Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy by John le Carré

‘Well they do say you write the reports,’ Smiley explained.

‘I thought that was Bland’s job,’ said Bill with his foxy grin.

‘Roy makes the translations,’ said Smiley. ‘You draft the covering reports; they’re typed on your machine. The material’s not cleared for typists at all.’

Bill listened carefully, brows lifted, as if at any moment he might interrupt with an objection or a more congenial topic, then hoisted himself from the deep armchair and ambled to the bookcase, where he stood a full shelf higher than Smiley. Fishing out a volume with his long fingers he peered into it, grinning.

‘Percy Alleline won’t do,’ he announced, turning a page. ‘Is that the premise?’

‘Pretty well.’

‘Which means that Merlin won’t do either. Merlin would do if he were my source, wouldn’t he? What would happen if bloody Bill here pottered along to Control and said he’d hooked a big fish and wanted to play him alone? “That’s very nifty of you, Bill boy,” Control would say. “You do it just the way you want, Bill boy, ‘course you do. Have some filthy tea.” He’d be giving me a medal by now instead of sending you snooping round the corridors. We used to be rather a classy bunch. Why are we so vulgar these days?’

‘He thinks Percy’s on the make,’ Smiley said.

‘So he is. So am I. I want to be head boy. Did you know that? Time I made something of myself, George. Half a painter, half a spy, time I was all something. Since when was ambition a sin in our beastly outfit?’

‘Who runs him, Bill?’

‘Percy? Karla does, who else? Lower-class bloke with upper-class sources, must be a bounder. Percy’s sold out to Karla, it’s the only explanation.’ He had developed the art, long ago, of deliberately misunderstanding. ‘Percy’s our house mole,’ he said.

‘I meant who runs Merlin? Who is Merlin? What’s going on?’

Leaving the bookcase Haydon took himself on a tour of Smiley’s drawings. ‘This is a Callot, isn’t it?’ – unhooking a small gilt frame and holding it to the light – ‘It’s nice.’ He tilted his spectacles to make them magnify. Smiley was certain he had looked at it a dozen times before. ‘It’s very nice. Doesn’t anyone think my nose should be out of joint? I am supposed to be in charge of the Russian target, you know. Given it my best years, set up networks, talent-spotters, all mod cons. You chaps on the fifth floor have forgotten what it’s like to run an operation where it takes you three days to post a letter and you don’t even get an answer for your trouble.’

Smiley, dutifully: Yes, I have forgotten. Yes, I sympathise. No, Ann is nowhere in my thoughts. We are colleagues after all and men of the world, we are here to talk about Merlin and Control.

‘Along comes this upstart Percy, damn Caledonian street-merchant, no shadow of class, shoving a whole wagonload of Russian goodies. Bloody annoying, don’t you think?’

‘Very.’

‘Trouble is, my networks aren’t very good. Much easier to spy on Percy than -‘ He broke off, tired of his own thesis. His attention had settled on a tiny van Mieris head in chalk. ‘And I fancy this very much,’ he said.

‘Ann gave it me.’

‘Amends?’

‘Probably.’

‘Must have been quite a sin. How long have you had it?’

Even now, Smiley remembered noticing how silent it was in the street. Tuesday? Wednesday? And he remembered thinking, ‘No, Bill. For you I have so far received no consolation prize at all. As of this evening you don’t even rate a pair of bedroom slippers.’ Thinking but not saying.

‘Is Control dead yet?’ Haydon asked.

‘Just busy.’

‘What does he do all day? He’s like a hermit with the clap, scratching around all on his own in that cave up there. All those bloody files he reads, what’s he about for God’s sake? Sentimental tour of his unlovely past, I’ll bet. He looks sick as a cat. I suppose that’s Merlin’s fault too, is it?’

Again Smiley said nothing.

‘Why doesn’t he eat with the cooks? Why doesn’t he join us instead of grubbing around for truffles up there? What’s he after?’

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