‘Sorry about this, Toby,’ Smiley said, a little out of breath from the stairs. ‘Peter, where shall I hang my coat?’
Turning him to the wall, Guillam lifted Toby’s unresisting hands and put them against it, then searched him for a gun, taking his time. Toby had none.
‘Did he come alone?’ Guillam asked. ‘Or is there some little friend waiting in the road?’
‘Looked all clear to me,’ said Fawn.
Smiley was at the window, gazing down into the street. ‘Put the light out a minute, will you?’ he said.
‘Wait in the hall,’ Guillam ordered, and Fawn withdrew, carrying Smiley’s coat. ‘Seen something?’ he asked Smiley, joining him at the window.
Already the London afternoon had taken on the misty pinks and yellows of evening. The square was Victorian residential; at the centre, a caged garden, already dark. ‘Just a shadow, I suppose,’ said Smiley with a grunt, and turned back to Esterhase. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed four. Fawn must have wound it up.
‘I want to put a thesis to you, Toby. A notion about what’s going on. May I?’
Esterhase didn’t move an eyelash. His little hands rested on the wooden arms of his chair. He sat quite comfortably, but slightly to attention, toes and heels of his polished shoes together.
‘You don’t have to speak at all. There’s no risk to listening, is there?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s two years ago. Percy Alleline wants Control’s job, but he has no standing in the Circus. Control has made sure of that. Control is sick and past his prime but Percy can’t dislodge him. Remember the time?’
Esterhase gave a neat nod.
‘One of those silly seasons,’ said Smiley in his reasonable voice. ‘There isn’t enough work outside so we start intriguing around the service, spying on one another. Percy’s sitting in his room one morning with nothing to do. He has a paper appointment as operational director, but in practice he’s a rubber stamp between the regional sections and Control, if that. Percy’s door opens and somebody walks in. We’ll call him Gerald, it’s just a name. “Percy,” he says, “I’ve stumbled on a major Russian source. It could be a gold mine.” Or perhaps he doesn’t say anything till they’re outside the building, because Gerald is very much a field man, he doesn’t like to talk with walls and telephones around. Perhaps they take a walk in the park or a drive in a car. Perhaps they eat a meal somewhere, and at this stage there isn’t much Percy can do but listen. Percy’s had very little experience of the European scene, remember, least of all Czecho or the Balkans. He cut his teeth in South America and after that he worked the old possessions: India, the Middle East. He doesn’t know a lot about Russians or Czechs or what you will, he’s inclined to see red as red and leave it at that. Unfair?’
Esterhase pursed his lips and frowned a little, as if to say he never discussed a superior.
‘Whereas Gerald is an expert on those things. His operational life has been spent weaving and ducking round the Eastern markets. Percy’s out of his depth but keen. Gerald’s on his home ground. This Russian source, says Gerald, could be the richest the Circus has had for years. Gerald doesn’t want to say too much but he expects to be getting some trade samples in a day or two and when he does, he’d like Percy to run his eye over them just to get a notion of the quality. They can go into source details later. “But why me?” says Percy. “What’s it all about?” So Gerald tells him. “Percy,” he says. “Some of us in the regional sections are worried sick by the level of operational losses. There seems to be a jinx around. Too much loose talk inside the Circus and out. Too many people being cut in on distribution. Out in the field, our agents are going to the wall, our networks are being rolled up or worse, and every new ploy ends up a street accident. We want you to help us put that right.” Gerald is not mutinous, and he’s careful not to suggest that there’s a traitor inside the Circus who’s blowing all the operations, because you and I know that once talk like that gets around the machinery grinds to a halt. Anyway the last thing Gerald wants is a witch-hunt. But he does say that the place is leaking at the joints, and that slovenliness at the top is leading to failures lower down. All balm to Percy’s ear. He lists the recent scandals and he’s careful to lean on Alleline’s own Middle East adventure, which went so wrong and nearly cost Percy his career. Then he makes his proposal. This is what he says. In my thesis, you understand; it’s just a thesis.’