“Allies,” Wilbraham exclaimed bitterly. “Allies? You’re putting a pistol at our heads, man!”
Smiley’s iron reply was all the more startling for the passivity which had preceded it: “I have a standing instruction from this committee to repair our American liaison. It is written into my charter, by yourselves, that I am to do everything possible to nurture the special relationship and revive the spirit of mutual confidence which existed before—Haydon. ‘To get us back to the top table,’ you said. . . .” He was looking directly at Enderby.
“Top table” someone echoed—a quite new voice. “Sacrificial altar, if you ask me. We’ve already burned the Middle East and half Africa on it. All for the special relationship.”
But Smiley seemed not to hear. He had relapsed once more into his posture of mournful reluctance. Sometimes, his sad face said, the burdens of his office were simply too much for him to bear.
Afresh bout of post-luncheon sulkiness set in. Someone complained of the tobacco smoke. A messenger was summoned.
“Devil’s happened to the extractors?” Enderby demanded crossly. “We’re stifling.”
“It’s the parts,” the messenger said. “We put in for them months ago, sir. Before Christmas it was, sir—nearly a year, come to think of it. Still, you can’t blame delay, can you, sir?”
“Christ,” said Enderby.
Tea was sent for. It came in paper cups which leaked onto the baize. Guillam gave his thoughts to Molly Meakin’s peerless figure.
It was almost four o’clock when Lacon rode disdainfully in front of the armies and invited Smiley to state “just exactly what it is you’re asking for in practical terms, George. Let’s have it all on the table and try to hack out an answer.”
Enthusiasm would have been fatal. Smiley seemed to understand that.
“One, we need rights and permissions to operate in the South East Asian theatre—deniably. So that the Governor can wash his hands of us”—a glance at the Parliamentary Under-Secretary—“and so can our masters here. Two, to conduct certain domestic enquiries.”
Heads shot up. The Home Office at once grew fidgety. Why? Who? How? What enquiries? If it’s domestic, it should go to the competition. Pretorius, of the Security Service, was already in a ferment.
“Ko read law in London,” Smiley insisted. “He has connections here, social and business. We should naturally have to investigate them.” He glanced at Pretorius. “We would show the competition all our findings,” he promised.
He resumed his bid. “As regards money, my submission contains a full breakdown of what we need at once, as well as supplementary estimates for various contingencies. Finally we are asking permission, at local as well as Whitehall level, to reopen our Hong Kong residency as a forward base for the operation.”
A stunned silence greeted this last item, to which Guillam’s own amazement contributed. Nowhere, in any of the preparatory discussions at the Circus, or with Lacon, had anybody—not even Smiley himself, to Guillam’s knowledge—raised the slightest question of reopening High Haven or establishing its successor. A fresh clamour started.
“Failing that,” he ended, overriding the protests, “if we cannot have our residency, we request at the very least blind-eye approval to run our own below-the-line agents on the Colony. No local awareness, but approval and protection by London. Any existing sources to be retrospectively legitimised. In writing,” he ended, with a hard glance at Lacon, and stood up.
Glumly, Guillam and Smiley sat themselves once more in the waiting-room on the same salmon bench where they had begun, side by side, like passengers travelling in the same direction.
“Why?” Guillam muttered once, but asking questions of George Smiley was not merely in bad taste that day; it was a pastime expressly forbidden by the cautionary notice that hung above them on the wall.
Of all the damn-fool ways of overplaying one’s hand, thought Guillam dismally. You’ve thrown it, he thought. Poor old sod: finally past it. The one operation which could put us back in the game. Greed, that’s what it was. The greed of an old spy in a hurry. I’ll stick with him, thought Guillam. I’ll go down with the ship. We’ll open a chicken farm together. Molly can keep the accounts, and Ann can have bucolic tangles with the labourers.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
“It’s not a matter of feeling,” Smiley replied.
Thanks very much, thought Guillam.
The minutes turned to twenty. Smiley had not stirred. His chin had fallen on to his chest, his eyes had closed; he might have been at prayer.
“Perhaps you should take an evening off,” said Guillam.
