‘I go back Acton Laundry. Toby Esterhase give me hundred pound, tell me go to hell.’
A scream of applause went up round the pond. Two boys had sunk a great slab of ice and now the water was bubbling through the hole.
‘Max, what happened to Jim?’
‘What the hell?’
‘You hear these things. It gets around among the émigrés. What happened to him? Who mended him, how did Bill Haydon buy him back?’
‘Émigrés don’t speak Max no more.’
‘But you have heard, haven’t you?’
This time it was the white hands that told him. Smiley saw the spread of fingers, five on one hand, three on the other and already he felt the sickness before Max spoke.
‘So they shoot Jim from behind. Maybe Jim was running away, what the hell? They put Jim in prison. That’s not so good for Jim. For my friends also. Not good.’ He started counting: ‘Pribyl,’ he began, touching his thumb. ‘Bukova Mirek, from Pribyl’s wife the brother.’ He took a finger. ‘Also Pribyl’s wife.’ A second finger, a third: ‘Kolin Jiri, also his sister, mainly dead. This was network Aggravate.’ He changed hands. ‘After network Aggravate come network Plato. Come lawyer Rapotin, come Colonel Landkron, and typists Eva Krieglova and Hanka Bilova. Also mainly dead. That’s damn big price, George’ – holding the clean fingers close to Smiley’s face – ‘that’s damn big price for one Englishman with bullet-hole.’ He was losing his temper. ‘Why you bother, George? Circus don’t be no good for Czecho. Allies don’t be no good for Czecho. No rich guy don’t get no poor guy out of prison! You want know some history? How you say “Märchen”, please George?’
‘Fairy-tale,’ said Smiley.
‘Okay, so don’t tell me no more damn fairy-tale how English got to save Czecho no more!’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t Jim,’ said Smiley after a long silence.
‘Perhaps it was someone else who blew the networks. Not Jim.’
Max was already opening the door. ‘What the hell?’ he asked.
‘Max,’ said Smiley.
‘Don’t worry, George. I don’t got no one to sell you to. Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Sitting in the car still, Smiley watched him hail a taxi. He did it with a flick of the hand as if he were summoning a waiter. He gave the address without bothering to look at the driver. Then rode off sitting very upright again, staring straight ahead of him, like royalty ignoring the crowd.
As the taxi disappeared, Inspector Mendel rose slowly from the bench, folded together his newspaper, walked over to the Rover.
‘You’re clean,’ he said. ‘Nothing on your back, nothing on your conscience.’
Not so sure of that, Smiley handed him the keys to the car then walked to the bus stop, first crossing the road in order to head west.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
His destination was in Fleet Street, a ground-floor cellar full of wine barrels. In other areas three thirty might be considered a little late for a pre-luncheon aperitif, but as Smiley gently pushed open the door a dozen shadowy figures turned to eye him from the bar. And at a corner table, as unremarked as the plastic prison arches or the fake muskets on the wall, sat Jerry Westerby with a very large pink gin.
‘Old boy,’ said Jerry Westerby shyly, in a voice that seemed to come out of the ground. ‘Well I’ll be damned. Hey, Jimmy!’ His hand, which he laid on Smiley’s arm while he signalled for refreshment with the other, was enormous and cushioned with muscle, for Jerry had once been wicket-keeper for a county cricket team. In contrast to other wicket-keepers he was a big man, but his shoulders were still hunched from keeping his hands low. He had a mop of sandy grey hair and a red face and he wore a famous sporting tie over a cream silk shirt. The sight of Smiley clearly gave him great joy, for he was beaming with pleasure.
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he repeated. ‘Of all the amazing things. Hey, what are you doing these days?’ – dragging him forcibly into the seat beside him. ‘Sunning your fanny, spitting at the ceiling? Hey -‘ a most urgent question – ‘what’ll it be?’