The Secret Pilgrim Read online

  PRAISE FOR THE SECRET PILGRIM

  #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER A NEW YORK TIMES NOTABLE BOOK OF THE YEAR

  #1 NATIONAL BESTSELLER

  “Mr. le Carré’s most magisterial accomplishment.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “Le Carré is writing at the top of his form. . . . Secrets abound . . . wonders abound.”

  —Ed McBain, Los Angeles Times

  “This consummate and enthralling mosaic is also Smiley’s nunc dimittis.”

  —The Observer

  “Masterfully recreates Smiley’s world. . . . [Le Carré’s] use of language, which is what distinguishes his volumes from their many imitators, is superb. . . . Like Moby Dick, The Secret Pilgrim can be read at several levels. It’s a crackling good spy story, but it’s also the epitaph for a generation.”

  —Peter C. Newman, The Globe and Mail

  “Le Carré’s wit is as provocative as ever.”

  —Chatelaine

  “Le Carré writing at his exceptional best.”

  —Mail on Sunday

  “John le Carré has created a fictive world which he has made almost as familiar as that of Dickens. . . . In terms of scope, skill, and ideas, it is streets ahead of most contemporary fiction.”

  —Daily Telegraph

  “Insights give The Secret Pilgrim a moral weight that moves it from simple entertainment towards the realm of art. . . . The le Carré of The Secret Pilgrim is one of the most accomplished writers in the English language.”

  —Maclean’s

  “Extraordinary.”

  —USA Today

  “The world’s foremost writer of spy fiction.”

  —Toronto Star

  “This is as brilliant and satisfying a novel as le Carré has written . . .”

  —London Free Press

  PENGUIN CANADA

  THE SECRET PILGRIM

  JOHN LE CARRÉ was born in 1931. He was educated at the Universities of Bern and Oxford, taught at Eton College, and served as second secretary at the British Embassy in Bonn and British Consul in Hamburg during the Cold War. His third novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, secured him a wide reputation, which was consolidated by his trilogy Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy; The Honourable Schoolboy; and Smiley’s People. His recent work includes The Constant Gardener and The Mission Song. His new novel, A Most Wanted Man, will be published in autumn 2008.

  ALSO BY JOHN LE CARRÉ

  Call for the Dead

  A Murder of Quality

  The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

  The Looking Glass War

  A Small Town in Germany

  The Naïve and Sentimental Lover

  Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

  The Honourable Schoolboy

  Smiley’s People

  The Little Drummer Girl

  A Perfect Spy

  The Night Manager

  Our Game

  The Tailor of Panama

  Single & Single

  The Constant Gardener

  Absolute Friends

  The Mission Song

  JOHN

  LE CARRÉ

  THE SECRET

  PILGRIM

  PENGUIN CANADA

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in a Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),

  a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1991

  Published in Penguin Canada paperback by Penguin Group (Canada),

  a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 1991

  Published in this edition, 2008

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

  Copyright © David Cornwell, 1990

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Manufactured in Canada.

  LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

  Le Carré, John, 1931–

  The secret pilgrim / John le Carré.

  ISBN 978-0-14-316956-7

  I. Title.

  PR6062.E42S42 2008 823'.914 C2008-902725-6

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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  For Alec Guinness with affection and thanks

  THE SECRET PILGRIM

  1

  Let me confess to you at once that if I had not, on the spur of the moment, picked up my pen and scribbled a note to George Smiley inviting him to address my passing-out class on the closing evening of their entry course—and had Smiley not, against all my expectations, consented—I would not be making so free to you with my heart.

  At the most, I would be offering you the sort of laundered reminiscence with which, if I am honest, I was a bit too inclined to regale my students: feats of secret chivalry, of the dramatic, the resourceful and the brave. And always, of course, the useful. I would be enthralling you with memories of night drops into the Caucasus, hazardous crossings by fast boat, beach landings, winking shore lights, clandestine radio messages that ceased in midtransmission. Of silent heroes of the Cold War who, having made their contribution, modestly went to earth in the society they had protected. Of defectors-in-place snatched in the nick of time from the jaws of the opposition.

  And to a point, yes, that is the life we lived. In our day we did those things, and some even ended well. We had good men in bad countries who risked their lives for us. And usually they were believed, and sometimes their intelligence was wisely used. I hope so, for the greatest spy on earth is worth nothing when it isn’t.

