Chapter twenty-seven

When Smiley had left the Islay for Grosvenor Square that morning the streets had been bathed in harsh sunshine and the sky was blue. Now as he drove the hired Rover past the unlovable facades of the Edgware Road, the wind had dropped, the sky was black with waiting rain and all that remained of the sun was a lingering redness on the tarmac. He parked in St John’s Wood Road, in the forecourt of a new tower block with a glass porch, but he did not enter by the porch. Passing a large sculpture describing, as it seemed to him, nothing but a sort of cosmic muddle, he made his way through icy drizzle to a descending outside staircase marked ‘exit only’. The first flight was of terrazzo tile and had a banister of African teak. Below that, the contractor’s generosity ceased. Rough-rendered plaster replaced the earlier luxury and a stench of uncollected refuse crammed the air. His manner was cautious rather than furtive, but when he reached the iron door he paused before putting both hands to the long handle, and drew himself together as if for an ordeal. The door opened a foot and stopped with a thud, to be answered by a shout of fury, which echoed many times like a shout in a swimming pool.

‘Hey, why you don’t look out once?’

Smiley edged through the gap. The door had stopped against the bumper of a very shiny car, but Smiley wasn’t looking at the car.

Across the garage two men in overalls were hosing down a Rolls-Royce in a cage. Both were looking in his direction.

‘Why you don’t come other way?’ the same angry voice demanded.

‘You tenant here? Why you don’t use tenant lift? This stair for fire.’

It was not possible to tell which of them was speaking, but whichever it was he spoke in a heavy Slav accent. The light in the cage was behind them. The shorter man held the hose.

Smiley walked forward, taking care to keep his hands clear of his pockets. The man with the hose went back to work, but the taller stayed watching him through the gloom. He wore white overalls and he had turned the collar points upwards, which gave him a rakish air.

His black hair was swept back and full.

‘I’m not a tenant, I’m afraid,’ Smiley conceded. ‘But I wonder if I might just speak to someone about renting a space. My name’s Carmichael,’ he explained in a louder voice. ‘I’ve bought a flat up the road.’

He made a gesture as if to produce a card; as if his documents would speak better for him than his insignificant appearance. ‘I’ll pay in advance,’ he promised. ‘I could sign a contract or whatever is necessary, I’m sure. I’d want it to be above board, naturally. I can give references, pay a deposit, anything within reason. As long as it’s above board. It’s a Rover. A new one. I won’t go behind the Company’s back because I don’t believe in it. But I’ll do anything else within reason. I’d have brought it down, but I didn’t want to presume.

And, well, I know it sounds silly but I didn’t like the look of the ramp.

It’s so new, you see.’

Throughout this protracted statement of intent, which he delivered with an air of fussy concern, Smiley had remained in the downbeam of a bright light strung from the rafter: a supplicant, rather abject figure, one might have thought, and easily visible across the open space. The attitude had its effect. Leaving the cage, the white figure strode towards a glazed kiosk, built between two iron pillars, and with his fine head beckoned Smiley to follow. As he went, he pulled the gloves off his hands. They were leather gloves, handstitched and quite expensive.

‘Well, you want mind out how you open door,’ he warned in the same loud voice. ‘You want use lift, see, or maybe you pay couple pounds.

Use lift you don’t make no trouble.’

‘Max, I want to talk to you,’ said Smiley once they were inside the kiosk. ‘Alone. Away from here.’

Max was broad and powerful with a pale boy’s face, but the skin of it was lined like an old man’s. He was handsome and his eyes were very still. He had altogether a rather deadly stillness.

‘Now? You want talk now?’

‘In the car. I’ve got one outside. If you walk to the top of the ramp you can get straight into it.’

Putting his hand to his mouth Max yelled across the garage. He was half a head taller than Smiley and had a roar like a drum major’s.

Smiley couldn’t catch the words. Possibly they were Czech. There was no answer but Max was already unbuttoning his overalls.

‘It’s about Jim Prideaux,’ Smiley said.

‘Sure,’ said Max.

