Honourable Schoolboy (64 page)

It was the scale of the thing, Enderby explained at one point. Case was blowing up so big he really thought there ought to be a few official flies on the wall. It was the Colonial lobby, he explained at another. Wilbraham was raising a stink with Treasury.

‘All right, so we’ve heard the dirt,’ said Enderby, when Smiley had finished his lengthy summary, and Marteno’s praises had all but brought the roof down. ‘Now whose finger’s on the trigger, George, point one?’ he demanded to know, and after that the meeting became very much Enderby’s show, as meetings with Enderby usually did. ‘Who calls the shots when it gets hot? You, George? Still? I mean you’ve done a good planning job, I grant you, but it’s old Marty here who’s providing the artillery, isn’t it?’

At which Marteno had another bout of deafness, while he beamed upon all the great and lovely British people he was privileged to be associated with, and let Enderby go on doing his hatchet-work for him.

‘Marty, how do you see this one?’ Enderby pressed, as if he really had no idea; as if he never went fishing with Martello, or gave lavish dinners for him, or discussed top secret matters out of school.

A strange insight came to Guillam at this moment, though he kicked himself afterwards for making too little of it. Martello knew. The revelations about Nelson, which Martello had affected to be dazzled by, were not revelations at all, but restatements of information which he and his quiet men already possessed. Guillam read it in their pale, wooden faces and their watchful eyes. He read it in Martello’s fulsomeness. Martello knew.

‘Ah technically this is George’s show, Saul,’ Martello reminded Enderby loyally, in answer to his question, but with just enough spin on the technically to put the rest in doubt. ‘George is on the bridge, Saul. We’re just there to stoke the engines.’

Enderby staged an unhappy frown and shoved a match between his teeth.

‘George, how does that grab you? You content to let that happen, are you? Let Marty chuck in the cover, the accommodation out there, communications, all the cloak and dagger stuff, surveillance, charging round Hong Kong and whatnot? While you call the shots? Crikey. Bit like wearing someone else’s dinnerjacket, I’d have thought.’ Smiley was firm enough but, to Guillam’s eye, a deal too concerned with the question, and not nearly concerned enough with the thinly-veiled collusion.

‘Not at all,’ said Smiley. ‘Martello and I have a clear understanding. The spearhead of the operation will be handled by ourselves. If supportive action is required, Martello will supply it. The product is then shared. If one is thinking in terms of a dividend for the American investment, it comes with the partition of the product. The responsibility for obtaining it remains ours.’ He ended strongly. ‘The letter of agreement setting all this out has of course long been on file.’

Enderby glanced at Lacon. ‘Oliver, you said you’d send me that. Where is it?’

Lacon put his long head on one side and pulled a dreary smile at nothing in particular. ‘Kicking around your Third Room I should think, Saul.’

Enderby tried another tack. ‘And you two guys can see the deal holding up in all contingencies, can you? I mean, who’s handling the safe houses, all that? Burying the body, sort of thing?’

Smiley again. ‘Housekeeping Section has already rented a cottage in the country, and is preparing it for occupation,’ he said stolidly.

Enderby took the wet matchstick from his mouth and broke it into the ashtray. ‘Could have had my place if you’d asked,’ he muttered absently. ‘Bags of room. Nobody ever there. Staff. Everything.’ But he went on worrying at his theme. ‘Look here. Answer me this one. Your man panics. He cuts and runs through the back streets of Hong Kong. Who plays cops and robbers to get him back?’

Don’t answer it! Guillam prayed. He has absolutely no business to plumb around like this! Tell him to get lost!

Smiley’s answer, though effective, lacked the fire Guillam longed for.

‘Oh I suppose one can always invent a hypothesis,’ he objected mildly. ‘I think the best one can say is that Martello and I would at that stage pool our thoughts and act for the best.’

‘George and I have a fine working relationship, Saul,’ Martello declared handsomely. ‘Just fine.’

‘Much tidier, you see, George,’ Enderby resumed, through a fresh matchstick. ‘Much safer if it’s an all-Yank do. Malty’s people make a balls and all they do is apologise to the Governor, post a couple of blokes to Walla-Walla and promise not to do it again. That’s it. What everyone expects of ‘em anyway. Advantage of a disgraceful reputation. right, Marty? Nobody’s surprised if you screw the housemaid.’

‘Why, Saul,’ said Martello and laughed richly at the great British sense of humour.

‘Much more tricky if we’re the naughty boys,’ Enderby went on. ‘Or you are, rather. Governor could blow you down with one puff, the way it’s set up at the moment. Wilbraham’s crying all over his desk already.’