  And for the lighter note, over a second whisky in the Probationers’ Mess, I would have picked out for them the occasion when a three-man reception team from the Circus, operating inside East Germany, and gallantly led by myself, lay freezing on a ridge in the Harz Mountains, pra
ying for the flutter of an unmarked plane with its engines cut, and the blessed black parachute floating in its wake. And what did we find when our prayer was answered and we had slithered down an icefield to claim our treasure? Stones, I would tell my wide-eyed students. Chunks of honest Argyll granite. The despatchers at our Scottish airbase had sent us the training cannister by mistake.

  That tale, at least, found a certain echo, even if some of my other offerings tended to lose their audience halfway through.

  I suspect that my impulse to write to Smiley had been brewing in me longer than I realized. The idea was conceived during one of my regular visits to Personnel to discuss the progress of my students. Dropping in on the Senior Officers’ Bar for a sandwich and a beer, I had bumped into Peter Guillam. Peter had played Watson to George’s Sherlock Holmes in the long search for the Circus traitor, who turned out to be our Head of Operations, Bill Haydon. Peter had not heard from George for—oh, a year now, more. George had bought this cottage in North Cornwall somewhere, he said, and was indulging his dislike of the telephone. He had some kind of sinecure at Exeter University, and was allowed to use their library. Sadly I pictured the rest: George the lonely hermit on an empty landscape, taking his solitary walks and thinking his thoughts. George slipping up to Exeter for a little human warmth in his old age while he waited to take his place in the spies’ Valhalla.

  And Ann, his wife? I asked Peter, lowering my voice as one does when Ann’s name comes up—for it was an open secret, and a painful one, that Bill Haydon had counted among Ann’s many lovers.

  Ann was Ann, said Peter, with a Gallic shrug. She had bits of family with grand houses on the Helford Estuary. Sometimes she stayed with them, sometimes she stayed with George.

  I asked for Smiley’s address. “Don’t tell him I gave it you,” said Peter as I wrote it down. With George, there had always been that certain kind of guilt about passing on his whereabouts—I still don’t quite know why.

  Three weeks later Toby Esterhase came down to Sarratt to give us his celebrated talk on the arts of clandestine surveillance on unfriendly soil. And of course he stayed for lunch, which was greatly enhanced for him by the presence of our first three girls. After a battle lasting as long as I had been at Sarratt, Personnel had finally decided that girls were all right after all.

  And I heard myself trailing Smiley’s name.

  There have been times when I would not have entertained Toby in the woodshed, and others when I thanked my Maker I had him on my side. But with the years, I am pleased to notice, one settles to people.

  “Oh look here, my God, Ned!” Toby cried in his incurably Hungarian English, smoothing back his carefully pomaded mane of silver hair. “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” I asked patiently.

  “My dear fellow, George is chairing the Fishing Rights Committee. Don’t they tell you anything down here in the sticks? I think I better take this up with the Chief actually, one to one. A word in his ear at the Club.”

  “Perhaps you’d tell me first what the Fishing Rights Committee is,” I suggested.

  “Ned, you know what? I think I get nervous. Maybe they took you off the list.”

  “Maybe they did at that,” I said.

  He told me anyway, as I knew he would, and I duly acted astonished, which gave him an even greater sense of his importance. And there is a part of me that remains astonished to this day. The Fishing Rights Committee, Toby explained for the benefit of the unblessed, was an informal working party made up of officers from Moscow Centre and the Circus. Its job, said Toby—who I really believe had lost any capacity to be surprised—was to identify intelligence targets of interest to both services and thrash out a system of sharing. “The idea actually, Ned, was to target the world’s trouble spots,” he said with an air of maddening superiority—“I think they fix first the Middle East. Don’t quote me, Ned, okay?”

  “And you’re telling me Smiley chairs this committee?” I asked incredulously when I had attempted to digest this.

  “Well, maybe not much longer, Ned—Anno Domini and so forth. But the Russians were so frightfully keen to meet him, we brought him in to snip the tape. Give the old fellow a treat, I say. Stroke him a bit. Bunch of fixers in an envelope.”

  I didn’t know which to marvel at the more: the notion of Toby Esterhase tripping to the altar with Moscow Centre, or of George Smiley presiding over the marriage. A few days later, with Personnel’s permission, I wrote to the Cornish address Guillam had given me, adding diffidently that if George loathed public speaking half as much as I did, he should on no account accept. I had been a bit in the dumps till then, but when his prim little card arrived by return declaring him delighted, I felt a probationer myself, and just as nervous.