Smiley only frowned.
A messenger appeared, inviting them to return. Lacon was now at the head of the table, and his manner was prefectorial. Enderby sat two away from him, conversing in murmurs with the Welsh Hammer. Pretorius glowered like a storm cloud, and his nameless lady pursed her lips in an unconscious kiss of disapproval.
Lacon rustled his notes for silence and, like a teasing judge, began reading off the committee’s detailed findings before he delivered the verdict. The Treasury had entered a serious protest, on the record, regarding the misuse of Smiley’s management account. Smiley should also bear in mind that any requirement for domestic rights and permissions should be cleared with the Security Service in advance and not “sprung on them like a rabbit out of a hat in the middle of a full-dress meeting of the committee.” There could be no earthly question of reopening the Hong Kong residency. Simply on the issue of time alone, such a step was impossible. It was really a quite shameful proposal, he implied. Principle was involved, consultation would have to be at the highest level, and since Smiley had already moved specifically against advising the Governor of his findings—Lacon’s doff of the cap to Wilbraham here—it was going to be very hard to make a case for re-establishing a residency in the foreseeable future, particularly bearing in mind the unhappy publicity attaching to the evacuation of High Haven.
“I must accept that view with great reluctance,” said Smiley gravely.
Oh, for God’s sake, thought Guillam; let’s at least go down fighting!
“Accept it how you like,” said Enderby—and Guillam could have sworn he saw in the eyes of both Enderby and the Welsh Hammer a gleam of victory.
Bastards, he thought simply. No free chickens for you. In his mind he was taking leave of the whole pack of them.
“Everything else,” said Lacon, putting down a sheet of paper and taking up another, “with certain limiting conditions and safeguards regarding desirability, money, and the duration of the licence, is granted.”
The park was empty. The lesser commuters had left the field to the professionals. A few lovers lay on the damp grass like soldiers after the battle. A few flamingoes dozed. At Guillam’s side, as he sauntered euphorically in Smiley’s wake, Roddy Martindale was singing Smiley’s praises. “I think George is simply marvellous. Indestructible. And grip. I adore grip. Grip is my favourite human quality. George has it in spades. One takes quite a different view of these things when one’s translated. One grows to the scale of them, I admit. Your father was an Arabist, I recall?”
“Yes,” said Guillam, his mind yet again on Molly, wondering whether dinner was still possible.
“And frightfully Almanack de Gotha. Now was he an A.D. man or a B.C. man?”
About to give a thoroughly obscene reply, Guillam realised just in time that Martindale was enquiring after nothing more harmful than his father’s scholarly preferences.
“Oh, B.C. B.C. all the way,” he said. “He’d have gone back to Eden if he could have done.”
“Come to dinner.”
“Thanks.”
“We’ll fix a date. Now, who’s fun for a change? Who do you like?”
Ahead of them, floating on the dewy air, they heard the drawling voice of Enderby applauding Smiley’s victory.
“Nice little meeting. Lot achieved. Nothing given away. Nicely played hand. Land this one and yo
u can just about build an extension, I should think. And the Cousins will play ball, will they?” He was bellowing as if they were still inside the safe room. “You’ve tested the water there? They’ll carry your bags for you and not hog the match? Bit of a cliff-hanger that one, I’d have thought, but I suppose you’re up to it. You tell Martello to wear his crêpe soles, if he’s got any, or we’ll be in deep trouble with the Colonials in no time. Pity about old Wilbraham. He’d have run India rather well.”
Beyond them again, almost out of sight among the trees, the little Welsh Hammer was making energetic gestures to Lacon, who was stooping to catch his words.
Nice little conspiracy too, thought Guillam. He glanced back and was surprised to see Fawn, the baby-sitter, hurrying after them. He seemed at first a long way off. Shreds of fog obscured his legs entirely. Only the top of him reached above the sea. Then suddenly he was much closer, and Guillam heard his familiar plaintive bray calling “Sir, sir,” trying to catch Smiley’s attention. Quickly placing Martindale out of earshot, Guillam strode up to him.
“What the devil’s the matter? Why are you bleating like that?”
