Smiley’s People by John le Carré

‘His Ann,’ she said dully.

‘That in all the world, she was his one thing, that she made him act like a crazy man?’

Slowly her head came up, and he saw her face clear, and his voice quickened and gathered strength.

‘How that was the rumour they passed around in Moscow Centre – those in the know? Karla’s invention – his creation, Con? How he found her when she was a child, wandering in a burnt-out village in the war? Adopted her, brought her up, fell in love with her?’

He watched her and despite the whisky, despite her deathly weariness, he saw the last excitement, like the last drop in the bottle, slowly rekindle her features.

‘He was behind the German lines,’ she said. ‘It was the forties. There was a team of them, raising the Balts. Building networks, stay-behind groups. It was a big operation. Karla was boss. She became their mascot. They carted her from pillar to post. A kid. Oh, George!’

He was holding his breath to catch her words. The din on the roof grew louder. His face was near to hers, very; its animation matched her own.

‘And then what?’ he said.

‘Then he bumped her off, darling. That’s what.’

‘Why?’ He drew still closer, as if he feared her words might fail her at the crucial moment. ‘Why, Connie? Why kill her when he loved her?’

‘He’d done everything for her. Found foster-parents for her. Educated her. Had her all got up to be his ideal hag. Played Daddy, played lover, played God. She was his toy. Then one day she ups and gets ideas above her station.’

‘What sort of ideas?’

‘Soft on revolution. Mixing with bloody intellectuals. Wanting the State to wither away. Asking the big “Why?” and the big “Why not?” He told her to shut up. She wouldn’t. She had a devil in her. He had her shoved in the slammer. Made her worse.’

‘And there was a child,’ Smiley prompted, taking her mittened hand in both of his. ‘He gave her a child, remember?’ Her hand was between them, between their faces. ‘You researched it, didn’t you, Con? One silly season, I gave you your head. “Track it down, Con,” I said to you. “Take it wherever it leads.” Remember?’

Under Smiley’s intense encouragement, her story had acquired the fervour of a last love. She was speaking fast, eyes streaming. She was backtracking, zigzagging everywhere in her memory. Karla had this hag… yes, darling, that was the story, do you hear me? – Yes, Connie, go on, I hear you. Then listen. He brought her up, made her his mistress, there was a brat, and the quarrels were about the brat. George, darling, do you love me like the old days? – Come on, Con, give me the rest, yes of course I do. – He accused her of warping its precious mind with dangerous ideas, like freedom for instance. Or love. A girl, her mother’s image, said to be a beauty. In the end the old despot’s love turned to hatred and he had his ideal carted off and spavined : end of story. We had it from Vladimir first, then a few scraps, never the hard base. Name unknown, darling, because he destroyed all records of her, killed whoever might have heard, which is Karla’s way, bless him, isn’t it, darling, always was? Others said she wasn’t dead at all, the story of her murder was disinformation to end the trail. There, she did it, didn’t she? The old fool remembered!

‘And the child?’ Smiley asked. ‘The child in her mother’s image? There was a defector’s report – what was that about?’ She didn’t pause. She had remembered that as well, her mind was galloping ahead of her, just as her voice was outrunning her breath.

A don of some sort from Leningrad University, said Connie. Claimed he’d been ordered to take on a weird girl for special political instruction in the evenings, a sort of private patient who was showing anti-social tendencies, the daughter of a high official. Tatiana, he was only allowed to know her as Tatiana. She’d been raising hell all over town, but her father was a big beef in Moscow and she couldn’t be touched. The girl tried to seduce him, probably did, then told him some story about how Daddy had had Mummy killed for showing insufficient faith in the historical process. Next day his professor called him in and said if he ever repeated a word of what had happened at that interview, he would find himself tripping on a very big banana skin…

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