Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré

They were extraordinary nights for Smiley alone up there on the top floor. Thinking of them afterwards, though his days between were just as fraught and on the surface more eventful, he recalled them as a single journey, almost a single night. ‘And you’ll do it?’ Lacon had piped shamelessly in the garden. ‘Go forwards, go backwards?’ As Smiley retraced path after path into his own past, there was no longer any difference between the two: forwards or backwards, it was the same journey and its destination lay ahead of him. There was nothing in that room, no object among that whole magpie collection of tattered hotel junk, that separated him from the rooms of his recollection. He was back on the top floor of the Circus, in his own plain office with the Oxford prints, just as he had left it a year ago. Beyond his door lay the low-ceilinged anteroom where Control’s grey-haired ladies, the mothers, softly typed and answered telephones; while here in the hotel an undiscovered genius along the corridor night and day tapped patiently at an old machine. At the anteroom’s far end – in Mrs Pope Graham’s world there was a bathroom there, and a warning not to use it – stood the blank door that led to Control’s sanctuary: an alley of a place, with old steel cupboards and old red books, a smell of sweet dust and jasmine tea. Behind the desk, Control himself, a carcass of a man by then, with his lank grey forelock and his smile as warm as a skull.

This mental transposition was so complete in Smiley that when his phone rang – the extension was an extra, payable in cash – he had to give himself time to remember where he was. Other sounds had an equally confusing effect on him, such as the rustle of pigeons on the parapet, the scraping of the television mast in the wind, and in rain the sudden river gurgling in the roof valley. For these sounds also belonged to his past, and in Cambridge Circus were heard by the fifth floor only. His ear selected them no doubt for that very reason: they were the background jingle of his past. Once in the early morning, hearing a footfall in the corridor outside his room, Smiley actually went to the bedroom door expecting to let in the Circus night coding clerk. He was immersed in Guillam’s photographs at the time, puzzling out from far too little information the likely Circus procedure under lateralism for handling an incoming telegram from Hong Kong. But instead of the clerk he found Norman barefooted in pyjamas. Confetti was strewn over the carpet and two pairs of shoes stood outside the opposite door, a man’s and a girl’s, though no one at the Islay, least of all Norman, would ever clean them.

‘Stop prying and go to bed,’ said Smiley. And when Norman only stared: ‘Oh do go away, will you?’ – And nearly, but he stopped himself in time – ‘you grubby little man.’

‘Operation Witchcraft,’ read the title on the first volume which Lacon had brought to him that first night. ‘Policy regarding distribution of Special Product.’ The rest of the cover was obliterated by warning labels and handling instructions, including one which quaintly advised the accidental finder to ‘return the file unread’ to the Chief Registrar at the Cabinet Office. ‘Operation Witchcraft,’ read the second. ‘Supplementary estimates to the Treasury, special accommodation in London, special financing arrangements, bounty etc.’ ‘Source Merlin,’ read the third, bound to the first with pink ribbon. ‘Customer Evaluations, cost effectiveness, wider exploitation, see also Secret Annexe.’ But the secret annexe was not attached, and when Smiley asked for it there was a coldness.

‘The Minister keeps it in his personal safe,’ Lacon snapped.

‘Do you know the combination?’

‘Certainly not,’ he retorted, now furious.

‘What is the title of it?’

‘It can be of no possible concern to you. I entirely fail to see why you should waste your time chasing after this material in the first place. It’s highly secret and we have done everything humanly possible to keep the readership to the minimum.’

‘Even a secret annexe has to have a title,’ said Smiley mildly.

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