John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels

by John le Carré

  They had moved to the back of the sampan and were lying in the cushions side by side.

  “Don’t be utterly ridiculous. Liese is an aristocratic English girl.”

  “Tra-la-la,” said Craw, and for a while gazed at the stars.

  “She has a most positive and refining influence on him.”

  “Who does?” said Craw, as if he had lost the thread.

  Phoebe spoke through gritted teeth. “Liese has a refining influence on Drake Ko. Bill, listen! Are you asleep? Bill, I think you should take me home. Take me home, please.”

  Craw gave a low sigh. These lovers’ tiffs between them were six-monthly events, at least, and had a cleansing effect on their relationship.

  “My dear. Phoebe. Give ear to me, will you? For one moment, right? No English girl, high-born, fine-boned, or knock-kneed, can possibly be named Liese unless there is a Kraut at work somewhere. That’s for openers. What’s her other name?”

  “Worth.”

  “Worth what? All right, that was a joke. Forget it. Elizabeth, that’s what she is. Contracted to Lizzie. Or Liza. Liza of Lambeth. You misheard. There’s blood for you, if you like: Miss Elizabeth Worth. I could see the bone structure there all right. Not Liese, dear. Lizzie.”

  Phoebe became openly furious: “Don’t you tell me how to pronounce anything!” she flung at him. “Her name is Liese, pronounced ‘Leesa’ and written ‘L-i-e-s-e,’ because I asked her and I wrote it down and I have printed that name in—Oh, Bill.” Her forehead fell on his shoulder. “Oh, Bill. Take me home.”

  She began weeping. Craw cuddled her against him, gently patting her shoulder.

  “Ah, now, cheer up, my dear. The fault was mine, not yours. I should have known that she was a friend of yours. A fine society woman like Liese, a woman of beauty and fortune, locked in romantic attachment to one of the Island’s new nobility—how could a diligent newshound like Phoebe fail to befriend her? I was blind. Forgive me.” He allowed a decent interval. “What happened?” he asked indulgently. “You interviewed her, did you?”

  For the second time that night, Phoebe dried her eyes with Craw’s handkerchief.

  “She begged me. She’s not my friend. She is far too grand to be my friend. How could she be? She begged me not to print her name. She is here incognito. Her life depends upon it. If her parents know she is here, they will send for her at once. They are fantastically influential. They have private planes, everything. The minute they know she is living with a Chinese man, they would bring fantastic pressure to bear just to get her back. ‘Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Of all people in Hong Kong, you will understand best what it means to live under the shadow of intolerance.’ She appealed to me. I promised.”

  “Quite right,” said Craw stoutly. “Don’t you ever break that promise, Pheeb. A promise is a bond.” He gave an admiring sigh. “Life’s byways, I always maintain, are ever stranger than life’s highways. If you put that in your paper, your editor would say you were soft in the head, I daresay. And yet it’s true. A shining wonderful example of human integrity for its own sake.” Her eyes had closed, so he gave her a jolt in order to keep them open. “Now, where does a match like that have its genesis, I ask myself. What star, what happy chance could bring together two such needful souls? In Hong Kong too, for God’s sake.”

  “It was fate. She was not even living here. She had withdrawn from the world altogether after an unhappy love affair, and she had decided to spend the rest of her life making exquisite jewellery in order to give the world something beautiful among all its suffering. She flew in for a day or two just to buy some gold, and quite by chance, at one of Sally Cale’s fabulous receptions, she met Drake Ko and that was that.”

  “And thereafter the course of true love ran sweet, eh?”

  “Certainly not. She met him. She loved him. But she was determined not to get embroiled, and returned home.”

  “Home?” Craw echoed, mystified. “Where’s home for a woman of her integrity?”

  Phoebe laughed. “Not to the South of France, silly. To Vientiane. To a city no one ever visits. A city without high life, or any of the luxuries to which she was accustomed from birth. That was her chosen place. Her island. She had friends there, she was interested in Buddhism and art and antiquity.”

