‘I’m afraid Vladi’s disappeared for good, William,’ he said in a tone of simple regret. ‘It’s in the papers. He’s been shot dead. The police will want to ask you questions. I have to hear what happened and tell you how to answer them.’
Then Villem said something hopeless in Russian and Stella, moved by his tone if not his words, put down one child and went to comfort the other, and Smiley might not have been in the room at all. So he sat for a while quite alone, thinking of Vladimir’s piece of negative film – indecipherable until he turned it to positive – nestling in its box in the Savoy Hotel with the anonymous letter from Paris that he could do nothing about. And of the second proof, wondering what it was, and how the old man had carried it, and supposing it was in his wallet; but believing also that he would never know.
Villem sat bravely as if he were already attending Vladimir’s funeral. Stella sat at his side with her hand on his, Beckie the child lay on the floor and slept. Occasionally as Villem talked, tears rolled unashamedly down his pale cheeks.
‘For the others I give nothing,’ said Villem. ‘For Vladi everything. I love this man.’ He began again : ‘After the death of my father, Vladi become father to me. Sometimes I even say him : “my father”. Not uncle. Father.’
‘Perhaps we could start with Monday,’ Smiley suggested. ‘With the first meeting.’
Vladi had telephoned, said Villem. It was the first time Villem had heard from him or from anybody in the Group for months. Vladi telephoned Villem at the depot, out of the blue, while Villem was consolidating his load and checking his trans-shipment papers with the office before leaving for Dover. That was the arrangement, Villem said, that was how it had been left with the Group. He was out of it, as they all were, more or less, but if he was ever urgently needed he could be reached at the depot on a Monday morning, not at home because of Stella. Vladi was Beckie’s godfather and as godfather could ring the house any time. But not on business. Never.
‘I ask him : “Vladi! What do you want? Listen, how are you?”‘
Vladimir was in a call box down the road. He wanted a personal conversation immediately. Against all the employers’ regulations Villem picked him up at the roundabout and Vladimir rode half the way to Dover with him : ‘black,’ said Villem meaning ‘illegally’. The old boy was carrying a rush basket full of oranges, but Villem had not been of a mood to ask him why he should saddle himself with pounds of oranges. At first Vladimir had talked about Paris and Villem’s father, and the great struggles they had shared; then he talked about a small favour Villem could do for him. For the sake of old times a small favour. For the sake of the Group, of which Villem’s father had once been such a hero.
‘I tell him : “Vladi, this small favour is impossible for me. I promise Stella : isimpossible!” ‘
Stella’s hand left her husband’s side and she sat alone, torn between wishing to console him for the old man’s death and her hurt at his broken promise.
Just a small favour, Vladimir had insisted. Small, no trouble, no risk, but very helpful to our cause : also Villem’s duty. Then Vladi produced snaps he had taken of Beckie at the christening. They were in a yellow Kodak envelope, the prints on one side and the negatives in protective cellophane on the other and the chemist’s blue docket still stapled to the outside, all as innocent as the day.
For a while they admired them till Vladimir said suddenly : ‘It is for Beckie, Villem. What we do, we do for Beckie’s future.’
Hearing Villem repeat this, Stella clenched her fists, and when she looked up again she was resolute and somehow much older, with islands of tiny wrinkles at the comer of each eye.
Villem went on with his story : ‘Then Vladimir tell to me, “Villem. Every Monday you are driving to Hanover and Hamburg, returning Friday. How long you stay in Hamburg, please?” ‘