Against Smiley’s distracted obduracy, there was however no progress to be made, so, for the while, Enderby bowed out and they resumed their discussion of the ‘meat-and-potatoes’, which was Martello’s amusing phrase for modalities. But before they finished Enderby had one last shot at dislodging Smiley from his primacy, choosing again the issue of the efficient handling and aftercare of the catch.

‘George, who’s going to manage all the grilling and stuff? You using that funny little Jesuit of yours, the one with the smart name?’

‘Di Salis will be responsible for the Chinese aspects of the debriefing and our Soviet Research Section for the Russian side.’

‘That the crippled don-woman, is it, George? The one bloody Bill Haydon shoved out to grass for drinking?’

‘It is they, between them, who have brought the case this far,’ said Smiley.

Inevitably, Martello sprang into the breach.

‘Ah now George, I won’t have that! Sir, I will not! Saul, Oliver, I wish you to know that I regard the Dolphin case, in all its aspects, Saul, as a personal triumph for George here, and for George alone!’

With a big hand all round for dear old George, they made their way back to Cambridge Circus.

‘Gunpowder, treason and plot!’ Guillam expostulated. ‘Why’s Enderby selling you down the river? What’s all that tripe about losing the letter?’

‘Yes,’ said Smiley at last, but from far away. ‘Yes, that’s very careless of them. I thought I’d send them a copy actually. Blind, by hand, for information only. Enderby seemed so woolly, didn’t he. Will you attend to that, Peter, ask the mothers?’

The mention of the letter of agreement - heads of agreement as Lacon called it - revived Guillam’s worst misgivings. He remembered how he had foolishly allowed Sam Collins to be the bearer of it, and how, according to Fawn, he had spent more than an hour cloistered with Martello under the pretext of delivering it. He remembered Sam Collins also as he had glimpsed him in Lacon’s anteroom, the mysterious confidant of Lacon and Enderby, lazing around Whitehall like a blasted Cheshire cat. He remembered Enderby’s taste for backgammon, which he played for very high stakes, and it even passed through his head, as he tried to sniff out the conspiracy, that Enderby might be a client of Sam Collins’s club. From that notion he soon pulled back, discounting it as too absurd. But ironically it later turned out to be true. And he remembered his fleeting conviction - based on little but the physiognomy of the three Americans, and therefore soon also to be dismissed - that they knew already what Smiley had come to tell them.

But Guillam did not pull back from the notion of Sam Collins as the ghost at that morning’s feast, and as he boarded the plane at London Airport, exhausted by his long and energetic farewell from Molly, the same ghost grinned at him through the smoke of Sam’s infernal brown cigarette.

The flight was uneventful, except in one respect. They were three strong, and in the seating arrangements Guillam had won a small battle in his running war with Fawn. Over Housekeeping Section’s dead body, Guillam and Smiley flew first class, while Fawn the babysitter took an aisle seat at the front of the tourist compartment, cheek by jowl with the airline security guards, who slept innocently for most of the journey while Fawn sulked. There had never been any suggestion, fortunately, that Martello and his quiet men would fly with them, for Smiley was determined that that should not on any account happen. As it was, Martello flew west, staging in Langley for instructions, and continuing through Honolulu and Tokyo in order to be on hand in Hong Kong for their arrival.

As an unconsciously ironic footnote to their departure, Smiley left a long handwritten note to Jerry, to be presented to him on his arrival at the Circus, congratulating him on his first-rate performance. The carbon copy is still in Jerry’s dossier. Nobody has thought to remove it. Smiley speaks of Jerry’s ‘unswerving loyalty’, and of ’setting the crown on more than thirty years of service’. He includes an apocryphal message from Ann ‘who joins me in wishing you an equally distinguished career as a novelist’. And he winds up rather awkwardly with the sentiment that ‘one of the privileges of our work is that it provides us with such wonderful colleagues. I must tell you that we all think of you in those terms.’

Certain people do still ask why no anxious word about Jerry’s whereabouts had reached the Circus before take-off. He was after all several days overdue. Once more they look for ways of blaming Smiley, but there is no evidence of a lapse on the Circus’s side. For the transmission of Jerry’s report from the airbase in North East Thailand - his last - the Cousins had cleared a line through Bangkok direct to the Annexe in London. But the arrangement was valid for one signal and one answer-back only, and a follow-up was not envisaged. Accordingly the grizzle, when it came, was routed first to Bangkok on the military network, thence to the Cousins in Hong Kong on their network - since Hong Kong was held to have a total lien on all Dolphin-starred material - and only then, marked ‘routine’, repeated by Hong Kong to London, where it kicked around in several laminated rosewood in-trays before anybody noted its significance. And it must be admitted that the languid Major Masters had attached very little significance to the no-show, as he later called it, of some travelling English fairy. ‘ASSUME EXPLANATION YOUR END’ his message ends. Major Masters now lives in Norman, Oklahoma, where he runs a small automobile repair business.