They drove up to Hampstead and sat in the shiny Rover, watching the kids breaking the ice on the pond. The rain had held off after all; perhaps because it was so cold.

Above ground Max wore a blue suit and a blue shirt. His tie was blue but carefully differentiated from the other blues: he had taken a lot of trouble to get the shade. He wore several rings and flying boots with zips at the side.

‘I’m not in it any more. Did they tell you?’ Smiley asked. Max shrugged. ‘I thought they would have told you,’ Smiley said.

Max was sitting straight; he didn’t use the seat to lean on, he was too proud. He did not look at Smiley. His eyes were turned fixedly to the pool and the kids fooling and skidding in the reeds.

‘They don’t tell me nothing,’ he said.

‘I was sacked,’ said Smiley. ‘I guess at about the same time as you.’

Max seemed to stretch slightly then settle again. ‘Too bad, George.

What you do: steal money?’

‘I don’t want them to know, Max.’

‘You private, I private too,’ said Max and from a gold case offered Smiley a cigarette which he declined.

‘I want to hear what happened,’ Smiley went on. ‘I wanted to find out before they sacked me but there wasn’t time.’

‘That why they sack you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t know so much, huh?’ said Max, his gaze nonchalantly on the kids.

Smiley spoke very simply, watching all the while in case Max didn’t understand. They could have spoken German but Max wouldn’t have that, he knew. So he spoke English and watched Max’s face.

‘I don’t know anything, Max. I had no part in it at all. I was in Berlin when it happened, I knew nothing of the planning or the background.

They cabled me, but when I arrived in London it was too late.’

‘Planning,’ Max repeated. ‘That was some planning.’ His jaw and cheeks became suddenly a mass of lines and his eyes turned narrow, making a grimace or a smile. ‘So now you got plenty time, eh George?

Jesus, that was some planning.’

‘Jim had a special job to do. He asked for you.’

‘Sure. Jim ask for Max to babysit.’

‘How did he get you? Did he turn up in Acton and speak to Toby Esterhase, and say “Toby, I want Max”? How did he get you?’

Max’s hands were resting on his knees. They were groomed and slender, all but the knuckles which were very broad. Now, at the mention of Esterhase he turned the palms inwards and made a light cage of them as if he had caught a butterfly.

‘What the hell?’ Max asked.

‘So what did happen?’

‘Was private,’ said Max. ‘Jim private, I private. Like now.’

‘Come,’ said Smiley. ‘Please.’

Max spoke as if it was any mess: family or business or love. It was a Monday evening in mid-October, yes, the sixteenth. It was a slack time, he hadn’t been abroad for weeks and he was fed up. He had spent all day making a reconnaissance of a house in Bloomsbury where a pair of Chinese students was supposed to live; the lamplighters were thinking of mounting a burglary against their rooms.

He was on the point of returning to the Laundry in Acton to write his report when Jim picked him up in the street with a chance-encounter routine and drove him up to Crystal Palace, where they sat in the car and talked, like now, except they spoke Czech. Jim said there was a special job going, something so big, so secret that no one else in the Circus, not even Toby Esterhase, was allowed to know that it was taking place. It came from the top of the tree and it was hairy. Was Max interested?

‘I say: “Sure, Jim. Max interested.” Then he ask me: “Take leave. You go to Toby, you say: Toby, my mother sick, I got to take some leave.”

I don’t got no mother. “Sure,” I say, “I take leave. How long for, please, Jim?” ‘ The whole job shouldn’t last more than the weekend, said Jim. They should be in on Saturday and out on Sunday. Then he asked Max whether he had any current identities running for him: best would be Austrian, small trade, with driving licence to match. If Max had none handy at Acton, Jim would get something put together in Brixton.

‘Sure, I say. I have Hartmann, Rudi, from Linz, Sudeten émigré.’