  “And where does she hang out now? Still in some humble croft, is she, clinging to her notions of abstinence? Or has Brother Ko converted her to less frugal paths?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. Drake has given her a most beautiful apartment, naturally.”

  That was Craw’s limit; he knew it at once. He covered the card with others, he told her stories about old Shanghai. But he didn’t take another step toward the elusive Liese Worth, though Phoebe might have saved him a lot of legwork.

  “Behind every painter,” he liked to say, “and behind every fieldman, lads, there should be a colleague standing with a mallet, ready to hit him over the head when he has gone far enough.”

  In the taxi home, she was calm again but shivering. He saw her right to the door in style. He had forgiven her entirely. On the doorstep he made to kiss her, but she held him back from her.

  “Bill. Am I really any use? Tell me. When I’m no use, you must throw me out, I insist. Tonight was nothing. You are sweet, you pretend, I try. But it was still nothing. If there is other work for me, I will take it. Otherwise you must throw me aside. Ruthlessly.”

  “There’ll be other nights,” he assured her, and only then did she let him kiss her.

  “Thank you, Bill,” she said.

  “So there you are, Your Graces,” Craw reflected happily, as he took the taxi on to the Hilton. “Code-name Susan toiled and span and she was worth a little less each day, because agents are only ever as good as the target they’re pointed at, and that’s the truth of them. And the one time she gave us gold, pure gold, Monsignors”—in his mind’s eye, he held up that same fat forefinger, one message for the uncut boys spellbound in the forward rows—“the one time—she didn’t even know she’d done it, and she never could!”

  The best jokes in Hong Kong, Craw had once written, are seldom laughed at because they are too serious. That year there was the Tudor pub in the unfinished high-rise building, for instance, where genuine, sour-faced English wenches in period décolleté served genuine English beer at twenty degrees below its English temperature, while outside in the lobby sweating coolies in yellow helmets toiled round the clock to finish off the elevators. Or you could visit the Italian taverna where a cast-iron spiral staircase pointed to Juliet’s balcony but ended instead in a blank plaster ceiling; or the Scottish inn with kilted Chinese Scots who occasionally rioted in the heat or when the fares rose on the Star Ferry. Craw had even attended an opium divan with air-conditioning and Muzak churning out “Greensleeves.” But the most bizarre, the most contrary, for Craw’s money, was this roof-top bar overlooking the harbour, with its four-piece Chinese band playing Noël Coward, and its straight-faced Chinese barmen in periwigs and frock-coats looming out of the darkness and enquiring, in good Americanese, what was his “drinking pleasure?”

  “A beer,” Craw’s guest growled, helping himself to a handful of salted almonds. “But cold. Hear that? Muchee coldee. And bring it chop chop.”

  “Life smiles upon Your Eminence?” Craw enquired.

  “Drop all that, d’you mind? Gets on my wick.”

  The Superintendent’s embattled face had one expression only, and that was of a bottomless cynicism. If man had a choice between good and evil, his baleful scowl said, he chose evil any time; and the world was cut down the middle, between those who knew this, and accepted it, and those long-haired pansies in Whitehall who believed in Father Christmas.

  “Found her file yet?” Craw enquired.

  “No.”

  “She calls herself Worth. She’s had her syllables removed.”

  “I know what she bloody calls herself. She can call herself bloody Mata Hari, for all I care. There’s still no file on her.”

  “But
there was?”

  “Right, cobber, there was,” the Rocker simpered furiously, mimicking Craw’s accent. “There was, and now there isn’t. Do I make myself clear or shall I write it in invisible ink on a carrier pigeon’s arse for you, you heathen bloody Aussie?”

  Craw sat quiet awhile, sipping his drink in steady, repetitive movements.

  “Would Ko have done that?”

  “Done what?” The Rocker was being wilfully obtuse.

  “Had her file nicked?”

  “Could have done.”

  “The missing-record malady appears to be spreading,” Craw commented after further pause for refreshment. “London sneezes and Hong Kong catches the cold. My professional sympathies, Monsignor. My fraternal commiserations.” He lowered his voice to a toneless murmur. “Tell me: is the name Sally Cale music to Your Grace’s ear?”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “What’s her racket?”