“They’ve found a girl! Miss Sachs, sir, she sent me to tell him specially.” His eyes shone bright and slightly crazy. “‘Tell the Chief they’ve found the girl.’ Her very words, personal for Chief.”
“Do you mean she sent you here?”
“Personal for Chief, immediate,” Fawn replied evasively.
“I said, ‘Did she send you here?’” Guillam was seething. “Answer, ‘No, sir, she did not.’ You bloody little drama queen, racing round London in your gym shoes! You’re out of your mind.” Snatching the crumpled note from Fawn’s hand, he read it cursorily. “It’s not even the same name. Hysterical bloody nonsense. You go straight back to your hutch, do you hear? The Chief will give the matter his attention when he returns. Don’t you dare stir things up like that again.”
“Whoever was he?” Martindale enquired, quite breathless with excitement, as Guillam returned. “What a darling little creature! Are all spies as pretty as that? How positively Venetian. I shall volunteer at once.”
The same night, a ragged conference was held in the rumpus room, and the quality was not improved by the euphoria—in Connie’s case, alcoholic—brought on by Smiley’s triumph at the steering conference. After the constraints and tensions of the last months, Connie charged in all directions. The girl! The girl was the clue! Connie had shed all her intellectual bonds. Send Toby Esterhase to Hong Kong, house her, photograph her, trace her, search her room! Get Sam Collins in, now!
Di Salis fidgeted, simpered, puffed at his pipe, and jiggled his feet, but for that evening he was entirely under Connie’s spell. He even spoke once of “a natural line to the heart of things”—meaning, yet again, the mystery girl. No wonder little Fawn had been infected by their zeal. Guillam felt almost apologetic for his outburst in the park. Indeed, without Smiley and Guillam to put the dampers on, an act of collective folly could very easily have taken place that night, and God knows where it might not have led. The secret world has plenty of precedents of sane people breaking out that way, but this was the first time Guillam had seen the disease in action.
So it was ten o’clock or more before a brief could be drafted for old Craw, and half past before Guillam blearily bumped into Molly Meakin on his way to the lift. In consequence of this happy coincidence—or had Molly planned it? He never knew—a beacon was lit in Peter Guillam’s life that burned fiercely from then on. With her customary acquiescence, Molly consented to be driven home, though she lived in High-gate, miles out of his way, and when they reached her doorstep she as usual invited him in for a quick coffee. Anticipating the familiar frustrations (“no- Peter-please- Peter-dear- I’m -sorry”), Guillam was on the brink of declining, when something in her eye—a certain calm resolution, as it seemed to him—caused him to change his mind. Once inside her flat, she closed the door and put it on the chain. Then she led him demurely to her bedroom, where she astonished him with a joyous and refined carnality.
9
Craw’s Little Ship
In Hong Kong it was forty-eight hours later, and a Sunday evening. In the alley Craw walked carefully. Dusk had come early with the fog, but the houses were jammed too close to let it in, so it hung a few floors higher, with the washing and the cables, spitting hot polluted raindrops which raised smells of orange in the food-stalls and ticked on the brim of Craw’s straw hat. He was in China here, at sea-level, the China he loved most, and China was waking for the festival of night: singing, honking, wailing, beating gongs, bargaining, cooking, playing tinny tunes through twenty different instruments; or watching motionless from doorways how delicately the fancy-looking foreign devil picked his way among them. Craw loved it all; but most tenderly he loved his “little ships,” as the Chinese called their secret whisperers, and of these Miss Phoebe Wayfarer, whom he was on his way to visit, was a classic, if modest example.
He breathed in, savouring the familiar pleasures. The East had never failed him: “We colonise them, Your Graces, we corrupt them, we exploit them, we bomb them, sack their cities, ignore their culture, and confound them with the infinite variety of our religious sects. We are hideous not only in their sight, Monsignors, but in their nostrils as well—the stink of the round-eye is abhorrent to them and we’re too thick even to know it. Yet when we have done our worst, and more than our worst, my sons, we have barely scratched the surface of the Asian smile.”
