Smiley's People (37 page)

Perhaps the hurts which had been visited on her—of the mind as well as of the body—did what years of prayer and anxiety had failed to do, and purged her of her self-recriminations regarding Alexandra. She mourned Glikman at her leisure, she was conscious of being quite alone in the world, but in the winter landscape her solitude was not disagreeable to her. A retired brigadier proposed marriage to her but she declined. It turned out later that he proposed to everybody. Peter Guillam visited her at least every week and sometimes they walked together for an hour or two. In faultless French he talked to her mainly of landscape gardening, a subject on which he possessed an inexhaustible knowledge. That was Ostrakova’s life, where it touched upon this story. And it was lived out in total ignorance of the events that her own first letter to the General had set in train.

“D
o you know his name really
is
Ferguson?” Saul Enderby drawled in that lounging Belgravia cockney which is the final vulgarity of the English upper class.

“I never doubted it,” Smiley said.

“He’s about all we’ve got left of that whole lamplighter stable. Wise Men don’t hold with domestic surveillance these days. Anti-Party or some damn thing.” Enderby continued his study of the bulky document in his hand. “So what’s
your
name, George? Sherlock Holmes dogging his poor old Moriarty? Captain Ahab chasing his big white whale? Who are you?”

Smiley did not reply.

“Wish I had an enemy, I must say,” Enderby remarked, turning a few pages. “Been looking for one for donkey’s years. Haven’t I, Sam?”

“Night and day, Chief,” Sam Collins agreed heartily, and sent his master a confiding grin.

Ben’s Place was the back room of a dark hotel in Knightsbridge and the three men had met there an hour ago. A notice on the door said “MANAGEMENT STRICTLY PRIVATE” and inside was an ante-room for coats and hats and privacy, and beyond it lay this oak-panelled sanctum full of books and musk, which in turn gave on to its own rectangle of walled garden stolen from the park, with a fish-pond and a marble angel and a path for contemplative walks. Ben’s identity, if he ever had one, was lost in the unwritten archives of Circus mythology. But this place of his remained, as an unrecorded perquisite of Enderby’s appointment, and of George Smiley’s before him—and as a trysting ground for meetings that afterwards have not occurred.

“I’ll read it again, if you don’t mind,” Enderby said. “I’m a bit slow on the uptake this time of day.”

“I think that would be jolly helpful, actually, Chief,” said Collins.

Enderby shifted his half-lens spectacles, but only by way of peering over the top of them, and it was Smiley’s secret theory that they were plain glass anyway.

“Kirov is doing the talking. This is after Leipzig has put the bite on him, right, George?” Smiley gave a distant nod. “They’re still sitting in the cat house with their pants down, but it’s five in the morning and the girls have been sent home. First we get Kirov’s tearful how-could-you-do-this-to-me? ‘I thought you were my friend, Otto!’ he says. Christ, he picked a wrong ’un there! Then comes his statement, put into bad English by the translators. They’ve made a concordance—that the word, George? Um’s and ah’s omitted.”

Whether it was the word or not, Smiley offered no answer. Perhaps he was not expected to. He sat very still in a leather armchair leaning forward over his clasped hands, and he had not taken off his brown tweed overcoat. A set of the Kirov typescripts lay at his elbow. He looked drawn, and Enderby remarked later that he seemed to have been on a diet. Sam Collins, head of Operations, sat literally in Enderby’s shadow, a dapper man with a dark moustache and a flashy, ever-ready smile. There had been a time when Collins was the Circus hard-man, whose years in the field had taught him to despise the cant of the fifth floor. Now he was the poacher turned gamekeeper, nurturing his own pension and security in the way he had once nurtured his networks. A wilful blankness had overcome him; he was smoking brown cigarettes down to the half-way mark, then stubbing them into a cracked sea shell, while his doglike gaze rested faithfully on Enderby, his master. Enderby himself stood propped against the pillar of French windows, silhouetted by the light outside, and he was using a bit of matchstick to pick his teeth. A silk handkerchief peeked from his left sleeve and he stood with one knee forward and slightly bent as if he were in the members’ enclosure at Ascot. In the garden, shreds of mist lay stretched like fine gauze across the lawn. Enderby put back his head and held the document away from him like a menu.

