First he put his feet side by side and pointed them down the hill. Then he put his left foot forward, and moved his right foot round until the toe pointed directly towards a spinney of young saplings. As he did so, his right shoulder followed naturally, and his instinct told him that this would be the likely moment for Vladimir to transfer the stick to his left hand. But why? As the Superintendent had also asked, why transfer the stick at all? Why,in this most extreme moment of his life, why solemnly move a walking stick from the right hand to the left? Certainly not to defend himself – since, as Smiley remembered, he was right-handed. To defend himself, he would only have seized the stick more firmly. Or clasped it with both his hands, like a club.
Was it in order to leave his right hand free? But free for what?
Aware this time of being observed, Smiley peered sharply behind him and saw two small boys in blazers who had paused to watch this round little man in spectacles performing strange antics with his feet. He glowered at them in his most schoolmasterly manner, and they moved hastily on.
To leave his right hand free for what? Smiley repeated to himself. And why start running again a moment later?
Vladimir turned to the right, thought Smiley, once again matching his action to the thought. Vladimir turned to the right. He faced the spinney, he put his stick in his left hand. For a moment, according to the Superintendent, he stood still. Then he ran on.
Moscow Rules, Smiley thought, staring at his own right hand. Slowly he lowered it into his raincoat pocket. Which was empty, as Vladimir’s right-hand coat pocket was also empty.
Had he meant to write a message perhaps? Smiley was teasing himself with the theory he was determined to hold at bay. To write a message with the chalk for instance? Had he recognized his pursuer, and wished to chalk a name somewhere, or a sign? But what on? Not on these wet tree trunks for sure. Not on the clay, the dead leaves, the gravel! Looking round him, Smiley became aware of a peculiar feature of his location. Here, almost between two trees, at the very edge of the avenue, at the point where the fog was approaching its thickest, he was as good as out of sight. The avenue descended, yes, and lifted ahead of him. But it also curved, and from where he stood the upward line of sight in both directions was masked by tree trunks and a dense thicket of saplings. Along the whole path of Vladimir’s last frantic journey – a path he knew well, remember, had used for similar meetings – this was the point, Smiley realized with increasing satisfaction, where the fleeing man was out of sight from both ahead of him and behind him.
And had stopped.
Had freed his right hand.
Had put it – let us say – in his pocket.
For his heart tablets? No. Like the yellow chalk and the matches, they were in his left pocket, not his right.
For something – let us say – that was no longer in the pocket when he was found dead.
For what then?
Tell him I have two proofs and can bring them with me… Then perhaps he will see me… This is Gregory asking for Max. I have something for him, please…
Proofs. Proofs too precious to post. He was bringing something. Two somethings. Not just in his head – in his pocket. And was playing Moscow Rules. Rules that had been drummed into the General from the very day of his recruitment as a defector in place. By Smiley himself, no less, as well as his case officer on the spot. Rules that had been invented for his survival; and the survival of his network. Smiley felt the excitement seize his stomach like a nausea. Moscow Rules decree that, if you physically carry a message, you must also carry the means to discard it! That, however it is disguised or concealed – microdot, secret writing, undeveloped film, anyone of the hundred risky, finicky ways – still as an object it must be the first and lightest thing that comes to hand, the least conspicuous when jettisoned !