‘Grigoriev left the Embassy on his own five minutes ago, wearing a hat and coat,’ Toby said as soon as Smiley arrived. ‘He’s heading for the town on foot. It’s like the first Sunday we watched him. He walks to the Embassy, ten minutes later he sets off for the town. He’s going to watch the chess game, George, no question. What do you say?’
‘Who’s with him?’
‘Skordeno and de Silsky on foot, a back-up car behind, two more ahead. One team’s heading for the Cathedral Qose right now. Do we go, George, or don’t we?’
For a moment, Toby was aware of that disconnection which seemed to afflict Smiley whenever the operation gathered speed : less indecision, than a mysterious reluctance to advance.
He pressed him : ‘The green light, George? Or not? George, please! We are speaking of seconds here!’
‘Is the house still covered for when Grigorieva and the children get back?’
‘Completely.’
For a moment longer Smiley hesitated. For a moment, he weighed the method against the prize, and the grey and distant figure of Karla seemed actually to admonish him.
‘The green light, then,’ said Smiley. ‘Yes. Go.’
He had barely finished speaking before Toby was standing in the telephone kiosk not twenty metres from the pavilion. ‘With my heart going like a complete steam engine,’ as he later claimed. But also with the light of battle in his eyes.
There is even a scale model of the scene at Sarratt, and occasionally the directing staff will dig it out and tell the tale.
The old city of Berne is best described as a mountain, a fortress, and a peninsula all at once, as the model shows. Between the Kirchenfeldand Kornhaus bridges, the Aare runs in a horseshoe cut into a giddy cleft, and the old city roosts prudently inside it, in rising foothills of medieval streets, till it reaches the superb late-Gothic spire of the Cathedral, which is both the mountain’s peak and its glory. Next to the Cathedral, at the same height, stands the Platform, from whose southern perimeter the unwary visitor may find himself staring down a hundred feet of sheer stone face, straight into the swirling river. It is a place to draw suicides and no doubt there have been some. It is a place where, according to popular history, a pious man was thrown from his horse and, though he fell the whole awesome distance, survived by God’s deliverance to serve the church for another thirty years, dying peacefully at a great age. The rest of the Platform makes a tranquil spot, with benches and ornamental trees and a children’s playground – and, in recent years, a place for public chess. The pieces are two foot or more in height, light enough to move, but heavy enough to withstand the occasional thrust of a south wind that whips off the surrounding hills. The scale model even runs to replicas of them.
By the time Toby Esterhase arrived there that Sunday morning, the unexpected sunshine had drawn a small but tidy body of the game’s enthusiasts, who stood or sat around the chequered pavement. And at their centre, a mere six feet from where Toby stood, as oblivious to his surroundings as could be wished, stood Counsellor (Commercial) Anton Grigoriev of the Soviet Embassy in Berne, a truant from both work and family, intently following, through his rimless spectacles, each move the players made. And behind Grigoriev stood Skordeno and his companion de Silsky, watching Grigoriev. The players were young and bearded and volatile – if not art students, then certainly they wished to be taken for them. And they were very conscious of fighting a duel under the public gaze.
Toby had been this close to Grigoriev before, but never when the Russian’s attention was so firmly locked elsewhere. With the calm of impending battle, Toby appraised him and confirmed what he had all along maintained : Anton Grigoriev was not a fieldman. His rapt attention, the unguarded frankness of his expressions as each move was played or contemplated, had an innocence which could never have survived the infighting of Moscow Centre.
Toby’s personal appearance was another of those happy chances of the day. Out of respect for the Bernese Sunday, he had donned a dark overcoat and his black fur hat. He was therefore, at this crucial moment of improvisation, looking exactly as he would have wished had he planned everything to the last detail : a man of position takes his Sunday relaxation.