“That’s all we have, sir,” said Murphy, and put down his report.
They were back to the awkward pauses. A pretty girl, armed with a tray of coffee and biscuits, provided a temporary reprieve, but when she left the silence was worse.
“Why don’t you just tell him?” Sol snapped finally. “Otherwise maybe I will.”
Which was when, as Martello would have said, they finally got down to the nitty-gritty.
Martello’s manner became both grave and confiding, a family solicitor reading a will to the heirs. “George, ah, at our request Enforcement here took a kind of a second look at the background and the record of the missing pilot Ricardo, and as we half surmised, they’ve dug up a fair quantity of material which till now has not come to light as it should have done, owing to various factors. There’s no profit, in my view, to pointing the finger at anyone, and besides Ed Ristow is a sick man. Let’s just agree that, however it happened, the Ricardo thing fell into a small gap between Enforcement and ourselves. That gap has since closed and we’d like to rectify the information for you.”
“Thank you, Marty,” said Smiley patiently.
“Seems Ricardo’s alive, after all,” Sol declared. “Seems like it’s a prime snafu.”
“A what?” Smiley asked sharply, perhaps before the full significance of Sol’s statement had sunk in.
Martello was quick to translate: “Error, George. Human error. Happens to all of us. Snafu. Even you, okay?”
Guillam was studying Cy’s shoes, which had a rubbery gloss and thick welts. Smiley’s eyes had lifted to the side wall, where the benevolent features of President Nixon gazed down encouragingly on the triangular union. Nixon had resigned a good six months ago, but Martello seemed touchingly determined to tend his lamp. Murphy and his mute companion sat as still as confirmands in the presence of the bishop. Only Sol was forever on the move, alternately scratching at his crimped scalp or sucking on his cigarette, like an athletic version of di Salis. He never smiles, thought Guillam extraneously; he’s forgotten how.
Martello continued: “Ricardo’s death is formally recorded in our files as on or around August twenty-first, nineteen seventy-three, George, correct?”
“Correct,” said Smiley.
Martello drew a breath and tilted his head the other way as he read his notes. “However, on September second—couple of weeks after his death, right?—it, ah, seems Ricardo made personal contact with one of the narcotics bureaus in the Asian theatre, then known as B.N.D.D. but primarily the same house, okay? Sol would, ah, prefer not to mention which bureau, and I respect that.”
The mannerism “ah,” Guillam decided, was Martello’s way of continuing to talk while he thought.
Martello went on: “Ricardo offered the bureau his services on a sell-and-tell basis regarding an, ah, opium mission he claimed to have received to fly right over the border into, ah, Red China.”
A cold hand seemed to seize hold of Guillam’s stomach at this moment and stay there. His sense of occasion was all the greater following the slow lead-in through so much unrelated detail. He told Molly afterwards that it was as if “all the threads of the case had suddenly wound themselves together in a single skein” for him; but that was hindsight and he was boasting a little. Nevertheless the shock—after all the tiptoeing and the speculation, and the paper-chases—the plain shock of being almost physically projected into the Chinese mainland: that certainly was real, and required no exaggeration.
Martello was doing his worthy-solicitor act again.
“George, I have to fill you in on, ah, a little of the family background here. During the Laos thing the Company used a few of the northern hill tribes for combat purposes—maybe you knew that. Right up there in Burma—know those parts, the Shans? Volunteers, follow me? Lot of those tribes were one-crop communities, ah, opium communities, and in the interests of the war there, the Company had to, ah—well, turn a blind eye to what we couldn’t change, follow me? These good people have to live and many knew no better and saw nothing wrong in, ah, growing that crop. Follow me?”
“Jesus Christ,” said Sol under his breath. “Hear that, Cy?”
“I heard, Sol.”
Smiley said he followed.
“This policy, conducted, ah, by the Company, caused a very brief and very temporary rift between the Company on the one side and the, ah, Enforcement people here, formerly the Bureau of Narcotics. Because—well, while Sol’s boys were out to, well, ah, suppress the abuse of drugs, and quite rightly and, ah, ride down the shipments, which is their job, George, and their duty, it was in the Company’s best interest—in the best interest of the war, that is—at this point in time, you follow, George—to, well, ah, turn a blind eye.”
“Company played godfather to the hill tribes,” Sol growled. “Menfolk were all out fighting the war, Company people flew up to the villages, pushed their poppy crops, screwed their women, and flew their dope.”
Martello was not so easily thrown. “Well, we think that’s overstating things a little, Sol, but the, ah, rift was there and that’s the point as far as our friend George is concerned. Ricardo—well, he’s a tough cookie. He flew a lot of missions for the Company in Laos, and when the war ended, the Company resettled him and kissed him off and pulled up the ladder. Nobody messes around with those boys when there’s no war for them any more. So, ah, maybe at that time, the, ah, gamekeeper Ricardo turned into the, ah, poacher Ricardo, if you follow me—”
“Well, not absolutely,” Smiley confessed mildly.
