The Honorable Schoolboy

by John le Carré

  She’ll be back by now, he thought. With any luck, she’s talked her way into someone’s house and is charming the kids and wrapping herself round a cup of Bovril. “Tell him I kept faith,” she said.

  The moon lifted and still Jerry waited, training his eyes on the darkest spots in an effort to improve his vision. Then, over the clatter of the sea, he could have sworn he heard the awkward slap of water on a wooden hull and the short grumble of an engine switched on and off again. He saw no light. Edging his way along the shadowed rock, he crept as close to the water’s edge as he dared and once more crouched, waiting. As a wave of surf soaked him to the thighs, he saw what he was waiting for: against the moon path, not twenty yards from him, the arched cabin and curled prow of a single sampan rocking on its anchor. He heard a splash and a muffled order, and as he sank as low as the slope allowed, he picked out the unmistakeable shape of Drake Ko, in his Anglo-French beret, wading cautiously ashore, followed by Tiu carrying an M-16 across both arms. So there you are, thought Jerry. End of the long trail. Luke’s killer, Frostie’s killer—whether by proxy or in the flesh is immaterial—Lizzie’s lover, Nelson’s father, Nelson’s brother. Welcome to the man who never broke a deal in his life.

  Ko also had a burden but it was less ferocious, and Jerry knew long before he made it out that it was a lamp and a power pack, pretty much like those he had used in the Circus water games on the Helford Estuary, except that the Circus favoured ultraviolet, and shoddy wire-framed spectacles which were useless in rain or spray.

  Reaching the beach, the two men made their way over the shingle until they reached the highest point; then, like Jerry, they merged against the black rock. He reckoned they were sixty feet from him. He heard a grunt and saw the flame of a cigarette lighter, then the red glow of two cigarettes followed by the murmur of Chinese voices. Wouldn’t mind one myself, thought Jerry. Stooping, he spread out one large hand and began loading it with pebbles until it was full, then padded as stealthily as he could manage along the base of the rock toward the two red embers. By his calculation he was eight paces from them. He had the pistol in his left hand and the pebbles in his right, and he was listening to the clump of the waves, how they gathered, tottered, and fell, and he was thinking that it was going to be a lot easier to have a chat with Drake once Tiu was out of the way.

  Very slowly, in the classic posture of the outfielder, he leaned back, raised his left elbow in front of him, and crooked his right arm behind him, prepared for a throw at full stretch. A wave fell, he heard the shuffle of the undertow, the grumble as another gathered. Still he waited, right arm back, palm sweating as he clasped the pebbles. Then as the wave reached its height he hurled the pebbles high up the cliff, using all his strength, before ducking to a crouch, gaze fixed upon the embers of the two cigarettes. He waited, then heard the pebbles patter against the rock above him and the hailstorm gather as they tumbled down. In the next instant he heard Tiu’s short curse and saw one red ember fly into the air as he leapt to his feet, M-16 in hand, barrel lifted to the cliff and his back to Jerry. Ko was scrambling for cover.

  First Jerry hit Tiu very hard with the pistol, taking care to keep his fingers inside the guard. Then he hit him again with his closed right hand, a two-knuckle strike at full force, “with the fist turned down and turning,” as they say at Sarratt, and a lot of follow-through at the end. As Tiu went down, Jerry caught his cheek-bone with the whole weight of his swinging right boot and heard the snap of his closing jaw. And as he stooped to pick up the M-16 he smashed the butt of it into Tiu’s kidneys, thinking angrily of both Luke and Frost, but also of the cheap crack Tiu had made about Lizzie not rating more than the journey from Kowloon-side to Hong Kong-side. Greetings from the horsewriter, he thought. Then he looked toward Ko, who, having stepped forward, was still no more than a black shape against the sea: a crooked silhouette with piecrust ears sticking out below the line of his odd beret. A strong wind had risen again, or perhaps Jerry was only now aware of it. It rattled in the rocks behind them and made Ko’s broad trousers billow.

  “That Mr. Westerby, the English newsman?” he enquired, in precisely the deep, harsh tones he had used at Happy Valley.

  “The same,” said Jerry.

  “You’re a very political man, Mr. Westerby. What the hell do you want here?”

