The priest then handed Grigoriev a medical certificate, signed by an eminent Moscow doctor.
‘While here in Moscow, you have suffered a minor heart attack as a consequence of stress and overwork,’ said the priest. ‘You are advised to take up regular cycling in order to improve your physical condition. Your wife will accompany you.’
By arriving at the clinic by bicycle or on foot, the priest explained, Grigoriev would be able to conceal the diplomatic registration of his car.
The priest then authorized him to purchase two second-hand bicycles. There remained the question of which day of the week would be best suited for Grigoriev’s visits to the clinic. Saturday was the normal visiting day but this was too dangerous; several of the inmates were from Berne and there was always the risk that ‘Glaser’ would be recognized. The overseer had therefore been advised that Saturdays were impracticable, and had consented, exceptionally, to a regular Friday-afternoon visit. The Ambassador would not object, but how would Grigoriev reconcile his Friday absences with Embassy routine?
There was no problem, Grigoriev replied. It was always permissible to trade Fridays for Saturdays, so Grigoriev would merely apply to work on Saturdays instead; then his Fridays would be free.
His confession over, Grigoriev treated his audience to a swift, over-lit smile.
‘On Saturdays, a certain young lady also happened to be working in the Visa Section,’ he said, with a wink at Toby. ‘It was therefore possible we could enjoy some privacy together.’
This time the general laughter was not quite as hearty as it might have been. Time, like Grigoriev’s story, was running out.
They were back where they had started, and suddenly there was only Grigoriev himself to worry about, only Grigoriev to administer, only Grigoriev to secure. He sat smirking on the sofa, but the arrogance was ebbing from him. He had linked his hands submissively and he was looking from one to the other of them, as if expecting orders.
‘My wife cannot ride a bicycle,’ he remarked with a sad little smile. ‘She tried many times.’ Her failure seemed to mean whole volumes to him. ‘The priest wrote to me from Moscow : “Take your wife to her. Maybe Alexandra needs a mother, also.” ‘ He shook his head, bemused. ‘She cannot ride it,’ he said to Smiley. ‘In such a great conspiracy, how can I tell Moscow that Grigorieva cannot ride a bicycle?’ Perhaps there was no greater test of Smiley’s role as the responsible functionary in charge, than the way in which he now almost casually transformed Grigoriev the one-time source into Grigoriev the defector-in-place.
‘Counsellor, whatever your long-term plans may be, you will please remain at the Embassy for at least another two weeks,’ he announced, precisely closing his note pad. If you do as I propose, you will find a warm welcome should you elect to make a new life somewhere in the West.’ He dropped the pad into his pocket. ‘But next Friday you will not visit the girl Alexandra. You will tell your wife that this was the substance of today’s meeting with Krassky. When Krassky the courier brings you next Thursday’s letter, you will accept it normally but you will afterwards continue to maintain to your wife that Alexandra is not to be visited. Be mysterious towards her. Blind her with mystery.’
Accepting his instructions, Grigoriev nodded uneasily.
‘I must warn you however that if you make the smallest error or, on the other hand, try some trick, the priest will find out and destroy you. You will also forfeit your chances of a friendly reception in the West. Is that clear to you?’
There were telephone numbers for Grigoriev to ring, there were call-box to call-box procedures to be explained, and against all the laws of the trade, Smiley allowed Grigoriev to write the whole lot down, for he knew that he would not remember them otherwise. When all this was done, Grigoriev took his leave in a spirit of brooding dejection. Toby himself drove him to a safe dropping point, then returned to the flat and held a curt meeting of farewell.
Smiley was in his same chair, hands clasped on his lap. The rest of them, under Millie McCraig’s orders, were busily tidying up the traces of their presence, polishing, dusting, emptying ashtrays and waste-paper baskets. Everyone present except himself and Smiley was getting out today, said Toby, the surveillance teams as well. Not tonight, not tomorrow. Now. They were sitting on a king-sized time bomb, he said : Grigoriev might at this very moment, under the continued impulse of confession, be describing the entire episode to his awful wife. If he had told Evdokia about Karla, who was to say he would not tell Grigorieva, or for that matter little Natasha, about his pow-wow with George today? Nobody should feel discarded, nobody should feel left out, said Toby. They had done a great job, and they would be meeting again soon to set the crown on it. There were handshakes, even a tear or two, but the prospect of the final act left everybody cheerful at heart.