take care, and my love as ever to our gorgeous Ann,

  S

  *

  Make no hasty or inadvertent body movement. Keep your hands and shoulders exactly where they are now, and breathe. Pepsi is back on her throne, but she can’t take her eyes off you, and it’s not love.

  *

  Report by Peter Guillam on temporary attachment to Covert Ops, re exfiltration of sub-source TULIP from Prague to Paris Le Bourget, for onward transit by RAF fighter plane to London, Northolt airport, 27 January 1960.

  I arrived at Prague airport at 1125 hours local time (flight delayed) in the person of visiting lecturer in Agrarian Economics at the University of Rennes.

  I understood that, thanks to French Liaison, my late arrival due to illness had been formally noted at the conference, and my name included on the list of attendees for the benefit of the Czech authorities.

  In further verification of my bona fides, I was met by the Cultural Attaché from the French Embassy, who used his diplomatic credentials to hasten airport processing, which passed off relatively easily with the Attaché acting as my interpreter.

  He then drove me in his official car to the French Embassy, where I signed the visitors’ book before being delivered, also by French Embassy car, to the conference, where a seat had been reserved for me in the back row.

  The conference hall was a gilded, operatic affair, originally built for the Central Council of Railwaymen, and accommodating up to four hundred delegates. Security was cursory. Halfway up the grand staircase, two overworked women who spoke only Czech sat at a desk ticking off the names of delegates from half-a-dozen countries. The conference itself took the form of a seminar conducted by a panel of experts seated on the stage, with choreographed contributions from the floor. No input from myself was required. I was impressed by the deftness of French Liaison, who at short notice had authenticated my presence in the eyes of Czech security, and of the delegates, two of whom were clearly conscious to my role and found time to seek me out and shake my hand.

  At 1700 hours, the conference was declared closed, and the French delegates were bussed to the Hotel Balkan, a small, old-fashioned establishment that had been set aside for our exclusive use. On checking in, I was handed a key to bedroom number eight, designated as a ‘family room’, since I was notionally one half of a married couple. The Balkan has a dining room for residents and, leading from it, a bar with a central table where I placed myself in anticipation of my notional wife’s arrival.

  My broad understanding was that she would be exfiltrated from the British Embassy by tame ambulance, transported to a safe house in the suburbs and thence to the Hotel Balkan by unexplained means.

  I was therefore impressed to see her arrive in a French diplomatic car, on the arm of the same Cultural Attaché who had welcomed me to Prague airport. I wish again to acknowledge here the acumen and tradecraft of French Liaison.

  Under the name of Venia Lessif, Tulip had been listed as a delegate’s spouse attending the conference in absentia. Her good looks and fashionable appearance caused a mild stir among other French delegates in the hotel, and again I was supported by the two male members who, having greeted me with familiarity at the conference, saluted and embraced Tulip as a friend. Tulip in return received their compliments with style, affecting broken German only, which became our lingua franca as a married couple, since my own German is limited.

  After dinner taken in the company of the two French delegates, who played their part to perfection, we did not linger in the bar with the rest of the delegates but repaired early to our bedroom, where by tacit agreement our conversation was confined to banalities consistent with our cover, the presence of microphones and even cameras in a hotel for foreigners being virtually certain.

  Fortunately, our room was spacious, with several single beds and two hand basins. For much of the night we were obliged to listen to the rowdy chatter of the delegates below and, into the small hours, singing.

  It is my impression that neither Tulip nor I slept. At 0400 hours we reassembled and were taken by bus to Prague airport where, miraculously as it now appears to me, we were cleared en bloc to the transit lounge and thence by Air France to Le Bourget. I wish once more to offer my unstinted thanks for the support of French Liaison.

  How the next entry found its way into my report momentarily confounds me, until I conclude that I must have added it as some kind of distraction.

  Personal and confidential handwritten DO letter to George Smiley from Jerry Ormond, H/Station Prague. NOT for file.

  Dear George,

  Well, the bird has certainly flown, to massive sighs of relief here as you can imagine, and is by now presumably safely if not happily installed at Chateau Tulip, Somewhere in England. Her flight in both senses seems to have gone reasonably smoothly, despite the fact that JONAH at the last minute needed $500 on top of salary before consenting to drive Tulip to the rv in his ambulance, the little sod. But Tulip isn’t who I’m writing to you about, and least of all Jonah. It’s Alec.

  As you have often said in the past, as professionals bound in secrecy we have a duty of care, and it’s for one another. And that means being mutually watchful, and if one of us appears to be cracking under the strain and is not aware of it, then it’s our duty to protect him from himself, and by the same token protect the Service too.

  Alec is the absolute best fieldman you and I know. He’s savvy as hell, dedicated, streetwise, has all the skills. And he has just pulled off one of the neatest and most dicey operations it’s been my pleasure to witness, albeit over the heads of Joint Steering, our revered Ambassador and the Mandarins of Whitehall. So when he knocks home three-quarters of a bottle of Scotch at a sitting and then picks a fight with a chancery guard he happens to dislike, we make all the allowances, and then some.