  Jerry was recovering his breath, and for a moment he didn’t feel quite ready to answer.

  “Mr. Ricardo tells my people it is your aim to blackmail me. Is money your aim, Mr. Westerby?”

  “Message from your girl,” Jerry said, feeling he should discharge that promise first. “She says she keeps faith. She’s on your side.”

  “I don’t have a side, Mr. Westerby. I’m an army of one. What do you want? Mr. Marshall tells my people you are some kind of hero. Heroes are very political persons, Mr. Westerby. I don’t care for heroes.”

  “I came to warn you. They want Nelson. You mustn’t take him back to Hong Kong. They’ve got him all sewn up. They’ve got plans that will last him the rest of his life. And you as well. They’re queueing up for both of you.”

  “What do you want, Mr. Westerby?”

  “A deal.”

  “Nobody wants a deal. They want a commodity. The deal obtains for them the commodity. What do you want?” Ko repeated, raising his voice in command. “Tell me, please.”

  “You bought yourself the girl with Ricardo’s life,” said Jerry. “I thought I might buy her back with Nelson’s. I’ll speak to them for you. I know what they want. They’ll settle.”

  That’s the last foot in the last door for me, he thought, forever and a day.

  “A political settlement, Mr. Westerby? With your people? I made many political settlements with them. They told me God loved children. Did you ever notice God love an Asian child, Mr. Westerby? They told me God was a kwailo and his mother had yellow hair. They told me God was a peaceful man, but I read once that there have never been so many civil wars as in the kingdom of Christ. They told me—”

  “Your brother’s right behind you, Mr. Ko.”

  Ko swung round. On their left, heading from the east, a dozen or more junks in full sail trembled southward across the moon path in ragged column, lights prickling in the water. Dropping to his knees, Ko began frantically groping for the lamp. Jerry found the tripod, wrenched it open; Ko stood the lamp on it, but his hands were shaking wildly and Jerry had to help him. Jerry seized the wires, struck a match, and clipped the cables to the terminals. They were staring out to sea, side by side. Ko flashed the lamp once, then again, first red then green.

  “Wait,” Jerry said softly. “You’re too soon. Go easy or you’ll muck it all up.”

  Moving him gently aside, Jerry bent to the eyepiece and scanned the line of boats: “Which one?”

  “The last,” said Ko.

  Holding the last junk in view, though it was still only a shadow, Jerry signalled again, one red, one green, and a moment later heard Ko let out a cry of joy as an answering flicker darted back across the water.

  “Can he fix on that?” said Jerry.

  “Sure,” said Ko, still looking out to sea. “Sure. He will fix on that.”

  “Then leave it alone. Don’t do any more.”

  Ko turned to him, and Jerry saw the excitement in his face, and felt his dependence.

  “Mr. Westerby, I am advising you sincerely: if you have played a trick on me for my brother Nelson, your Christian Baptist hell will be a very comfortable place by comparison with what my people do to you. But if you help me I give you everything. That is my contract and I never broke a contract in my life. My brother also made certain contracts.” He looked out to sea. “I am pleased to advise you that he has seen the error of his ways.”

  The forward junks were out of sight. Only the tail-enders remained. From far away Jerry fancied he heard the uneven rumble of an engine, but he knew his mind was all over the place and it could have been the tumble of the waves. The moon passed behind the peak and the shadow of the mount
ain fell like a black knife-point onto the sea, leaving the far fields silver. Stooped to the lamp, Ko gave another cry of pleasure.

  “Here! Here! Take a look, Mr. Westerby.”

  Through the eyepiece Jerry made out a single phantom junk, unlit except for three pale lamps, two green ones on the mast and a red one to starboard, making its way toward them. It passed from the silver into the blackness and he lost it. From behind him, he heard a groan from Tiu. Ignoring it, Ko remained stooped to the eyepiece, one arm held wide like a Victorian photographer while he began calling softly in Chinese. Running up the shingle, Jerry pulled the pistol from Tiu’s belt, picked up the M-16 again, and, taking both to the sea’s edge, chucked them in. Ko was preparing to repeat the signal but mercifully he couldn’t find the button and Jerry was in time to stop him.