“Here we go. I’m Kirov. ‘As a finance officer working in Moscow Centre from 1970 to 1974, it was my duty to unearth irregularities in the accounts of overseas residencies and bring the culprits to book.’” He broke off and peered over his glasses again. “This is all before Kirov was posted to Paris, right?”

“Dead right,” said Collins keenly and glanced at Smiley for support, but got none.

“Just working it out, you see, George,” Enderby explained. “Just getting my ducks in a row. Haven’t got your little grey cells.”

Sam Collins smiled brightly at his chief’s show of modesty.

Enderby continued: “‘As a result of conducting these extremely delicate and confidential enquiries, which in some cases led to the punishment of senior officers of Moscow Centre, I made the acquaintance of the head of the independent Thirteenth Intelligence Directorate, subordinated to the Party’s Central Committee, who is known throughout Centre only by his workname Karla. This is a woman’s name and is said to belong to the first network he controlled.’ That right, George?”

“It was during the Spanish Civil War,” said Smiley.

“The great playground. Well, well. To continue. ‘The Thirteenth Directorate is a separate service within Moscow Centre, since its principal duty is the recruitment, training, and placing of illegal agents under deep cover in Fascist countries, known also as moles . . . blah . . . blah . . . blah. Often a mole will take many years to find his place inside the target country before he becomes active in secret work.’ Shades of Bloody Bill Haydon. ‘The task of servicing such moles is not entrusted to normal overseas residencies but to a Karla representative, as he is known, usually a military officer, whose daywork is to be an attaché of an embassy. Such representatives are handpicked by Karla personally and constitute an élite... blah... blah... enjoying privileges of trust and freedom not given to other Centre officers, also travel and money. They are accordingly objects of jealousy to the rest of the service.’”

Enderby affected to draw breath: “
Christ,
these translators!” he exclaimed. “Or maybe it’s just Kirov being a perishing little bore. You’d think a man making his deathbed confession would have the grace to keep it brief, wouldn’t you? But not our Kirov, oh no. How you doing, Sam?”

“Fine, Chief, fine.”

“Here we go again,” said Enderby, and resumed his ritual tone: “‘In the course of my general investigations into financial irregularities, the integrity of a Karla resident came into question, the resident in Lisbon, Colonel Orlov. Karla convened a secret tribunal of his own people to hear the case, and as a result of my evidence Colonel Orlov was liquidated in Moscow on June 10, 1973.’ That checks, you say, Sam?”

“We have an unconfirmed defector report that he was shot by firing-squad,” said Collins breezily.

“Congratulations, Comrade Kirov, the embezzler’s friend. Jesus. What a snake-pit. Worse than us.” Enderby continued: “‘For my part in bringing the criminal Orlov to justice I was personally congratulated by Karla, and also sworn to secrecy, since he considered the irregularity of Colonel Orlov a shame on his Directorate, and damaging to his standing within Moscow Centre. Karla is known as a comrade of high standards of integrity, and for this reason has many enemies among the ranks of the self-indulgent.’”

Enderby deliberately paused, and yet again glanced at Smiley over the top of his half-lenses.

“We all spin the ropes that hang us, right, George?”

“We’re a bunch of suicidal spiders, Chief,” said Collins heartily, and flashed an even broader smile at a place somewhere between the two of them.

But Smiley was lost in his reading of Kirov’s statement and not accessible to pleasantries.

“Skip the next year of Brother Kirov’s life and loves, and let’s come to his next meeting with Karla,” Enderby proposed, undeterred by Smiley’s taciturnity. “The nocturnal summons . . . that’s standard, I gather.” He turned a couple of pages. Smiley, following Enderby, did the same. “Car pulls up outside Kirov’s Moscow apartment—why can’t they say
flat
for God’s sake, like anyone else?—he’s hauled out of bed and driven to an unknown destination. They lead a rum life, don’t they, those gorillas in Moscow Centre, never knowing whether they’re getting a medal or a bullet.” He referred to the report again. “All that tallies, does it, George? The journey and stuff? Half an hour by car, small plane, and so forth?”

“The Thirteenth Directorate has three or four establishments, including a large training camp near Minsk,” Smiley said.

Enderby turned some more pages.

