Call for the Dead Page 7

  Soon he found them comic and touching. To him, they might as well have knitted socks for soldiers. The disproportion between the dream and reality drove him to a close examination of both; he put all his energy into philosophical and historical reading, and found, to his surprise, comfort and peace in the intellectual purity of Marxism. He feasted on its intellectual ruthlessness, was thrilled by its fearlessness, its academic reversal of traditional values. In the end it was this and not the Party that gave him strength in his solitude, a philosophy which exacted total sacrifice to an unassailable formula, which humiliated and inspired him; and when he finally found success, prosperity and integration, he turned his back sadly upon it as a treasure he had outgrown and must leave at Oxford with the days of his youth.

  This was how Fennan had described it and Smiley had understood. It was scarcely the story of anger and resentment that Smiley had come to expect in such interviews, but (perhaps because of that) it seemed more real. There was another thing about that interview: Smiley’s conviction that Fennan had left something important unsaid.

  Was there any factual connection between the incident in Bywater Street and Fennan’s death? Smiley reproached himself for being carried away. Seen in perspective, there was nothing but the sequence of events to suggest that Fennan and Smiley were part of a single problem.

  The sequence of events, that is, and the weight of Smiley’s intuition, experience or what you will – the extra sense that had told him to ring the bell and not use his key, the sense that did not, however, warn him that a murderer stood in the night with a piece of lead piping.

  The interview had been informal, that was true. The walk in the park reminded him more of Oxford than of Whitehall. The walk in the park, the café in Millbank – yes, there had been a procedural difference too, but what did it amount to? An official of the Foreign Office walking in the park, talking earnestly

  with an anonymous little man … Unless the little man was not anonymous!

  Smiley took a paper-back book and began to write in pencil on the fly-leaf:

  ‘Let us assume what is by no means proven: that the murder of Fennan and the attempted murder of Smiley are related. What circumstances connected Smiley with Fennan before Fennan’s death?

  Before the interview on Monday, 2 January, I had never met Fennan. I read his file at the Department and I had certain preliminary inquiries made.

  On 2 January I went alone to the Foreign Office by taxi. The FO arranged the interview, but did not, repeat not, know in advance who would conduct it. Fennan therefore had no prior knowledge of my identity, nor had anyone else outside the Department.

  The interview fell into two parts; the first at the FO, when people wandered through the room and took no notice of us at all, the second outside when anyone could have seen us.’

  What followed? Nothing, unless …

  Yes, that was the only possible conclusion: unless whoever saw them together recognized not only Fennan but Smiley as well, and was violently opposed to their association.

  Why? In what way was Smiley dangerous? His eyes suddenly opened very wide. Of course – in one way, in one way only– as a security officer.

  He put down his pencil.

  And so whoever killed Sam Fennan was anxious that he should not talk to a security officer. Someone in the Foreign Office, perhaps. But essentially someone who knew Smiley too. Someone Fennan had known at Oxford, known as a communist, someone who feared exposure, who thought that Fennan would talk, had talked already, perhaps? And if he had talked already then of course Smiley would have to be killed – killed quickly before he could put in his report.

  That would explain the murder of Fennan and the assault on Smiley. It made some sense, but not much. He had built a card-house as high as it would go, and he still had cards in his hand. What about Elsa, her lies, her complicity, her fear? What about the car and the eight-thirty call? What about the anonymous letter? If the murderer was frightened of contact between Smiley and Fennan, he would scarcely call attention to Fennan by denouncing him. Who then? Who?

  He lay back and closed his eyes. His head was throbbing again. Perhaps Peter Guillam could help. He was the only hope. His head was going round. It hurt terribly.

  9

  Tidying Up

  Mendel showed Peter Guillam into the ward, grinning hugely.

  ‘Got him,’ he said.

  The conversation was awkward; strained for Guillam at least, by the recollection of Smiley’s abrupt resignation and the incongruity of meeting in a hospital ward. Smiley was wearing a blue bedjacket, his hair was spiky and untidy above the bandages and he still had the trace of a heavy bruise on his left temple.