Sol had no such scruples about unpalatable truths. “Long as the war was on,” he said, “Ricardo carried dope for the Company to keep the home fires burning up in the hill villages. War ended, he carried it for himself. He had the connects and he knew where the bodies were buried. He went independent, that’s all.”
“Thank you,” said Smiley, and Sol went back to scratching his crew cut.
For the second time, Martello backed toward the story of Ricardo’s embarrassing resurrection.
They must have done a deal between them, thought Guillam: Martello does the talking. “Smiley’s our contact,” Martello would have said. “We play him our way.”
On the second of September, 1973, said Martello, an “unnamed narcotics agent in the South East Asian theatre,” as he insisted on describing him, “a young man quite new to the field, George,” received a nocturnal telephone call at his home from a self-styled Captain Tiny Ricardo, hitherto believed dead, formerly a Laos mercenary with Captain Rocky. Ricardo offered a sizeable quantity of raw opium at standard buy-in rates. In addition to the opium, however, he was offering hot information at what he called a bargain-basement price for a quick sale. That is to say, fifty thousand U.S. dollars in small notes and a West German passport for a one-time journey out. “The unnamed narcotics agent met Ricardo later that night at a parking lot, and they quickly agreed on the sale of the opium.”
“You mean he bought it?” Smiley asked, most surprised.
“Sol tells me there is a, ah, fixed tariff for such deals—right Sol?—known to everyone in the game, George, and, ah, based upon a percentage of the street value of the haul, right?” Sol growled an affirmative. “The, ah, unnamed agent had a standing authority to buy in at that tariff, and he exercised it. No problem. The agent also, ah, expressed himself willing, subject to higher consent, to supply Ricardo with quick-expiry documentation, George” (he meant, it turned out later, a West German passport with only a few days to run) “in the event, George—an event not yet realised, you follow me—that Ricardo’s information prove to be of value, since policy is to encourage informants at all costs. But he made it clear, the agent, that the whole deal—the passport and the payment for the information—was subject to the ratification, and authority, of Sol’s people back at headquarters. So he bought the opium, but he held on the information. Right Sol?”
“On the button,” Sol growled.
“Sol, ah, maybe you should handle this part,” Martello said.
“He didn’t say where he set out from. He said he owed a favour to the people who sent him, and if they ever found him they’d kick his teeth right up his throat. That’s what’s in the protocol, word for word. His teeth up his throat. So he was in a hurry, hence the favourable price of fifty grand. He didn’t say who the people were, he did not produce one scrap of positive collateral apart from the opium, but he said he had the plane still hidden, a Beechcraft, and he offered to show this plane to our agent at the next occasion of their meeting, subject to there being serious interest back at headquarters,” said Sol, and devoted himself to his cigarette. “Opium was a couple of hundred kilos. Good stuff.”
Martello deftly took back the ball: “So the unnamed narcotics agent filed his story, George. He took down the teaser and he sent it back to headquarters and he told Ricardo to lie low till he heard back from his people. See you in ten days, maybe fourteen. Here’s your opium-money, but for information-money you have to wait a little. There’s regulations. Follow me?”
Smiley nodded sympathetically, and Martello nodded back at him while he went on talking: “So here it is. Here’s where you get your human error, right? It could be worse, but not much. In our game there’s two views of history: conspiracy and fuck-up. Here’s where we get the fuck-up, no question at all. Sol’s predecessor Ed, now ill, evaluated the material and on the evidence—now, you met him George, Ed Ristow, a good sound guy—and on the evidence available to him, Ed decided, understandably but wrongly, not to proceed. Ricardo wanted fifty grand. Well, for a major haul I understand that’s chickenfeed. But Ricardo, he wanted payment on the nail. A one-time, and out. And Ed—well Ed had responsibilities, and a lot of family trouble, and Ed just didn’t see his way to investing that sum of public American money in a character like Ricardo, when no haul is guaranteed, who has all the passes, knows all the fast steps, and is maybe squaring up to take that field agent of Ed’s, who is only a young guy, for one hell of a journey. So Ed killed it. No further action. File and forget. All squared away. Buy the opium, but not the story.”
Maybe it was a real coronary after all, Guillam reflected, marvelling. But with another part of him he knew it could have happened to himself, and even had: the pedlar who has the big one, and you let it through your fingers.
Rather than waste time in recrimination, Smiley had quietly moved ahead to the remaining possibilities.
“Where is Ricardo now, Marty?” he asked.
“Not known.”
His next question was much longer in coming, and was scarcely a question so much as a piece of thinking aloud. “To bring back an ‘unspecified load in payment,’” he repeated. “Are there any theories as to what type of load that might have been?”
“We guessed gold. We don’t have second vision, any more than you do,” Sol said harshly.
Here Smiley simply ceased to take part in the proceedings for a time. His face set, his expression became anxious and, to anyone who knew him, inward, and suddenly it was up to Guillam to keep the ball rolling. To do this, like Smiley, he addressed Martello.
“Ricardo did not give any hint of where he was to deliver his return load?”
“I told you, Pete; that’s all we have.”
Smiley was still non-combatant. He sat staring mournfully at his folded hands.