  Once more Jerry thought he heard the rumble, not of one engine but two. Running out onto the headland, he peered anxiously north and south in search of a patrol boat, but again he saw nothing and again he blamed the surf and his strained imagination. The junk was nearer, beating in toward the island, her brown batwing sail suddenly tall and terribly conspicuous against the sky. Ko had run to the water’s edge and was waving and yelling across the sea.

  “Keep your voice down!” Jerry whispered from beside him.

  But Jerry had become an irrelevance: Drake Ko’s whole life was for Nelson. From the shelter of the near headland, the sampan tottered alongside the rocking junk. The moon came out of hiding, and for a moment Jerry forgot his anxiety as a little greyclad figure, small and sturdy, in stature Drake’s antithesis, in a kapok coat and bulging proletarian cap, lowered himself over the side and leapt for the waiting arms of the sampan’s crew. Drake Ko gave another cry; the junk filled its sails and slid behind the headland till only the green lights on its masthead remained visible above the rocks, and then they too vanished. The sampan was making for the beach, and Jerry could see Nelson’s stocky frame as he stood on the bow waving with both hands and Drake Ko in his beret wild on the beach, dancing like a madman, waving back.

  The throb of engines grew steadily louder, but still Jerry couldn’t place them. The sea was empty, and when he looked upwards he saw only the hammer-head cliff and its peak black against the stars. The brothers met and embraced and stayed locked in each other’s arms, not moving.

  In a burst of realisation Jerry seized hold of both of them, began pummelling them, and cried out for all his life, “Get back in the boat! Hurry!”

  They saw no one but each other. Running back to the water’s edge, Jerry grabbed the sampan’s prow and held it, still calling to them as he saw the sky behind the peak turn yellow, then quickly brighten as the throb of the engines swelled to a roar and three blinding searchlights burst on them from blackened helicopters. The rocks danced to the whirl of landing lights, the sea furrowed, pebbles bounced and flew around in storms. For a fraction of a second Jerry saw Drake Ko’s face turn to him beseeching help, as if too late he had recognised where help lay. He mouthed something but the din drowned it.

  Jerry hurled himself forward, not for Nelson’s sake, still less for Drake’s; but for what linked them, and for what linked him to Lizzie. But long before he reached them a dark swarm closed on the two men, tore them apart, and bundled the baggy shape of Nelson into the hold of one of the helicopters. In the mayhem Jerry had drawn his gun and held it in his hand. He was screaming, though he could not hear himself above the hurricanes of war. The helicopter was lifting. A single figure remained in the open doorway, looking down, and perhaps it was Fawn, for he looked dark and mad. Then an orange flash broke from in front of him, then a second and a third, and after that Jerry wasn’t calling any more. In fury he threw up his hands, his mouth still open, his face still silently imploring. Then he fell and lay there. Soon there was once more no sound but the surf flopping on the beach and Drake Ko’s hopeless, choking grief against the victorious armadas of the West, which had stolen his brother and left their hard-pressed soldier dead at his feet.

  22

  BORN AGAIN

  In the Circus a mood of wild triumph broke out when the grand news came through from the Cousins. Nelson landed, Nelson bagged! Not a hair of his head injured! For two days there was speculation about medals, knighthoods, and promotions. They must do something for George at last, they must! Not so, said Connie shrewdly from the touch-line. They would never forgive him for raking up Bill Haydon.

  The euphoria was followed by certain perplexing rumours. Connie and Doc di Salis, for instance, who were eagerly ensconced in the Maresfield safe house, now dubbed the Dolphinarium, waited a full week for their body to arrive, and waited in vain. So did the interpreters, transcribers, inquisitors, baby-sitters, and allied trades who made up the rest of the reception and interrogation unit there.

  The match was rained off, said the housekeepers. Another date would be fixed. Stand by, they said. But quite soon a source at the local estate agent in the neighbouring town of Uckfield revealed that the housekeepers were trying to renege on the lease. Sure enough, after another week the team was stood down “pending policy decisions.” It was never reassembled.

  Next, word filtered out that Enderby and Martello jointly— the combination even then seemed odd—were chairing an Anglo-American processing committee. It would meet alternately in Washington and London and have responsibility for simultaneous distribution of the Dolphin product, code-name Whitebait, on either side of the Atlantic.

