‘Who was it from?’
Mikhel, as so often, answered a slightly different question.
‘It was from Paris, Max, a long letter, many pages, handwritten. Addressed to the General personally, not Miller. To General Vladimir, most personal. On the envelope was written Most Personal, in French. The letter arrived, I lock it in my desk; at eleven o’clock he walks in as usual : “Mikhel, I salute you.” Sometimes, believe me, we even saluted each other. I hand him the letter, he sat’ – he pointed towards Elvira’s end of the room – ‘he sat down, opened it quite carelessly, as if he had no expectation from it, and I saw him gradually become preoccupied. Absorbed. I would say fascinated. Impassioned even. I spoke to him. He didn’t answer. I spoke again – you know his ways – he ignored me totally. He went for a walk. “I shall return,” he said.’
‘Taking the letter?’
‘Of course. It was his fashion, when he had a great matter to consider, to go for a walk. When he returned, I noticed a deep excitement in him. A tension. “Mikhel.” You know how he spoke. All must obey. “Mikhel. Get out the photocopier. Put some paper in it for me. I have a document to copy.” I asked him how many copies. One. I ask him how many sheets. “Seven. Please stand at five paces’ distance while I operate the machine,” he tells me. ‘I cannot involve you in this matter.” ‘
Once again, Mikhel indicated the spot as if it proved the absolute veracity of his story. The black copier stood on its own table, like an old steam-engine, with rollers, and holes for pouring in the different chemicals. ‘The General was not mechanical, Max. I set up the machine for him – then I stood – here – so – calling out instructions to him across the room. When he had finished, he stood over the copies while they dried, then folded them into his pocket.’
‘And the original?’
‘This also he put in his pocket.’
‘So you never read the letter?’ Smiley said, in a tone of light commiseration.
‘No, Max. I am sad to tell you I did not.’
‘But you saw the envelope. You had it here to give to him when he arrived.’
‘I told you, Max. It was from Paris.’
‘Which district?’
The hesitation again : ‘The fifteenth,’ said Mikhel. ‘I believe it was the fifteenth. Where many of our people used to be.’
‘And the date? Can you be more precise about it? You said about two months.’
‘Early September. I would say early September. Late August is possible. Say six weeks ago, around.’
‘The address on the envelope was also handwritten?’
‘It was, Max. It was.’
‘What colour was the envelope?’
‘Brown.’
‘And the ink?’
‘I suppose blue.’
‘Was it sealed?’
‘Please?’
‘Was the envelope sealed with sealing-wax or adhesive tape? Or was it just gummed in the ordinary way?’
Mikhel shrugged, as if such details were beneath him.
‘But the sender had put his name on the outside, presumably?’ Smiley persisted lightly.
If he had, Mikhel was not admitting it.
For a moment Smiley allowed his mind to dwell upon the brown envelope cached in the Savoy cloakroom, and the passionate plea for help it contained. This morning I had an impression that they were trying to kill me. Will you not send me your magic friend once more? Postmark Paris, he thought. The 15th district. After the first letter, Vladimir gave the writer his home address, he thought. Just as he gave his home telephone number to Villem. After the first letter, Vladimir made sure he bypassed Mikhel.
A phone rang and Mikhel answered it at once, with a brief ‘Yes?’ then listened.
‘Then put me five each way,’ he muttered, and rang off with magisterial dignity.
Approaching the main purpose of his visit to Mikhel, Smiley took care to proceed with great respect. He remembered that Mikhel – who by the time he joined the Group in Paris had seen the inside of half the interrogation centres of Eastern Europe – had a way of slowing down when he was prodded, and by this means in his day had driven the Sarratt inquisitors half mad.