Nor did Housekeeping Section have any reason to panic - or so they still plead. Jerry’s instructions, on reaching Bangkok, were to find himself a plane, any plane, using his air-travel card, and get himself to London. No date was mentioned, and no airline. The whole purpose was to leave things fluid. Most likely he had stopped over somewhere for a bit of relaxation. Many homing fieldmen do, and Jerry was on record as sexually voracious. So they kept their usual watch on flight lists and made a provisional booking at Sarratt for the two weeks’ drying-out and recycling ceremony, then returned their attention to the far more urgent business of setting up the Dolphin safe house. This was a charming millhouse, quite remote, though situated in the commuter town of Maresfield in Sussex, and on most days they found a reason for going down there. As well as di Salis and a sizeable part of his Chinese archive, a small army of interpreters and transcribers had to be accommodated, not to mention technicians, babysitters and a Chinese-speaking doctor. In no time at all, the residents were complaining noisily to the police about the influx of Japanese. The local paper carried a story that they were a visiting dance troupe. Housekeeping Section had inspired the leak.

Jerry had nothing to collect at the hotel, and as it happened no hotel, but he reckoned he had an hour to get clear, perhaps two. He had no doubt the Americans had the whole town wired, and he knew there would be nothing easier, if London asked for it, than for Major Masters to have Jerry’s name and description broadcast as an American deserter travelling on a false-flag passport. Once his taxi was clear of the gates, therefore, he took it to the southern edge of town, waited, then took a second taxi and pointed it due north. A wet haze layover the paddies and the straight road ran into it endlessly. The radio pumped out female Thai voices like an endless slow motion nursery rhyme. They passed an American electronics base, a circular grid a quarter of a mile wide floating in the haze and known locally as the Elephant Cage. Giant bodkins marked the perimeter, and at the middle, surrounded by webs of strung wire, burned a single infernal light, like the promise of a future war. He had heard there were twelve hundred language students inside the place, but not one soul was to be seen.

He needed time, and in the event he helped himself to more than one week. Even now, he needed that long to bring himself to the point, because Jerry at heart was a soldier and voted with his feet. In the beginning was the deed, Smiley liked to say to him, in his failed-priest mood, quoting from one of his German poets. For Jerry, that simple maxim had become a pillar of his uncomplicated philosophy. What a man thinks is his own business. What matters is what he does.

Reaching the Mekong by early evening, he selected a village and strolled idly for a couple of days up and down the river bank, trailing his shoulder bag and kicking at an empty Coca-Cola tin with the toe of his buckskin boot. Across the river, behind the brown ant-hill mountains, lay the Ho Chi-minh trail. He had once watched a B52 strike from this very point, three miles away in Central Laos. He remembered how the ground shook under his feet and the sky emptied and burned, and he had known, he had really for a moment known, what it was like to be in the middle of it.

The same night, to use his own jolly phrase, Jerry Westerby blew the walls out, much along the lines the housekeepers expected of him, if not in quite the circumstances. In a riverside bar where they played old tunes on a nickelodeon, he drank black market PX Scotch and night after night drove himself into oblivion, leading one laughing girl after another up the unlit staircase to a tattered bedroom, till finally he stayed there sleeping, and didn’t come down. Waking with a jolt, clear-headed at dawn, to the screaming of roosters, and the clatter of the river traffic, Jerry forced himself to think long and generously of his chum and mentor, George Smiley. It was an act of will that made him do this, almost an act of obedience. He wished, quite simply, to rehearse the articles of his Creed, and his Creed till now had been old George. At Sarratt, they have a very worldly and relaxed attitude to the motives of a fieldman, and no patience at all for the fiery-eyed zealot who grinds his teeth and says ‘I hate Communism’. If he hates it that much, they argue, he’s most likely in love with it already. What they really like - and what Jerry possessed, what he was, in effect - was the fellow who hadn’t a lot of time for flannel but loved the service and knew - though God forbid he should make a fuss of it - that we were right. We being a necessarily flexible notion, but to Jerry it meant George and that was that.