  Two weeks after that, wearing a brand-new country suit for the occasion, I was standing at the barrier at Paddington Station, watching the elderly trains disgorge their middle-aged commuters. I don’t think I had ever been quite so aware of Smiley’s anonymity. Wherever I looked, I seemed to see versions of him: tubby, bespectacled gentlemen of a certain seniority, and every one of them with George’s air of being slightly late for something he would rather not be doing. Then suddenly we had shaken hands and he was sitting beside me in the back of a Head Office Rover, stockier than I remembered him, and white-haired, it was true, but of a vigour and good humour I had not seen in him since his wife had her fatal fling with Haydon.

  “Well, well, Ned. How do you like being a schoolmaster?”

  “How do you like retirement?” I countered, with a laugh. “I’ll be joining you soon!”

  Oh, he loved retirement, he assured me. Couldn’t get enough of it, he said wryly; I should have no fears of it at all. A little tutoring here, Ned, the odd paper to deliver there; walks, he’d even acquired a dog.

  “I hear they hauled you back to sit on some extraordinary committee,” I said. “Conspiring with the Bear, they say, against the Thief of Baghdad.”

  George does not gossip, but I saw his smile broaden. “Do they now? And your source would be Toby, no doubt,” he said, and beamed contentedly upon the dismal subtopian landscape while he launched into a diversionary story about two old ladies in his village who hated each other. One owned an antique shop, the other was very rich. But as the Rover continued its progress through oncerural Hertfordshire, I found myself thinking less about the ladies of George’s village than about George himself. I was thinking that this was a Smiley reborn, who told stories about old ladies, sat on committees with Russian spies and gazed on the overt world with the relish of someone who has just come out of hospital.

  That evening, squeezed into an elderly dinner jacket, the same man sat at my side at Sarratt high table, peering benignly round him at the polished plate candlesticks and old group photographs going back to God knows when. And at the fit, expectant faces of his young audience as they waited on the master’s word.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr George Smiley,” I announced severely as I rose to introduce him. “A legend of the Service. Thank you.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’m a legend at all,” Smiley protested as he clambered to his feet. “I think I’m just a rather fat old man wedged between the pudding and the port.”

  Then the legend began talking, and I realised that I had never heard Smiley address a social gathering before. I had assumed it was a thing he would be congenitally bad at, like forcing his opinions on people, or referring to a joe by his real name. So the sovereign way in which he addressed us surprised me before I had begun to fathom the content. I heard his first few sentences and I watched my students’ faces—not always so obliging—lift and relax and light to him as they gave him first their attention, then their trust and finally their support. And I thought, with an inner smile of belated recognition: yes, yes, of course, this was George’s other nature. This was the actor who had always lain hidden in him, the secret Pied Piper. This was the man Ann Smiley had loved and Bill Haydon had deceived and the rest of us had
loyally followed, to the mystification of outsiders.

  There is a wise tradition at Sarratt that our dinner speeches are not recorded and no notes are taken, and that no official reference may afterwards be made to what was said. The guest of honour enjoyed what Smiley in his Germanic way called “the fool’s freedom,” though I can think of few people less qualified for the privilege. But I am nothing if not a professional, trained to listen and remember, and you must understand also that Smiley had not spoken many words before I realised—as my students were not slow to notice—that he was speaking straight into my heretical heart. I refer to that other, less obedient person who is also inside me and whom, if I am honest, I had refused to acknowledge since I had embarked on this final lap of my career—to the secret questioner who had been my uncomfortable companion even before a reluctant joe of mine called Barley Blair had stepped across the crumbling Iron Curtain and, for reasons of love, and some sort of honour, had calmly kept on walking, to the incredulity of the Fifth Floor.

  The better the restaurant, we say of Personnel, the worse the news. “It’s time you handed on your wisdom to the new boys, Ned,” he had told me over a suspiciously good lunch at the Connaught. “And to the new girls,” he added, with a loathsome smirk. “They’ll be letting them into the Church next, I suppose.” He returned to happier ground. “You know the tricks. You’ve kicked around. You’ve had an impressive last lap running Secretariat. Time to put it all to advantage. We think you should take over the Nursery and pass the torch to tomorrow’s spies.”

  He had used a rather similar set of sporting metaphors, if I remembered rightly, when in the wake of Barley Blair’s defection he had removed me from my post as Head of the Russia House and consigned me to that knacker’s yard, the Interrogators’ Pool.

  He ordered up two more glasses of Armagnac. “How’s your Mabel, by the way?” he continued, as if he had just remembered her. “Somebody told me she’d got her handicap down to twelve— ten, by God! Well. I trust you’ll keep her away from me! So what do you say? Sarratt in the week, home to Tunbridge Wells at weekends, sounds to me like the triumphant crowning of a career. What do you say?”