  Quite incidentally it emerged that Nelson was somewhere in the United States, in an armed compound already prepared for him in Philadelphia. The explanation was even slower in coming. It was felt—presumably by somebody, but feelings are hard to trace among so many corridors—that Nelson would be safer there. Physically safer. Think of the Russians. Think of the Chinese. Also, the housekeepers insisted, the Cousins’ processing and evaluation units were more of a scale to handle the unprecedented take that was expected. Also, they said, the Cousins could afford the cost. Also—

  “Also gammon and spinach!” Connie stormed when she heard the news.

  She and di Salis waited moodily to be invited to join the Cousins’ team. Connie even got herself the injections to be ready, but no call came.

  More explanations. The Cousins had a new man at Harvard, the housekeepers said, when Connie sailed in on them in her wheelchair.

  “Who?” she demanded in a fury.

  A professor somebody, young, a Moscow-gazer. He had made a life specialty of the dark side of Moscow Centre, they said, and had recently published a paper for private distribution only, but based on Company archives, in which he had referred to the “mole principle” and even in veiled terms to Karla’s private army.

  “Of course he did, the maggot!” she blurted at them, through her bitter tears of frustration. “And he hogged it all from Connie’s blasted reports, didn’t he? Culpepper, that’s his name, and he knows as much about Karla as my left toe!”

  The housekeepers were unmoved however by thoughts of Connie’s toe. It was Culpepper, not Sachs, who had the new committee’s vote.

  “Wait till George gets back!” Connie warned them. The threat left them strangely unaffected.

  Di Salis fared no better. China-watchers were two a penny in Langley, he was told. A glut on the market, old boy. Sorry, but Enderby’s orders, said the housekeepers.

  “Enderby’s?” di Salis echoed.

  The committee’s, they said vaguely. It was a joint decision.

  So di Salis took his cause to Lacon, who liked to think of himself as a poor man’s ombudsman in such matters, and Lacon in turn took di Salis to luncheon, at which they split the bill down the middle because Lacon did not hold with civil servants treating one another at the taxpayers’ expense.

  “How do you all feel about Enderby, by the by?” he asked at some point in the meal, interrupting di Salis’s plaintive monologue about his familiarity with the Chiu Chow and Hakka dialects. Feeling was playing a large part just at the moment. “Does h
e go down well over there? I’d have thought you liked his way of seeing things. Isn’t he rather sound, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sound” in the Whitehall vocabulary in those days meant hawkish.

  Rushing back to the Circus, di Salis duly reported this amazing question to Connie Sachs—as Lacon of course wished him to—and Connie was thereafter seen little. She spent her time quietly “packing her trunk,” as she called it: that is to say, preparing her Moscow Centre archive for posterity. There was a new young burrower she favoured, a goatish but obliging youth called Doolittle. She made this Doolittle sit at her feet while she gave him of her wisdom.

  “The old order’s hoofing it,” she warned whoever would listen. “That twerp Enderby is oiling through the back door. It’s a pogrom.”

  They treated her at first with much the same derision that Noah had to put up with when he started building his ark. No slouch at tradecraft still, Connie meanwhile secretly took Molly Meakin aside and persuaded her to put in a letter of resignation. “Tell the housekeepers you’re looking for something more fulfill-ing, dear,” she advised, with much winking and pinching. “They’ll give you a rise at the very least.”

  Molly had fears of being taken at her word, but Connie knew the game too well. So she wrote her letter and was at once ordered to stay behind after hours. Certain changes were in the air, the housekeepers told her in great confidence. There was a move to create a younger and more vigorous service, with closer links to Whitehall. Molly solemnly promised to reconsider her decision, and Connie Sachs resumed her packing with fresh determination.

  Then where was George Smiley all this while? In the Far East? No, in Washington! Nonsense! He was back home and skulking down in the country somewhere—Cornwall was his favourite— taking a well-earned rest and mending his fences with Ann!

  Then one of the housekeepers let slip that George might be “suffering from a spot of strain,” and his phrase struck a chill everywhere, for even the dimmest little gnome in Banking Section knew that strain, like old age, was a disease for which there was only one known remedy, and it did not entail recovery.