‘Hell are you up to, Hils?’ Connie demanded roughly from her rocking-chair.
‘Making tea, Con. George wants a cup of tea.’
‘To hell with what George wants,’ she retorted, flaring. ‘George is fifth floor. George put the kibosh on the Kirov case and now he’s trying to get it right, flying solo in his old age. Right, George? Right? Even lied to me about that old devil Vladimir, who walked into a bullet on Hampstead Heath according to the newspapers, which he apparently doesn’t read, any more than my reports!’
They drank the tea. A rainstorm was getting up. The first hard drops were hammering on the wood roof.
Smiley had charmed her, Smiley had flattered her, Smiley had willed her to go on. She had drawn the thread half-way out for him. He was determined that she should draw it all the way. ‘I’ve got to have it all, Con,’ he repeated.
‘I’ve got to hear everything, just as you remember it, even if the end is painful.’
‘The end bloody well is painful,’ she retorted.
But already her voice, her face, the very lustre of her memory were flagging, and he knew it was a race against time.
Now it was Kirov’s turn to play the classic card, she said wearily. At their next meeting, which was in Brussels a month later, Kirov referred to the Israeli arms shipment thing and said he had happened to mention their conversation to a friend of his in the Commercial Section of the Embassy who was contributing to a special study of the Israeli military economy, and even had funds available for researching it. Would Leipzig consider – no, but seriously, Otto – talking to the fellow or, better still, giving the story to his old buddy Oleg here and now, who might even get a little credit for it on his own account? Otto said, ‘Provided it pays and didn’t hurt anyone.’ Then he solemnly fed Kirov a bag of chicken-feed prepared by Connie and the Middle Eastern people – all of it true, of course, and eminently checkable, even if it wasn’t a lot of use to anyone and Kirov solemnly wrote it all down, though both of them, as Connie put it, knew perfectly well that neither Kirov nor his master, whoever that was, had the smallest interest in Israel, or shipments, or her military economy – not in this case, anyway. What Kirov was aiming to do was create a conspiratorial relationship, as their next meeting back in Paris showed. Kirov evinced huge enthusiasm for the report, insisted that Otto accept five hundred dollars for it, against the minor formality of signing a receipt. And when Otto had done this, and was squarely hooked, Kirov sailed straight in with all the crudity he could command – which was a lot, said Connie – and asked Otto how well placed he was with the local Russian émigrés.
‘Please, Con,’ he whispered. ‘We’re almost there!’ She was so near but he could feel her drifting farther and farther away.
Hilary was lying on the floor with her head against Connie’s knees. Absently, Connie’s mittened hands had taken hold of her hair for comfort, and her eyes had fallen almost shut.
‘Connie!’ he repeated.
Opening her eyes, Connie gave a tired smile.
‘It was only the fan dance, darling,’ she said. ‘The he-knows-I-know-you-know. The usual fan dance,’ she repeated indulgently, and her eyes closed again.
‘So how did Leipzig answer him? Connie!’
‘He did what we’d do, darling,’ she murmured. ‘Stalled. Admitted he was well in with the émigré groups, and hugger-mugger with the General. Then stalled. Said he didn’t visit Paris that much. “Why not hire someone local?” he said. He was teasing, Hils, darling, you see. Asked again : Would it hurt anyone? Asked what the job was, anyway? What did it pay? Get me some booze, Hils.’
‘No,’ said Hilary.
‘Get it.’
Smiley poured two fingers of whisky and watched her sip.
‘What did Kirov want Otto to do with the émigrés?’ he said.
‘Kirov wanted a legend,’ she replied. ‘He wanted a legend for a girl.’
Nothing in Smiley’s manner suggested he had heard the phrase from Toby Esterhase only a few hours ago. Four years ago, Oleg Kirov wanted a legend, Connie repeated. Just as the Sandman, according to Toby and the General – thought Smiley – wanted one today. Kirov wanted a cover story for a female agent who could be infiltrated into France. That was the nub of it, Connie said. Kirov didn’t say this, of course; he put it quite differently, in fact. He told Otto that Moscow had issued a secret instruction to all Embassies announcing that split Russian families might in certain circumstances be reunited abroad. If enough families could be found who wished it, said the instruction, then Moscow would go public with the idea and thus enhance the Soviet Union’s image in the field of human rights. Ideally, they wanted cases with a compassionate ring : daughters in Russia, say, cut off from their families in the West, single girls, perhaps of marriageable age. Secrecy was essential, said Kirov, until a list of suitable cases had been assembled – think of the outcry there would be, Kirov said, if the story leaked ahead of time!