Guillam hunted for another question. “And no hint of the anticipated weight of the return load, either?” he asked.
“Jesus Christ,” said Sol and, misreading Smiley’s attitude, slowly shook his head in wonder at the kind of dead-beat company he was obliged to keep.
“But you are satisfied it was Ricardo who approached your agent?” Guillam asked, still in there throwing punches.
“One hundred percent,” said Sol.
“Sol,” Martello suggested, leaning across to him. “Sol, why don’t you just give George a blind copy of that original field report? That way he has everything we have.”
Sol hesitated, glanced at his sidekick, shrugged, and finally with some reluctance drew a flimsy sheet of India paper from a folder on the table beside him, from which he solemnly tore off the signature.
“Off the record,” he growled.
At this point Smiley abruptly revived, and, receiving the report from Sol’s hand, studied both sides intently for a while in silence.
“And where, please, is the unnamed narcotics agent who wrote this document?” he enquired finally, looking first at Martello, then at Sol.
Sol scraped his scalp. Cy began shaking his head in disapproval. Whereas Martello’s two quiet men showed no curiosity whatever. Pale Murphy continued reading among his notes, and his colleague gazed blankly at the former President.
“Shacked up in a hippie commune north of Katmandu,” Sol growled through a gush of cigarette smoke. “Bastard joined the opposition.”
Martello’s bright end-piece was wonderfully irrelevant: “So, ah, that’s the reason, George, why our computer has Ricardo dead and buried, George, when the over-all record—on reconsideration by our Enforcement friends—gives no grounds for that, ah, assumption.”
So far, it had seemed to Guillam that the boot was all on Martello’s foot. Sol’s boys had made fools of themselves, he was saying, but the Cousins were nothing if not magnanimous and they were willing to kiss and make up. In the post-coital calm which followed Martello’s revelations, this false impression prevailed a little longer.
“So, ah, George, I would say that henceforward, we may count—you, we, Sol here—on the fullest co-operation of all our agencies. I would say there was a very positive side to this. Right, George? Constructive?”
But Smiley in his renewed distraction only lifted his eyebrows and pursed his lips.
“Something on your mind, George?” Martello asked. “I said is there something on your mind?”
“Oh. Thank you. Beechcraft,” Smiley said. “Is that a single-engined plane?”
“Jesus,” said Sol under his breath.
“Twin, George, twin,” said Martello. “Kind of executive runabout kind of thing.”
“And the weight of the opium load was four hundred kilos, the report says.”
“Just short of half of one ton, George,” said Martello at his most solicitous. “A metric ton,” he added doubtfully, to Smiley’s shadowed face. “Not your English ton, George, naturally. Metric.”
“And it would be carried where—the opium, I mean?”
“Cabin,” said Sol. “Most likely unscrewed the spare seats. Beechcrafts come different shapes. We don’t know which this was, because we never got to see it.”
Smiley peered once more at the flimsy which he still clutched in his pudgy hand. “Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, I suppose they would have done.” And with a gold lead-pencil he wrote a small hieroglyphic in the margin before relapsing into his private reverie.
“Well,” said Martello brightly. “Guess us worker bees had better get back to our hives and see where that gets us—right, Pete?”
Guillam was half-way to his feet as Sol spoke. Sol had the rare and rather terrible gift of natural rudeness. Nothing had changed in him. He was in no way out of control. This was the way he talked, this was the way he did business, and other ways patently bored him.
“Jesus Christ, Martello,” he said. “What kind of a game are we playing round here? This is the big one, right? We have put our finge
r on maybe the most important single narcotics target in the entire South East Asian scene. Okay, so there’s liaison. Okay, so we have a hands-off deal with the Brits on Hong Kong. But Thailand’s ours, so’s the Philippines, so’s Taiwan, so’s the whole damn theatre, so’s the war, and the Brits are on their ass. Four months ago the Brits came in and made their pitch. Great, so we roll it to the Brits. What they been doing all that time? Rubbing soap into their pretty faces. So when do they get to shave, for God’s sakes?
“We got money riding on this. We got a whole apparatus standing by, ready to shake out Ko’s connections across the hemisphere. We been looking years for a guy like this. And we can nail him. We have enough legislation—boy, do we have legislation!—to pin a ten-to-thirty on him and then some! We got drugs on him, we got arms, we got embargoed goods, we got the biggest damn load of Red gold we ever saw Moscow hand to one man in our lives, and we got the first proof ever, if this guy Ricardo is telling a correct story, of a Moscow-subsidised drug-subversion programme which is ready and willing to carry the battle into Red China in the hopes of doing the same for them as they’re already doing for us.”
The outburst had woken Smiley like a douche of water. He was sitting forward on the edge of his chair, the narcotics agent’s report crumpled in his hand, and he was staring appalled, first at Sol, finally at Martello.
“Marty,” he muttered, “oh, my Lord. No.”
Guillam showed greater presence of mind. At least he threw in an objection: “You’d have to spread half a ton awfully thin, wouldn’t you, Sol, to hook eight hundred million Chinese?”
John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels Page 68