  “Chichi antiquities limited, Kowloon-side. Pillaged art treasures, quality fakes, images of the Lord Buddha.”

  “Where from?”

  “Real stuff comes from Burma, way of Vientiane. Fakes are home produce. Sixty-year-old dyke,” he added sourly, addressing himself cautiously to another beer. “Keeps Alsatians and chimpanzees. Just up your street.”

  “Any form?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I am advised that it was Cale who introduced the girl to Ko.”

  “So what? Cale pimps the round-eye lay. The Chows like her for it, and so do I. I asked her to fix me up once. Said she hadn’t got anything small enough, cheeky sow.”

  “Our frail beauty was here allegedly on a gold-buying kick. Does that figure?”

  The Rocker looked at Craw with fresh loathing and Craw looked at the Rocker, and it was a collision of two immovable objects.

  “ ’Course it bloody figures,” said the Rocker contemptuously. “Cale had the corner in bent gold from Macao, didn’t she?”

  “So where did Ko fit in the bed?”

  “Ah, come off it, don’t pussyfoot around. Cale was the front man. It was Ko’s racket all along. That fat bulldog of his went in as partner with her.”

  “Tiu?”

  The Rocker had lapsed once more into beery melancholy, but Craw would not be deflected, and put his mottled head very close to the Rocker’s battered ear: “My Uncle George will be highly appreciative of all available intelligence on the said Cale. Right? He will reward merit richly. He is particularly interested in her as of the fateful moment when she introduced my little lady to her Chow protector, and up to the present day. Names, dates, track record, whatever you’ve got in the fridge. Hear me?”

  “Well, you tell your Uncle George he’ll get me five bloody years in Stanley jail.”

  “And you won’t want for company there, either, will you, Squire?” said Craw pointedly.

  This was an unkind reference to recent sad events in the Rocker’s world. Two of his senior colleagues had been sent down for several years apiece, and there were others dolefully waiting to join them.

  “Corruption,” the Rocker muttered in disgust. “They’ll be discovering bloody steam next.”

  Craw had heard it all before, but he heard it again now, for he had the golden gift of listening, which at Sarratt they prize far higher than communication.

  “Thirty thousand bloody Europeans and four million bloody slant-eyes, a different bloody morality, some of the best-organised bloody crime syndicates in the bloody world. What do they expect me to do? We can’t stop crime, so how do we control it? We dig out the big boys and we do a deal with them, of course we do. ‘Right, boys. No casual crime, no territorial infringements, everything clean and decent, and my daughter can walk down the street any time of day or night. I want plenty of arrests to keep the judges happy and earn me my pathetic pension, and God help anybody who breaks the rules or is disrespectful to authority.’ All right, they pay a little squeeze. Name me one person on this whole benighted Island who doesn’t pay a little squeeze along the line. If there’s people paying it, there’s people getting it. Stands to reason. And if there’s people getting it . . . Besides,” said the Rocker, suddenly bored by his own theme, “George knows it all already.”

  Craw’s lion’s head lifted slowly, until his dreadful eye was fixed squarely on the Rocker’s averted face.

  “George knows what, may I enquire?”

  “Sally bloody Cale. We turned her inside out for you people years ago. Planning to subvert the bloody pound sterling or some damn thing. Bullion-dumping on the Zurich gold markets, I ask you. Load of old cobblers as usual, if you want my view.”

  It was another half-hour before the Australian climbed wearily to his feet, wishing the Rocker long life and felicity.

  “And you keep your arse to the sunset,” the Rocker growled.

  Craw did not go home that night. He had friends, an American lawyer and his wife, who owned one of Hong Kong’s two hundred-odd private houses, an elderly rambling place on Pollock’s Path high up on the Peak, and they had given him a key. A consular car was parked in the driveway, but Craw’s friends were known for their addiction to the diplomatic whirl. Entering his room, Craw seemed not at all surprised to find a respectful young American seated in the wicker armchair reading a heavy novel: a blond, trim boy in a neat diplomatic-looking suit. Craw did not greet this person, or remark his presence in any way, but instead placed himself at the glass-topped writing-desk and, on a single sheet of paper, in the best tradition of his papal mentor, began blocking out a message in capital letters, personal for His Holiness, heretical hands keep off. Afterwards, on another sheet, he set out the key to match it. When he had finished, he handed both to the boy, who with great deference put them in his pocket and departed swiftly without a word. Left alone, Craw waited till he heard the growl of the limousine before opening and reading the signal the boy had left for him. Then he burned it and washed the ash down the sink before stretching himself gratefully on the bed.