  After a particularly awkward pause, Smiley said: ‘Look, Peter, Mendel’s told you what happened to me. You’re the expert – what do we know about the East German Steel Mission?’

  ‘Pure as the driven snow, dear boy, except for their sudden departure. Only about three men and a dog in the thing. They hung out in Hampstead somewhere. No one quite knew why they were here when they first came but they’ve done quite a decent job in the last four years.’

  ‘What are their terms of reference?’

  ‘God knows. I think they thought when they arrived that they were going to persuade the Board of Trade to break the European steel rings, but they got the cold shoulder. Then they went in for consular stuff with the accent on machine tools and finished products, exchange of industrial and technical information and so on. Nothing to do with what they came for but rather more acceptable, I gather.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘Oh – couple of technicians – Professor Doktor someone and Doktor someone else – couple of girls and a general dogsbody.’

  ‘Who was the dogsbody?’

  ‘Don’t know. Some young diplomat to iron out the wrinkles. We have them recorded at the Department. I can send you details, I suppose.’

  ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  There was another awkward pause. Smiley said: ‘Photo-graphs would be a help, Peter. Could you manage that?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Guillam looked away from Smiley in some embarrassment. ‘We don’t know much about the East Germans really, you know. We get odd bits here and there, but on the whole they’re something of a mystery. If they operate at all they don’t do it under Trade or Diplomatic cover – that’s why, if you’re right about this chap, it’s so odd him coming from the Steel Mission.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Smiley flatly.

  ‘How do they operate?’ asked Mendel.

  ‘It’s hard to generalize from the very few isolated cases we do know of. My impression is that they run their agents direct from Germany with no contact between controller and agent in the operational zone.’

  ‘But that must limit them terribly,’ cried Smiley. ‘You may have to wait months before your agent can travel to a meeting place outside his own country. He may not have the necessary cover to make the journey at all.’

  ‘Well, obviously it does limit him, but their targets seem to be so insignificant. They prefer to run foreign nationals – Swedes, expatriate Poles and what not, on short-term missions, where the limitations of their technique don’t matter. In exceptional cases where they have an agent resident in the target country, they work on a courier system, which corresponds to the Soviet pattern.’

  Smiley was listening now.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Guillam went on, ‘the Americans intercepted a courier quite recently, which is where we learnt the little we do know about GDR technique.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘Oh well, never waiting at a rendezvous, never meeting at the stated time but twenty minutes before; recognition signals – all the usual conjuring tricks that give a gloss to low-grade information. They muck about with names, too. A courier may have to contact three or four agents – a controller may run as many as fifteen. They never invent cover names for themselves.’

  ‘Wh
at do you mean? Surely they must.’

  ‘They get the agent to do it for them. The agent chooses a name, any name he likes, and the controller adopts it. A gimmick really—’ He stopped, looking at Mendel in surprise.

  Mendel had leapt to his feet.

  Guillam sat back in his chair and wondered if he were allowed to smoke. He decided reluctantly that he wasn’t. He could have done with a cigarette.

  ‘Well?’ said Smiley. Mendel had described to Guillam his interview with Mr Scarr.

  ‘It fits,’ said Guillam. ‘Obviously it fits with what we know. But then we don’t know all that much. If Blondie was a courier, it is exceptional – in my experience at least – that he should use a trade delegation as a staging post.’

  ‘You said the Mission had been here four years,’ said Mendel. ‘Blondie first came to Scarr four years ago.’

  No one spoke for a moment. Then Smiley said earnestly: ‘Peter, it is possible, isn’t it? I mean they might under certain operational conditions need to have a station over here as well as couriers.’

  ‘Well, of course, if they were on to something really big they might.’

  ‘Meaning if they had a highly placed resident agent in play?’

  ‘Yes, roughly.’