  But we walked, Alec and I. Along the river for an hour, then up to the castle, then back to the Embassy. So a two-hour walk while he was still by his own standards dead sober. And his one theme in all that time was: the Circus is penetrated. Not just by some mail clerk with a mortgage, but at the top of the tree in Joint where it really counts. And it’s more than just a bee in his bonnet, it’s a whole hive. It’s disproportionate, it’s not fact based, and frankly it’s paranoid. Coupled with his visceral hatred of all things American, it makes for difficult conversation, to say the least, and becomes even more alarming. And under the laws of our profession as defined by no lesser person than yourself, and with all due affection and respect, I am duly reporting my concerns to you.

  As ever,

  Jerry

  P.S. And to Ann, as ever, homage and much love, J

  And from Laura a rosette, ordering me to stop.

  *

  ‘Nice read?’

  ‘Tolerable, thank you, Bunny.’

  ‘Well, Christ, you wrote it, didn’t you? Gave you a bit of a buzz, surely, after all that time?
’

  He has brought a male friend along with him this late afternoon: a blond, smiling, well-polished youth, not a mark of life on him.

  ‘Peter, this is Leonard,’ says Bunny ceremoniously, as if I ought to know who Leonard is. ‘Leonard will be Counsel for the Service if our little matter ever comes to court, which of course we devoutly hope it won’t. He will also be appearing for us at the preliminary meeting of the All-Party Group inquiry next week. At which, as you know, you have already been tapped to appear.’ Rictal grin. ‘Leonard. Peter.’

  We shake hands. Leonard’s soft as a child’s.

  ‘If Leonard is representing the Service, what’s he doing here with me?’ I demand.

  ‘A getting-to-know-each-other’s-faces,’ says Bunny soothingly. ‘Leonard’s a black-letter lawyer’ – and seeing my eyebrows go up – ‘which merely means that he’s versed in every legal wrinkle in the book and some that aren’t even in the book. Puts run-of-the-mill lawyers like me in the shade.’

  ‘Oh come,’ says Leonard.

  ‘And the reason Laura is not here today, Peter, since you don’t ask, is that Leonard and I, together, felt it would be rather better for all parties, including you, if this was a boys-only discussion.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Good old-fashioned tact, for starters. Respect for your personal privacy. And the outside possibility that we might just for once get the truth out of you.’ Naughty smile. ‘Which would then enable Leonard to take a view about how to proceed generally. Fair comment, Leonard? Or too much?’

  ‘Oh, quite fair, I think,’ says Leonard.

  ‘And of course to address in rather more detail the issue of whether your personal interests are best represented by having your own legal representative,’ Bunny goes on. ‘In the unhappy event, for instance, that the All-Partygoers simply tiptoe off the stage – which we’re told is not by any means unknown – leaving Blind Justice to have her way with you. Us.’

  ‘How about a black belt?’ I suggest.

  My witticism goes unnoticed. Or perhaps it is noticed, if only as evidence that I am particularly on edge today.

  ‘In which case the Circus has a shortlist of eligible candidates – acceptable candidates, let us say – and Leonard, I think you said you were willing to guide Peter’s eye if it comes to that, which we dearly hope and pray it won’t’ – deferring with a collegial smile to Leonard.

  ‘Absolutely, Bunny. The trouble is, there are not that many of us who are cleared this far up. I do feel Harry is coming on awfully well, as you know,’ says Leonard. ‘He’s applied for silk and the judges adore him. So personally, not wishing to influence in any way – go for Harry. He’s a man, and they like a man defending a man. They may not know it, but they do.’

  ‘Who pays for him?’ I ask. ‘Or her?’

  Leonard smiles at his hands. Bunny takes the question:

  ‘Well, I think in the large, Peter, much may depend on the course of the hearing – and, shall we say, your own personal bearing, your sense of duty, and your loyalty to your old Service.’

  But Leonard hasn’t heard a word of this, as I can tell by the steadfast way he goes on smiling at his hands.

  ‘So, Peter,’ says Bunny, as if coming to the easy part. ‘Yes or no.’ Squeeze of the eyes. ‘Between men. Did you or did you not fuck Tulip?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Absolutely no?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Irrevocably no, here and now in this room, in the presence of a five-star witness?’

  ‘Bunny, forgive me’ – Leonard with his hand up in friendly reproach – ‘I think you’ve momentarily forgotten your law. Given my duties to the court, and my obligations to act as counsel for my client, I cannot possibly appear as a witness.’

  ‘All right. Once again, if you please, Peter. I, Peter Guillam, did not fuck Tulip at the Hotel Balkan in Prague on the night before her exfiltration to the United Kingdom. True or false?’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Which is a relief for all of us, as I’m sure you can imagine. Particularly as you seem to have fucked everyone else in sight.’

  ‘Immense,’ Leonard agrees.