  A Gideon’s day, but I can surprise them yet, he thought. He was tired. Christ, he was tired. He saw the serried faces of the Sarratt children. But we progress, Your Graces. Inexorably we progress. Albeit at the blind man’s speed, as we tap-tap along in the dark. Time I smoked a little opium, he thought. Time I had a nice little girl to cheer me up. Christ, he was tired.

  Smiley was equally tired, perhaps, but the text of Craw’s message, when he received it an hour later, quickened him remarkably: the more so since the file on Miss Cale, Sally—last known address Hong Kong, art faker, illicit bullion dealer, and occasional heroin trafficker—was, for once, alive and well and intact in the Circus archives. Not only that. The cryptonym of Sam Collins, in his capacity as the Circus’s below-the-line resident in Vientiane, was blazoned all over it like the bunting of a long-awaited victory.

  10

  Tea and Sympathy

  It has been laid at Smiley’s door more than once since the curtain was rung down on the Dolphin case that now was the moment when George should have gone back to Sam Collins and hit him hard and straight just where it hurt. George could have cut a lot of corners that way, say the knowing; he could have saved vital time.

  They are talking simplistic nonsense.

  In the first place, time was of no account. The Russian gold seam, and the operation it financed, whatever that was, had been running for years, and undisturbed would presumably run for many more. The only people who were demanding action were the Whitehall barons, the Circus itself, and indirectly Jerry Westerby, who had to eat his head off with boredom for a couple more weeks while Smiley meticulously prepared his next move. Also, Christmas was approaching, which makes everyone impatient. Ko, and whatever show he was controlling, showed no sign of development.

  “Ko and his Russian money stood like a mountain before us,” Smiley wrote later, in his departing paper on Dolphin: “We could visit the case whenever we wished, but we could not move it. The problem was going to be not how to stir ourselves but h
ow to stir Ko to the point where we could read him.”

  The lesson is clear: long before anyone else, except perhaps Connie Sachs, Smiley already saw the girl as a potential lever and, as such, the most important single character in the cast—far more important, for instance, than Jerry Westerby, who was at any time replaceable. This was just one of many good reasons why Smiley made it his business to get as close to her as security considerations allowed.

  Another was that the whole nature of the link between Sam Collins and the girl still floated in uncertainty. It’s so easy now to turn round and say “obvious,” but at that time the issue was anything but cut and dried. The Cale file gave an indication. Smiley’s intuitive feeling for Sam’s footwork helped fill in some blanks; hasty back-bearings by Registry produced clues and the usual batch of analogous cases; the anthology of Sam’s field reports was illuminating. The fact still remains that the longer Smiley held Sam off, the closer he came to an independent understanding of the relationship between the girl and Ko, and between the girl and Sam; and the stronger his bargaining power when he and Sam next sat down together.

  And who on earth could honestly say how Sam would have reacted under pressure, had Smiley allowed it to be applied? The Sarratt inquisitors have had their successes, true, but also their failures. And Sam was a very hard nut.

  One more consideration also weighed with Smiley, though in his farewell paper he is too gentlemanly to mention it. A lot of ghosts walked in those post-fall days, and one of them was a fear that, buried somewhere in the Circus, lay Bill Haydon’s chosen successor: that Bill had brought him on, recruited and educated him against the very day when he himself, one way or another, would fade from the scene. Sam was originally a Haydon nominee. His later victimisation by Haydon could easily have been a put-up job. Who was to say, in that very jumpy atmosphere, that Sam Collins, manoeuvring for readmission, was not the heir elect to Haydon’s treachery?