Other round-eyes might not have come here so willingly alone. The Peak mafia would not have known this place existed; the embattled British wives in their government housing ghettoes in Happy Valley would have found here everything they hated most about their billet. It was not a bad part of town, but it was not Europe either: the Europe of Central and Pedder Street half a mile away, of electric doors that sighed for you as they admitted you to the air-conditioning. Other round-eyes, in their apprehension, might have cast inadvertent glares, and that was dangerous. In Shanghai, Craw had known more than one man die of an accidental bad look. Whereas Craw’s look was at all times kindly; he deferred, he was modest in his manner, and when he stopped to make a purchase, he offered respectful greetings to the stall-holder in bad but robust Cantonese. And he paid without carping at the surcharge befitting his inferior race.
He bought orchids and lamb’s liver. He bought them every Sunday, distributing his custom fairly between rival stalls and—when his Cantonese ran out—lapsing into his own ornate version of English.
He pressed the bell. Phoebe, like old Craw himself, had an entry phone. Head Office had decreed they should be standard issue. She had twisted a piece of heather into her mail-box for good joss, and this was the safety signal.
“Hi,” a girl’s voice said, over the speaker. It could have been American or it could have been Cantonese, offering an interrogative “Yes?”
“Larry calls me Pete,” Craw said.
“Come on up, I have Larry with me at this moment.”
The staircase was pitch dark and stank of vomit, and Craw’s heels clanked like tin on the stone treads. He pressed the time-switch but no light went on, so he had to grope his way for three floors. There had been a move to find her somewhere better, but it had died with Thesinger’s departure and now there was no hope and, in a way, no Phoebe either.
“Bill,” she murmured, closing the door after him, and kissed him on both mottled cheeks, the way pretty girls may kiss kind uncles, though she was not pretty. Craw gave her the orchids. His manner was gentle and solicitous.
“My dear,” he said. “My dear.”
She was trembling. There was a bed-sitting-room with a cooker and a hand-basin; there was a separate lavatory with a shower. That was all. He walked past her to the basin, unwrapped the liver, and gave it to the cat.
“Oh, you spoil her, Bill,” said Phoebe, smiling at the flowers. He had laid a brown envelope on the bed, but neither of them mentioned it.
“How’s Willia
m?” she said, playing with the sound of his name.
Craw had hung his hat and stick on the door and was pouring Scotch: neat for Phoebe, soda for himself.
“How’s Pheeb? That’s more to the point. How’s it been out there, the cold long week? Eh, Pheeb?”
She had ruffled the bed and laid a frilly night dress on the floor, because so far as the block was concerned, Phoebe was the half-kwailo bastard who whored with the fat foreign devil. Over the crushed pillows hung her picture of Swiss Alps, the picture every Chinese girl seemed to have, and on the bedside locker the photograph of her English father, the only picture she had ever seen of him: a clerk from Dorking in Surrey, just after his arrival on the Island—rounded collars, moustache, and staring, slightly crazy eyes. Craw sometimes wondered whether it was taken after he was shot.
“It’s all right now,”said Phoebe. “It’s fine now, Bill.”
She stood at his shoulder, filling the vase, and her hands were shaking badly, which they usually did on Sundays. She wore a grey tunic dress in honour of Peking, and the gold necklace given to her to commemorate her first decade of service to the Circus. In a ridiculous spurt of gallantry, Head Office had decided to have it made at Asprey’s, then sent out by bag, with a personal letter to her signed by Percy Alleline, George Smiley’s luckless predecessor, which she had been allowed to look at but not keep. Having filled the vase, she tried to carry it to the table but it slopped, so Craw took it.
“Hey, now, take it easy, won’t you?”
She stood for a moment, still smiling at him, then breathed out, a long slow sob of reaction, and slumped into a chair. Sometimes she wept, sometimes she sneezed, or was very loud and laughed too much, but always she saved the moment for his arrival, however it took her.
“Bill, I get so frightened sometimes.”
“I know, dear, I know.” He sat at her side, holding her hand.
“That new boy in Features. He stares at me, Bill, he watches everything I do. I’m sure he works for someone. Bill, who does he work for?”
John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels Page 59
