Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John le Carré Page A

tangle with a Eurasian girl along the way, and Thesinger’s watchers got after her and bought the story. She said he was lonely and sat on the bed moaning about his wife for not appreciating his genius. That was a real breakthrough,” he added sarcastically as Lacon noisily swooped on the little fire and stirred it, one coal against the other, into life. “That night I went down to the Cradle and took a look at him. Thesinger’s watchers had been sent to bed with a glass of milk. They didn’t want to know.”
    Sometimes as Tarr spoke, an extraordinary stillness came over his body, as if he were hearing his own voice played back to him.
    “He arrived ten minutes after me and he brought his own company, a big blond Swede with a Chinese broad in tow. It was dark, so I moved into a table nearby. They ordered Scotch, Boris paid, and I sat six feet away watching the lousy band and listening to their conversation. The Chinese kid kept her mouth shut and the Swede was doing most of the running. They talked English. The Swede asked Boris where he was staying, and Boris said the Excelsior, which was a damn lie because he was staying at the Alexandra Lodge with the rest of the church outing. All right, the Alexandra is down the list; the Excelsior sounds better. About midnight the party breaks up. Boris says he’s got to go home and tomorrow’s a busy day. That was the second lie, because he was no more going home than—what’s the one, Jekyll and Hyde, right!—the regular doctor who dressed up and went on the razzle. So Boris was who?”
    For a moment no one helped him.
    “Hyde,” said Lacon to his scrubbed red hands. Sitting again, he had clasped them on his lap.
    “Hyde,” Tarr repeated. “Thank you, Mr. Lacon; I always saw you as a literary man. So they settle the bill and I traipse down to Aberdeen to be there ahead of him when he hits Angelika’s. By this time I’m pretty sure I’m in the wrong ball game.”
    On dry long fingers, Tarr studiously counted off the reasons: first, he never knew a Soviet delegation that didn’t carry a couple of security gorillas whose job was to keep the boys out of the fleshpots. So how did Boris slip the leash night after night? Second, he didn’t like the way Boris pushed his foreign currency around. For a Soviet official, that was against nature, he insisted: “He just doesn’t have any damn currency. If he does, he buys beads for his squaw. And three, I didn’t like the way he lied. He was a sight too glib for decency.”
    So Tarr waited at the Angelika, and sure enough half an hour later his Mr. Hyde turned up all on his own. “He sits down and calls for a drink. That’s all he does. Sits and drinks like a damn wallflower!”
    Once more it was Smiley’s turn to receive the heat of Tarr’s charm: “So what’s it all about, Mr. Smiley? See what I mean? It’s little things I’m noticing,” he confided, still to Smiley. “Just take the way he sat. Believe me, sir, if we’d been in that place ourselves we couldn’t have sat better than Boris. He had the pick of the exits and the stairway; he had a fine view of the main entrance and the action; he was right-handed and he was covered by a left-hand wall. Boris was a professional, Mr. Smiley; there was no doubt of it whatsoever. He was waiting for a connect, working a letter-box, maybe, or trailing his coat and looking for a pass from a mug like me. Well, now listen: it’s one thing to burn a small-time trade delegate. It’s quite a different ball game to swing your legs at a Centre-trained hood—right, Mr. Guillam?”
    Guillam said, “Since the reorganisation, scalp-hunters have no brief to trawl for double agents. They must be turned over to London Station on sight. The boys have a standing order, over Bill Haydon’s own signature. If there’s even a smell of the opposition, abandon.” He added, for Smiley’s special ear, “Under lateralism our autonomy is cut to the bone.”
    “And I’ve been in