So Max gave Toby a story about girl trouble up in Bradford and Toby gave Max a ten-minute lecture on the sexual mores of the English; and on the Thursday, Jim and Max met in a safe house which the scalphunters ran in those days, a rackety old place in Lambeth. Jim had brought the keys. A three-day hit, Jim repeated, a clandestine conference outside Brno. Jim had a big map and they studied it. Jim would travel Czech, Max would go Austrian. They would make their separate ways as far as Brno. Jim would fly from Paris to Prague, then train from Prague. He didn’t say what papers he would be carrying himself but Max presumed Czech because Czech was Jim’s other side, Max had seen him use it before. Max was Hartmann, Rudi, trading in glass and ovenware. He was to cross the Austrian border by van near Mikulov, then head north to Brno, giving himself plenty of time to make a six-thirty rendezvous on Saturday evening in a side street near the football ground. There was a big match that evening starting at seven. Jim would walk with the crowd as far as the side street then climb into the van. They agreed times, fallbacks and the usual contingencies; and besides, said Max, they knew each other’s handwriting by heart.

Once out of Brno they were to drive together along the Bilovice road as far as Krtiny, then turn east towards Racice. Somewhere along the Racice road they would pass on the left side a parked black car, most likely a Fiat. The first two figures of the registration would be nine nine. The driver would be reading a newspaper. They would pull up, Max would go over and ask whether he was all right. The man would reply that his doctor had forbidden him to drive more than three hours at a stretch. Max would say it was true that long journeys were a strain on the heart. The driver would then show them where to park the van and take them to the rendezvous in his own car.

‘Who were you meeting, Max? Did Jim tell you that as well?’

No, that was all Jim told him.

As far as Brno, said Max, things went pretty much as planned. Driving from Mikulov he was followed for a while by a couple of civilian motorcyclists who interchanged every ten minutes, but he put that down to his Austrian number plates and it didn’t bother him. He made Brno comfortably by mid-afternoon, and to keep things shipshape he booked into the hotel and drank a couple of coffees in the restaurant.

Some stooge picked him up and Max talked to him about the vicissitudes of the glass trade and his girl in Linz who’d gone off with an American. Jim missed the first rendezvous but he made the fallback an hour later. Max supposed at first the train was late but Jim just said

‘Drive slowly’ and he knew then that there was trouble.

This was how it was going to work, said Jim. There’d been a change of plan. Max was to stay right out of it. He should drop Jim short of the rendezvous, then lie up in Brno till Monday morning. He was not to make contact with any of the Circus’s trade routes: no one from Aggravate, no one from Plato, least of all with the Prague residency. If Jim didn’t surface at the hotel by eight on Monday morning, Max should get out any way he could. If Jim did surface, Max’s job would be to carry Jim’s message to Control: the message could be very simple, it might be no more than one word. When he got to London, he should go to Control personally, make an appointment through old MacFadean, and give him the message, was that clear? If Jim didn’t show up, Max should take up life where he left off and deny everything, inside the Circus as well as out.

‘Did Jim say why the plan had changed?’

‘Jim worried.’

‘So something had happened to him on his way to meet you?’

‘Maybe. I say Jim: “Listen, Jim, I come with. You worried, I be babysitter, I drive for you, shoot for you, what the hell?” Jim get damn angry, okay?’

‘Okay,’ said Smiley.

They drove to the Racice road, and found the car parked without lights facing a track over a field, a Fiat, nine nine on the number plates, black. Max stopped the van and let Jim out. As Jim walked towards the Fiat, the driver opened the door an inch in order to work the courtesy light. He had a newspaper opened over the steering wheel.

‘Could you see his face?’

‘Was in shadow.’

Max waited, presumably they exchanged word codes, Jim got in, the car drove away over the track, still without lights. Max returned to Brno. He was sitting over a schnapps in the restaurant when the whole town started rumbling. He thought at first the sound came from the football stadium, then he realised it was lorries, a convoy racing down the road. He asked the waitress what was going on and she said there had been a shooting in the woods, counter-revolutionaries were responsible. He went out to the van, turned on the radio and caught the bulletin from Prague. That was the first he had heard of a general.

He guessed there were cordons everywhere, and anyway he had Jim’s instructions to lie up in the hotel till Monday morning.

‘Maybe Jim send me message. Maybe some guy from resistance come to me.’

‘With this one word,’ said Smiley quietly.