  ‘And even more particularly, since Rule One of a Service that hasn’t otherwise got many rules dictates that serving officers don’t ever, ever fuck their joes, as you call them, even out of politeness. Other people’s joes when operationally desirable, yes, open season. Just not ever their own. You are aware of that rule?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘And were so aware at the time in question?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And would you agree that, if you had fucked her, which we know you didn’t, it would constitute not only a monumental breach of Service discipline, but clear evidence of your louche and uncontrollable nature, and your disregard for the sensitivities of a fugitive mother in mortal peril who has just been deprived of her only child? You agree with that statement?’

  ‘I agree with that statement.’

  ‘Leonard, you have a question?’

  Leonard plucks at his pretty lower lip with his fingertips, and frowns a creaseless frown.

  ‘You know, Bunny, it sounds awfully rude, but I really don’t think I do have a question,’ he confesses, with a startled smile at himself. ‘Not after that. I think pro tem we’ve all gone as far as we can go. And further.’ And to me, confidentially: ‘I’ll send you that shortlist, Peter. And you never heard me mention Harry. Or maybe better I slip it to Bunny. Collusion,’ he explains, bestowing another doting smile on me and reaching for his black briefcase, indicating that the lengthy meeting I had been anticipating is over. ‘But I do think a man would be good, all the same,’ he says to Bunny, not to me, as an aside. ‘When it comes to the hard questions, men rather have the edge in these cases. Less puritanical. See you at the All-Party beano, Peter. Tschüss.’

  *

  Did I fuck her? No, I bloody well didn’t. I made mute, frenzied love to her in pitch darkness for six life-altering hours, in an explosion of tension and lust between two bodies that had desired each other from birth and had only the night to live.

  And I was supposed to tell them this? I demand of the orange-tinted darkness as I lie sleepless on my prison cot in Dolphin Square.

  I, who was taught from the cradle to deny, deny and deny again – taught by the very Service that is seeking to drag a confession out of me?

  *

  ‘You slept well, Pierre? You are happy? You have made a great speech? You are coming home today?’

  I must have called her.

  ‘How’s Isabelle?’ I ask.

  ‘She is beautiful. She misses you.’

  ‘Has he come back? That impolite friend of mine?’

  ‘No, Pierre, your terrorist friend has not come back. You have watched football with him?’

  ‘We don’t do that any more.’

  9

  There was nothing I could see on file – and thank the Lord there wasn’t – of the days and nights of eternity that I spent in Brittany after handing Doris over to Joe Hawkesbury, our Paris Head of Station, at Le Bourget airport at seven o’clock on a misty winter’s morning. As our plane landed and a voice called out for Professor and Madame Lessif, I was in a state of delirious relief. As we descended the gangway side by side, the sight of Hawkesbury sitting below us in a black Rover car with CD plates and a young woman assistant from his Station in the back seat set my heart plunging.

  ‘And my Gustav?’ Doris demanded, seizing my arm.

  ‘It’ll be all right. It’ll happen,’ I said, hearing myself parroting Alec’s empty assurances.

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as they can. They’re good people. You’ll see. I love you.’

  Hawkesbury’s girl was holding the back door. Had she heard me? My insane outburst, spoken by someone
else inside me? Never mind whether she knew German. Every bloody fool knows Ich liebe Dich. I coaxed Doris forward. With a jolt she landed reluctantly on the back seat. The girl hopped in after her and slammed the door. I got into the passenger seat beside Hawkesbury.

  ‘Nice flight?’ he enquired, as we raced across the tarmac behind a flashing Jeep.

  We entered an aircraft hangar. Ahead of us in the gloom, a twin-engined RAF plane, propellers slowly turning. The girl sprang out. Doris stayed put, whispering German words to herself that I couldn’t make out. My own mad words seemed to have made no impression on her. Perhaps she hadn’t heard them. Perhaps I hadn’t spoken them. The girl tried to jockey her, but she wouldn’t budge. I got in beside her and took her hand. She pressed her head into my shoulder while Hawkesbury watched us in the driving mirror.

  ‘Ich kann nicht,’ she whispered.

  ‘Du musst, it’ll be all right. Ganz ehrlich. Honestly.’

  ‘Du kommst nicht mit?’ – you’re not coming?

  ‘Later. After you’ve talked to them.’

  I got out of the car and offered her my hand. She ignored it and climbed out of her own accord. No, she hasn’t heard me. She can’t have done. A uniformed aircraftwoman with a clipboard came marching towards us. With Hawkesbury’s girl one side and the aircraftwoman the other, Doris let herself be led towards the plane. Reaching the gangway, she stopped, looked upwards and, having steeled herself, began climbing, using both hands. I waited for her to look back. The cabin door closed.

  ‘All done then,’ said Hawkesbury briskly, still without turning his head to me. ‘So the word from on high is: bravo, you’ve done a great job, now go home to Brittany, dry out and wait for the great call. Gare Montparnasse suit you?’

  ‘Gare Montparnasse would be fine, thanks.’

  And you may be the darling of Joint Steering, brother Hawkesbury, but that didn’t prevent Bill Haydon from offering me your job.