They had entered Elfenau, Berne’s diplomatic ghetto. Through the fog, Smiley glimpsed tangled gardens white with frost, and the green porticos of villas. The headlights picked out a brass plate proclaiming an Arab state, and two bodyguards protecting it. They passed an English church and a row of tennis-courts; they entered an avenue lined with bare beeches. The street lights hung in them like white balloons.
‘Number eighteen is five hundred metres on the left,’ said Toby softly. ‘Grigoriev and his wife occupy the ground floor.’ He was driving slowly, using the fog as his excuse.
‘Very rich people live here, Eduard! ‘ the woman was singing from behind them. ‘All from foreign places.’
‘Most of the Iron Curtain crowd live in Muri, not Elfenau,’ Toby went on. ‘It’s a commune, they do everything in groups. Shop in groups, go for walks in groups, you name it. The Grigorievs are different. Three months ago, they moved out of Muri and rented this apartment on a personal basis. Three thousand five hundred a month, George, he pays it in person to the landlord.’
‘Cash?’
‘Monthly in one-hundred notes.’
‘How are the rest of the Embassy hirings paid for?’
‘Through the Mission accounts. Not Grigoriev’s. Grigoriev is the exception.’
A police-patrol car overtook them with the slowness of a river barge; Smiley saw its three heads turned to them.
‘Look, Eduard, police!’ the woman cried, and tried to make the child wave at them.
Toby too was careful not to stop talking. ‘The police boys are worried about bombs,’ he explained. ‘They think the Palestinians are going to blow the place sky high. That’s been good and bad for us, George. lf we’re clumsy, Grigoriev can tell himself we’re local angels. The same doesn’t go for the police. One hundred metres, George. Look for a black Mercedes in the forecourt. Other staff use the Embassy car pool. Not Grigoriev. Grigoriev drives his own Mercedes.’
‘When did he get it?’ Smiley asked.
‘Three months ago, second-hand. Same time as he moved out of Muri. That was a big leap for him, George. Like a birthday, so many things. Car, house, promotion from First Secretary to Counsellor.’
It was a stucco villa, set in a large garden that had no back because of the fog. In a bay window at the front Smiley glimpsed a light burning behind curtains. There was a children’s slide in the garden, and what appeared to be an empty swimming pool. On the gravel sweep stood a black Mercedes with CD plates.
‘All Soviet Embassy car numbers end with 73,’ said Toby. ‘The Brits have 72. Grigorieva got herself a driving licence two months ago. There are only two women in the Embassy with licences. She’s one and she’s a terrible driver, George. And I mean terrible.’
‘Who occupies the rest of the house?’
‘The landlord. A professor at Berne University, a creep. A while ago the Cousins got alongside him and said they’d like to run a couple of probe mikes into the ground floor, offered him money. The professor took the money and reported them to the Bundespolizei like a good citizen. The Bundespolizei got a scare. They’d promised the Cousins to look the other way in exchange for a sight of the product. Operation abandoned. Seems the Cousins had no particular interest in Grigoriev, it was just routine.’
‘Where are the Grigoriev children?’
‘In Geneva at Soviet Mission School, weekly boarders. They get home Friday nights. Weekends the family make excursions. Romp in the woods, langlauf, play badminton. Collect mushrooms. Grigorieva’s a fresh-air freak. Also they have taken up bicycling,’ he added, with a glance.
‘Does Grigoriev go with the family on these excursions?’
‘Saturdays he works, George – and, I am certain, only to escape them.’ Toby had decided views on the Grigoriev marriage, Smiley noticed. He wondered whether it had echoes of one of Toby’s own.
They had left the avenue and entered a side-road. ‘Listen, George,’ Toby was saying, still on the subject of Grigoriev’s weekends. ‘Okay? Watchers imagine things. They got to, it’s their job. There’s a girl works in the Visa Section. Brunette and, for a Russian, sexy. The boys call her “little Natasha”. Her real name’s something else but for them she’s Natasha. Saturdays she comes in to the Embassy. To work. Couple of times, Grigoriev drives her home to Muri. We took some pictures, not bad. She got out of the car short of her apartment and walked the last five hundred metres. Why? Another time he took her nowhere – just a drive round the Gurten, but talking very cosy. Maybe the boys just want it to be that way, on account of Grigorieva. They like the guy, George. You know how watchers are. It’s love or hate all the time. They like him.’