  ‘And assuming they had such an agent, a Maclean or Fuchs, it is conceivable that they would establish a station here under trade cover with no operational function except to hold the agent’s hand?’

  ‘Yes, it’s conceivable. But it’s a tall order, George. What you’re suggesting is that the agent is run from abroad, serviced by courier and the courier is serviced by the Mission, which is also the agent’s personal guardian angel. He’d have to be some agent.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting quite that – but near enough. And I accept that the system demands a high-grade agent. Don’t forget we only have Blondie’s word for it that he came from abroad.’

  Mendel chipped in: ‘This agent – would he be in touch with the Mission direct?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ said Guillam. ‘He’d probably have an emergency procedure for getting in touch with them – a telephone code or something of the sort.’

  ‘How does that work?’ asked Mendel.

  ‘Varies. Might be on the wrong number system. You dial the number from a call box and ask to speak to George Brown. You’re told George Brown doesn’t live there so you apologize and ring off. The time and the rendezvous are prearranged – the emergency signal is contained in the name you ask for. Someone will be there.’

  ‘What else would the Mission do?’ asked Smiley.

  ‘Hard to say. Pay him probably. Arrange a collecting place for reports. The controller would make all those arrangements for the agent, of course, and tell him his part of it by courier. They work on the Soviet principle a good deal, as I told you – even the smallest details are arranged by control. The people in the field are allowed very little independence.’

  There was another silence. Smiley looked at Guillam and then at Mendel, then blinked and said:

  ‘Blondie didn’t come to Scarr in January and February, did he?’

  ‘No,’ said Mendel; ‘this was the first year.’

  ‘Fennan always went skiing in January and February. This was the first time in four years he’d missed.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Smiley, ‘whether I ought to go and see Maston again.’

  Guillam stretched luxuriously and smiled: ‘You can always try. He’ll be thrilled to hear you’ve been brained. I’ve a sneaking feeling he’ll think Battersea’s on the coast, but not to worry. Tell him you were attacked while wandering about in someone’s private yard – he’ll understand. Tell him about your assailant, too, George. You’ve never seen him, mind, and you don’t know his name, but he’s a courier of the East German Intelligence Service. Maston will back you up; he always does. Specially when he’s got to report to the Minister.’

  Smiley looked at Guillam and said nothing.

  ‘After your bang on the head, too,’ Guillam added; ‘he’ll understand.’

  ‘But, Peter—’

  ‘I know, George, I know.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you another thing. Blondie collected his car on the first Tuesday of each month.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Those were the nights Elsa Fennan went to the Weybridge Rep. Fennan worked late on Tuesdays, she said.’

  Guillam got up. ‘Let me dig about, George. Cheerio, Mendel, I’ll probably give you a ring tonight. I don’t see what we can do now, anyway, but it would be nice to know, wouldn’t it?’ He reached the door. ‘Incidentally, where are Fennan’s possessions – wallet, diary and so forth? Stuff they found on the body?’

  ‘Probably still at the Station,’ said Mendel; ‘until after the inquest.’

  Guillam stood looking at Smiley for a moment, wondering what to say.

  ‘Anything you want, George?’

  ‘No thanks – oh, there is one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you get the CID off my back? They’ve visited me three times now and of course they’ve got nowhere locally. Could you make this an Intelligence matter for the time being? Be mysterious and soothing?’

  ‘Yes, I should think so.’

  ‘I know it’s difficult, Peter, because I’m not—’

  ‘Oh, another thing just to cheer you up. I had that comparison made between Fennan’s suicide note and the anonymous letter. They were done by different people on the same machine. Different pressures and spacing but identical typeface. So long, old dear. Tuck into the grapes.’

  Guillam closed the door behind him. They heard his footsteps echoing crisply down the bare corridor.

  Mendel rolled himself a cigarette.

  ‘Lord,’ said Smiley; ‘does nothing frighten you? Haven’t you seen the Sister here?’

  Mendel grinned and shook his head.

