Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré

‘So that’s the joke,’ said Jim, with no humour whatever. ‘They couldn’t have cared less about the networks. They asked me half a dozen questions about Aggravate then lost interest. They knew damn well that Testify wasn’t my private brainchild and they knew all about Control buying the Stevcek pass in Vienna. They began exactly where I wanted to end: with the briefing in St James’s. They didn’t ask me about a legman, they weren’t interested in who had driven me to the rendezvous with the Magyar. All they wanted to talk about was Control’s rotten-apple theory.’

One word, thought Smiley again, it might be just one word. He said: ‘Did they actually know the St James’s address?’

‘They knew the brand of the bloody sherry, man.’

‘And the charts?’ asked Smiley quickly. ‘The music case?’

‘No.’ He added: ‘Not at first. No.’

Thinking inside out, Steed-Asprey used to call it. They knew because the mole Gerald had told them, thought Smiley. The mole knew what the housekeepers had succeeded in getting out of old MacFadean. The Circus conducts its postmortem: Karla has the benefit of its findings in time to use them on Jim.

‘So I suppose by now you were beginning to think Control was right: there was a mole,’ said Smiley.

Jim and Smiley were leaning on a wooden gate. The ground sloped sharply away from them in a long sweep of bracken and fields. Below them lay another village, a bay and a thin ribbon of moonlit sea.

‘They went straight to the heart of it. “Why did Control go it alone? What did he hope to achieve?” “His comeback,” I said. So they laugh: “With tinpot information about military emplacements in the area of Brno? That wouldn’t even buy him a square meal in his club.” “Maybe he was losing his grip,” I said. If Control was losing his grip, they said, who was stamping on his fingers? Alleline, I said, that was the buzz; Alleline and Control were in competition to provide intelligence. But in Brixton we only got the rumours, I said. “And what is Alleline producing that Control is not producing?” “I don’t know.” “But you just said that Alleline and Control are in competition to provide intelligence.” “It’s rumour. I don’t know.” Back to the cooler.’

Time, said Jim, at this stage lost him completely. He lived either in the darkness of the hood, or in the white light of the cells. There was no night or day, and to make it even more weird they kept the noises going most of the time.

They were working him on the production-line principle, he explained: no sleep, relays of questions, a lot of disorientation, a lot of muscle, till the interrogation became to him a slow race between going a bit dotty, as he called it, and breaking completely. Naturally, he hoped he’d go dotty but that wasn’t something you could decide for yourself, because they had a way of bringing you back. A lot of the muscle was done electrically.

‘So we start again. New tack. “Stevcek was an important general. If he asked for a senior British officer, he could expect him to be properly informed about all aspects of his career. Are you telling us you did not inform yourself?” “I’m saying I got my information from Control.” “Did you read Stevcek’s dossier at the Circus?” “No.” “Did Control?” “I don’t know.” “What conclusions did Control draw from Stevcek’s second appointment in Moscow? Did Control speak to you about Stevcek’s role in the Warsaw Pact Liaison Committee?” “No.” They stuck to that question and I suppose I stuck to my answer because after a few more no’s they got a bit crazy. They seemed to lose patience. When I passed out they hosed me down and had another crack.’

Movement, said Jim. His narrative had become oddly jerky. Cells, corridors, car… at the airport, VIP treatment and a mauling before the aeroplane… on the flight, dropped off to sleep and was punished for it: ‘Came round in a cell again, smaller, no paint on the walls. Sometimes I thought I was in Russia. I worked out by the stars that we had flown east. Sometimes I was in Sarratt, back on the interrogation resistance course.’

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