The same night Peter Guillam drove west, clean across England to Liverpool, with Ricki Tarr as his only passenger. It was a tedious journey in beastly conditions. For most of it Tarr boasted about the rewards he would claim, and the promotion, once he had carried out his mission. From there he talked about his women: Danny, her mother, Irina. He seemed to envisage a ménage à quatre in which the two women would jointly care for Danny, and for himself.
‘There’s a lot of the mother in Irina. That’s what frustrates her, naturally.’ Boris, he said, could get lost, he would tell Karla to keep him. As their destination approached, his mood changed again and he fell silent. The dawn was cold and foggy. In the suburbs they had to drop to a crawl and cyclists overtook them. A reek of soot and steel filled the car.
‘Don’t hang about in Dublin, either,’ said Guillam suddenly. ‘They expect you to work the soft routes so keep your head down. Take the first plane out.’
‘We’ve been through all that.’
‘Well I’m going through it all again,’ Guillam retorted. ‘What’s Mackelvore’s workname?’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Tarr breathed, and gave it.
It was still dark when the Irish ferry sailed. There were soldiers and police everywhere: this war, the last, the one before. A fierce wind was blowing off the sea and the going looked rough. At the dockside, a sense of fellowship briefly touched the small crowd as the ship’s lights bobbed quickly into the gloom. Somewhere a woman was crying, somewhere a drunk was celebrating his release.
He drove back slowly, trying to work himself out: the new Guillam who starts at sudden noises, has nightmares and not only can’t keep his girl but makes up crazy reasons for distrusting her. He had challenged her about Sand, and the hours she kept, and about her secrecy in general. After listening with her grave brown eyes fixed on him she told him he was a fool, and left. ‘I am what you think I am,’ she said, and fetched her things from the bedroom. From his empty flat he telephoned Toby Esterhase, inviting him for a friendly chat later that day.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Smiley sat in the Minister’s Rolls, with Lacon beside him. In Ann’s family the car was called the black bed-pan, and hated for its flashiness. The chauffeur had been sent to find himself breakfast. The Minister sat in the front and everyone looked forward down the long bonnet, across the river to the foggy towers of Battersea Power Station. The Minister’s hair was full at the back, and licked into small black horns around the ears.
‘If you’re right,’ the Minister declared, after a funereal silence, ‘I’m not saying you’re not, but if you are, how much porcelain will he break at the end of the day?’
Smiley did not quite understand.
‘I’m talking about scandal. Gerald gets to Moscow. Right, so then what happens? Does he leap on a soapbox and laugh his head off in public about all the people he’s made fools of over here? I mean Christ, we’re all in this together, aren’t we? I don’t see why we should let him go just so’s he can pull the bloody roof down over our heads and the competition sweep the bloody pool.’
He tried a different tack. ‘I mean to say, just because the Russians know our secrets doesn’t mean everyone else has to. We got plenty of other fish to fry apart from them, don’t we? What about all the black men: are they going to be reading the gory details in the Wallah-Wallah News in a week’s time?’
Or his constituents, Smiley thought.
‘I think that’s always been a point the Russians accept,’ said Lacon. ‘After all, if you make your enemy look a fool, you lose the justification for engaging him.’ He added: They’ve never made use of their opportunities so far, have they?’
‘Well, make sure they toe the line. Get it in writing. No, don’t. But you tell them what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. We don’t go round publishing the batting order at Moscow Centre, so they can bloody well play ball too, for once.’