  ‘You can only die once,’ he said, putting the cigarette between his thin lips. Smiley watched him light it. He produced his lighter, took the hood off it and rotated the wheel with his stained thumb, swiftly cupping both hands around it and nursing the flame towards the cigarette. There might have been a hurricane blowing.

  ‘Well, you’re the crime expert,’ said Smiley. ‘How are we doing?’

  ‘Messy,’ said Mendel. ‘Untidy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Loose ends everywhere. No police work. Nothing checked. Like algebra.’

  ‘What’s algebra got to do with it?’

  ‘You’ve got to prove what can be proved, first. Find the constants. Did she really go to the theatre? Was she alone? Did the neighbours hear her come back? If so, what time? Was Fennan really late Tuesdays? Did his Missus go to the theatre regularly every fortnight like she said?’

  ‘And the eight-thirty call. Can you tidy that for me?’

  ‘You’ve got that call on the brain, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Of all the loose ends, that’s the loosest. I brood over it, you know, and there just isn’t any sense in it. I’ve been through his train timetable. He was a punctual man – often got to the FO before anyone else, unlocked his own cupboard. He would have caught the eight fifty-four, the nine eight, or at worst the nine fourteen. The eight fifty-four got him in at nine thirty-eight – he liked to be at his office by a quarter to ten. He couldn’t possibly want to be woken at eight-thirty.’

  ‘Perhaps he just liked bells,’ said Mendel, getting up.

  ‘And the letters,’ Smiley continued. ‘Different typists but the same machine. Discounting the murderer two people had access to that machine: Fennan and his wife. If we accept that Fennan typed the suicide note – and he certainly signed it – we must accept that it was Elsa who typed the denunciation. Why did she do that?’

  Smiley was tired out, relieved that Mendel was going.

  ‘Off to tidy up. Find the constants.’

  ‘You’ll need money,’ said Smiley, and offered him some from the wallet beside his bed. Mendel took it without ceremony, and left.
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  Smiley lay back. His head was throbbing madly, burning hot. He thought of calling the nurse and cowardice prevented him. Gradually the throbbing eased. He heard from outside the ringing of an ambulance bell as it turned off Prince of Wales Drive into the hospital yard. ‘Perhaps he just liked bells,’ he muttered, and fell asleep.

  He was woken by the sound of argument in the corridor – he heard the Sister’s voice raised in protest; he heard footsteps and Mendel’s voice, urgent in contradiction. The door opened suddenly and someone put the light on. He blinked and sat up, glancing at his watch. It was a quarter to six. Mendel was talking to him, almost shouting. What was he trying to say? Something about Battersea Bridge … the river police … missing since yesterday … He was wide awake. Adam Scarr was dead.

  10

  The Virgin’s Story

  Mendel drove very well, with a kind of schoolma’amish pedantry that Smiley would have found comic. The Weybridge road was packed with traffic as usual. Mendel hated motorists. Give a man a car of his own and he leaves humility and common sense behind him in the garage. He didn’t care who it was – he’d seen bishops in purple doing seventy in a built-up area, frightening pedestrians out of their wits. He liked Smiley’s car. He liked the fussy way it had been maintained, the sensible extras, wing mirrors and reversing light. It was a decent little car.

  He liked people who looked after things, who finished what they began. He liked thoroughness and precision. No skimping. Like this murderer. What had Scarr said? ‘Young, mind, but cool. Cool as charity.’ He knew that look, and Scarr had known it too … the look of complete negation that reposes in the eyes of a young killer. Not the look of a wild beast, not the grinning savagery of a maniac, but the look born of supreme efficiency, tried and proven. It was a stage beyond the experience of war. The witnessing of death in war brings a sophistication of its own; but beyond that, far beyond, is the conviction of supremacy in the heart of the professional killer. Yes, Mendel had seen it before: the one that stood apart from the gang, pale eyed, expressionless, the one the girls went after, spoke of without smiling. Yes, he was a cool one all right.