“So here’s Kirov back in Karla’s presence again: middle of nowhere, the same night. Karla and Kirov totally alone. Small wooden hut, monastic atmosphere, no trimmings, no witnesses—or none visible. Karla goes straight to the nub. How would Kirov like a posting to Paris? Kirov would like one very much, sir—” He turned another page. “Kirov always admired the Thirteenth Directorate, sir, blah, blah—always been a great fan of Karla’s—creep, crawl, creep. Sounds like you, Sam. Interesting that Kirov thought Karla looked tired—notice that point?—twitchy. Karla under stress, smoking like a chimney.”

“He always did that,” said Smiley.

“Did what?”

“He was always an excessive smoker,” Smiley said.

“Was he, by God? Was he?”

Enderby turned another page. “Now Kirov’s brief,” he said. “Karla spells it out for him. ‘For my daywork I should have the post of a Commercial officer of the Embassy, and for my special work I would be responsible for the control and conduct of financial accounts in all outstations of the Thirteenth Directorate in the following countries . . .’ Kirov goes on to list them. They include Bonn, but not Hamburg. With me, Sam?”

“All the way, Chief.”

“Not losing you in the labyrinth?”

“Not a bit, Chief.”

“Clever blokes, these Russkies.”

“Devilish.”

“Kirov again: ‘He impressed upon me the extreme importance of my task—blah, blah—reminded me of my excellent performance in the Orlov case, and advised me that in view of the great delicacy of the matters I was handling, I would be reporting directly to Karla’s private office and would have a separate set of ciphers . . .’ Turn to page fifteen.”

“Page fifteen it is, Chief,” Collins said.

Smiley had already found it.

“‘In addition to my work as West European auditor to the Thirteenth Directorate outstations, however, Karla also warned me that I would be required to perform certain clandestine activities with a view to finding cover backgrounds, or legends for future agents. All members of his Directorate took a hand in this, he said, but legend work was extremely secret nevertheless, and I should not under any circumstances discuss it with anybody at all. Not my Ambassador, nor with Major Pudin, who was Karla’s permanent operational representative inside our Embassy in Paris. I naturally accepted the appointment and, having attended a special course in security and communications, took up my post. I had not been in Paris long when a personal signal from Karla advised me that a legend was required urgently for a female agent, age about twenty-one years.’ Now we’re at the bone,” Enderby commented with satisfaction. “‘Karla’s signal referred me to several émigré families who might be persuaded by pressure to adopt such an agent as their own child, since blackmail is considered by Karla a preferable technique to bribery.’ Damn right it is,” Enderby assented heartily. “At the present rate of inflation, blackmail’s about the only bloody thing that keeps its value.”

Sam Collins obliged with a rich laugh of appreciation.

“Thank you, Sam,” said Enderby pleasantly. “Thanks very much.”

A lesser man than Enderby—or a less thick-skinned one—might have skated over the next few pages, for they consisted mainly of a vindication of Connie Sachs’s and Smiley’s pleas of three years ago that the Leipzig-Kirov relationship should be exploited.

“Kirov dutifully trawls the émigrés, but without result,” Enderby announced, as if he were reading out subtitles at the cinema. “Karla exhorts Kirov to greater efforts, Kirov strives still harder, and goofs again.”

Enderby broke off, and looked at Smiley, this time very straight. “Kirov was no bloody good, was he, George?” he said.

“No,” said Smiley.

“Karla couldn’t trust his own chaps, that’s your point. He had to go out into the sticks and recruit an irregular like Kirov.”

“Yes.”

“A clod. Sort of bloke who’d never make Sarratt.”

“That’s right.”

“Having set up his apparatus, in other words, trained it to accept his iron rules, you might say, he didn’t dare use it for this particular deal. That your point?”

“Yes,” said Smiley. “That is my point.”

Thus, when Kirov bumped into Leipzig on the plane to Vienna—Enderby resumed, paraphrasing Kirov’s own account now—Leipzig appeared to him as the answer to all his prayers. Never mind that he was based in Hamburg, never mind that there’d been a bit of nastiness back in Tallinn: Otto was an émigré, in with the groups, Otto the Golden Boy. Kirov signalled urgently to Karla proposing that Leipzig be recruited as an émigré source and talent-spotter. Karla agreed.

“Which is another rum thing, when you work it out,” Enderby remarked. “Jesus, I mean who’d back a horse with Leipzig’s record when he was sober and of sound mind? Specially for a job like that?”