‘Sure.’

‘He didn’t say what sort of word it was?’

‘You crazy,’ said Max. It was either a statement or a question.

‘A Czech word or an English word or a German word?’

No one came, said Max, not bothering to answer craziness.

On Monday he burned his entry passport, changed the plates on his van and used his West German escape. Rather than head south he drove south-west, ditched the van and crossed the border by bus to Freistadt which was the softest route he knew. In Freistadt he had a drink and spent the night with a girl because he felt puzzled and angry and he needed to catch his breath. He got to London on Tuesday night and despite Jim’s orders he thought he’d better try and contact Control: ‘That was quite damn difficult,’ he commented.

He tried to telephone but only got as far as the mothers. MacFadean wasn’t around. He thought of writing but he remembered Jim, and how no one else in the Circus was allowed to know. He decided that writing was too dangerous. The rumour at the Acton Laundry said that Control was ill. He tried to find out what hospital, but couldn’t.

‘Did people at the Laundry seem to know where you’d been?’

‘I wonder.’

He was still wondering when the housekeepers sent for him and asked to look at his Rudi Hartmann passport. Max said he had lost it, which was after all pretty near true. Why hadn’t he reported the loss? He didn’t know. When had the loss occurred? He didn’t know. When did he last see Jim Prideaux? He couldn’t remember. He was sent down to the Nursery at Sarratt but Max felt fit and angry and after two or three days the inquisitors got tired of him or somebody called them off.

‘I go back Acton Laundry. Toby Esterhase give me hundred pound, tell me go to hell.’

A scream of applause went up round the pond. Two boys had sunk a great slab of ice and now the water was bubbling through the hole.

‘Max, what happened to Jim?’

‘What the hell?’

‘You hear these things. It gets around among the émigrés. What happened to him? Who mended him, how did Bill Haydon buy him back?’

‘Émigrés don’t speak Max no more.’

‘But you have heard, haven’t you?’

This time it was the white hands that told him. Smiley saw the spread of fingers, five on one hand, three on the other and already he felt the sickness before Max spoke.

‘So they shoot Jim from behind. Maybe Jim was running away, what the hell? They put Jim in prison. That’s not so good for Jim. For my friends also. Not good.’ He started counting: ‘Pribyl,’ he began, touching his thumb. ‘Bukova Mirek, from Pribyl’s wife the brother.’ He took a finger. ‘Also Pribyl’s wife.’ A second finger, a third: ‘Kolin Jiri, also his sister, mainly dead. This was network Aggravate.’ He changed hands. ‘After network Aggravate come network Plato. Come lawyer Rapotin, come Colonel Landkron, and typists Eva Krieglova and Hanka Bilova. Also mainly dead. That’s damn big price, George’ – holding the clean fingers close to Smiley’s face – ‘that’s damn big price for one Englishman with bullet-hole.’ He was losing his temper. ‘Why you bother, George? Circus don’t be no good for Czecho. Allies don’t be no good for Czecho. No rich guy don’t get no poor guy out of prison! You want know some history? How you say ” Märchen “, please George?’

‘Fairy-tale,’ said Smiley.

‘Okay, so don’t tell me no more damn fairy-tale how English got to save Czecho no more!’

‘Perhaps it wasn’t Jim,’ said Smiley after a long silence.

‘Perhaps it was someone else who blew the networks. Not Jim.’

Max was already opening the door. ‘What the hell?’ he asked.

‘Max,’ said Smiley.

‘Don’t worry, George. I don’t got no one to sell you to. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

Sitting in the car still, Smiley watched him hail a taxi. He did it with a flick of the hand as if he were summoning a waiter. He gave the address without bothering to look at the driver. Then rode off sitting very upright again, staring straight ahead of him, like royalty ignoring the crowd.

As the taxi disappeared, Inspector Mendel rose slowly from the bench, folded together his newspaper, walked over to the Rover.

‘You’re clean,’ he said. ‘Nothing on your back, nothing on your conscience.’

Not so sure of that, Smiley handed him the keys to the car then walked to the bus stop, first crossing the road in order to head west.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14