This was how it was going to work, said Jim. There’d been a change of plan. Max was to stay right out of it. He should drop Jim short of the rendezvous, then lie up in Brno till Monday morning. He was not to make contact with any of the Circus’s trade routes: no one from Aggravate, no one from Plato, least of all with the Prague residency. If Jim didn’t surface at the hotel by eight on Monday morning, Max should get out any way he could. If Jim did surface, Max’s job would be to carry Jim’s message to Control: the message could be very simple, it might be no more than one word. When he got to London, he should go to Control personally, make an appointment through old MacFadean, and give him the message, was that clear? If Jim didn’t show up, Max should take up life where he left off and deny everything, inside the Circus as well as out.
‘Did Jim say why the plan had changed?’
‘Jim worried.’
‘So something had happened to him on his way to meet you?’
‘Maybe. I say Jim: “Listen, Jim, I come with. You worried, I be babysitter, I drive for you, shoot for you, what the hell?” Jim get damn angry, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Smiley.
They drove to the Racice road, and found the car parked without lights facing a track over a field, a Fiat, nine nine on the number plates, black. Max stopped the van and let Jim out. As Jim walked towards the Fiat, the driver opened the door an inch in order to work the courtesy light. He had a newspaper opened over the steering wheel.
‘Could you see his face?’
‘Was in shadow.’
Max waited, presumably they exchanged word codes, Jim got in, the car drove away over the track, still without lights. Max returned to Brno. He was sitting over a schnapps in the restaurant when the whole town started rumbling. He thought at first the sound came from the football stadium, then he realised it was lorries, a convoy racing down the road. He asked the waitress what was going on and she said there had been a shooting in the woods, counter-revolutionaries were responsible. He went out to the van, turned on the radio and caught the bulletin from Prague. That was the first he had heard of a general. He guessed there were cordons everywhere, and anyway he had Jim’s instructions to lie up in the hotel till Monday morning.
‘Maybe Jim send me message. Maybe some guy from resistance come to me.’
‘With this one word,’ said Smiley quietly.
‘Sure.’
‘He didn’t say what sort of word it was?’
‘You crazy,’ said Max. It was either a statement or a question.
‘A Czech word or an English word or a German word?’
No one came, said Max, not bothering to answer craziness.
On Monday he burned his entry passport, changed the plates on his van and used his West German escape. Rather than head south he drove south-west, ditched the van and crossed the border by bus to Freistadt which was the softest route he knew. In Freistadt he had a drink and spent the night with a girl because he felt puzzled and angry and he needed to catch his breath. He got to London on Tuesday night and despite Jim’s orders he thought he’d better try and contact Control: ‘That was quite damn difficult,’ he commented.
He tried to telephone but only got as far as the mothers. MacFadean wasn’t around. He thought of writing but he remembered Jim, and how no one else in the Circus was allowed to know. He decided that writing was too dangerous. The rumour at the Acton Laundry said that Control was ill. He tried to find out what hospital, but couldn’t.
‘Did people at the Laundry seem to know where you’d been?’
‘I wonder.’
He was still wondering when the housekeepers sent for him and asked to look at his Rudi Hartmann passport. Max said he had lost it, which was after all pretty near true. Why hadn’t he reported the loss? He didn’t know. When had the loss occurred? He didn’t know. When did he last see Jim Prideaux? He couldn’t remember. He was sent down to the Nursery at Sarratt but Max felt fit and angry and after two or three days the inquisitors got tired of him or somebody called them off.