December 2nd, 1964, 22:30
It is pouring. Pouring is not a word that the Englishmen use lightly. Normally, it drizzles in England. Drizzle is akin to tiny pins falling from the skies pricking innocent bystanders. Other days there are scattered showers. These are instance in which sun rays intermittently pierce gray clouds. In the mornings, Englishmen often encounter sleet, or rain drops turned harmless by a combination of light snow. But this evening, it is pouring. George Smiley walks slowly to the black car waiting on the tarmac. Drenched, he sits next to an old, pale man coughing violently between cigarette drags.
“Do we trust the source?” asks Control.
“We do”, replies Smiley, opening his wet trench coat.
“And that’s the problem. Eh, George?”
“Yes”, says Smiley, adjusting his thick round glasses.
“There’s nothing more dangerous than a trusted source, George. Treacherous sources are preferable. You know where you stand with a treacherous source. But a trusted source is dangerous. You can lose sight of the truth with a trusted source”.
“Yes. And now?”, Smiley asks quietly.
“Now?!”, roars the old man, coughing painfully. “Now the circus starts”.
Control kicks the front seat and Toby Esterhase starts the engine.
2 Days Earlier, Zurich, 14:00
All three of them are seated around an old, blue dining table. The sort of table that has a cheap plastic finish. Smiley seems patient. English. His fingers are crossed and he focuses on the table, avoiding eye contact with the others. The woman checks the clock. Her clothes are outdated. She’s wearing a striped pin suit, the kind of suit that secretaries wore in the 50’s; sometime between the War and Twiggy. The woman lights a cigarette, and returns to the clock. The third man, the oldest of the three, is fixing a wristwatch. A tiny lens is fitted onto his glasses, and he is using a small screwdriver, one that can barely be detected by the naked eye. Then, a coil jumps and the watch flings open.
The woman smiles. “How much damage could it do?”.
The man’s eyes turn to the ceiling as he calculates the amount of explosives he could fit into an elegant wristwatch. “With a bit of luck, in a small surrounding, two maybe three dead”. The woman is pleasantly surprised.
“Tea?” she asks.
“No, thank you” responds a restrained Smiley. Moments pass. Then an hour. Finally, there is a loud knock on the door. The man and the woman look at each other. The woman stands up and walks to the hallway as the man says to Smiley “he’s always punctual”.
Smiley nods. He was meant to wait. They kept him waiting. Revenge for the six million he thinks. Smiley can hear a foreign language. Hebrew, he assumes. It is too removed from Latin to be German or Yiddish. Warm greetings, he thinks. Signs of affection. A kiss. And a gift. Something small. Just a token of affection.
The woman marches back into the kitchen with a box of chocolates. “He’s ready for you. I’ll translate”.
Smiley follows the woman. A white sheet hangs from the ceiling to the floor, separating a large room into two even parts. Smiley can make out the shadow of the man seated on the other side. He is tall, and slim. He has long legs, muscular shoulders and an elongated face. The woman brings a chair for Smiley and he sits down, straightening his vest. He is the only one wearing a three-piece suite. The woman crosses over.
Then the veiled man speaks from beyond the sheet. Not Hebrew. Arabic. The veiled man has confidence, words roll on his tongue. It’s music to Smiley’s ears, a spy always taken with the Levant. Then the woman speaks in short sentences. She has a harsh tongue. “Salam Aliykum friend. You have come a long way to meet me”, she says mechanically.
“Yes”, Smiley replies. “I was pleased to receive your invitation”.
No translation is required. The veiled man understands English.
“Not so much of an invitation as a summons” translates the woman from Arabic. The veiled man has a smile when he speaks. The woman does not.
“Yes”, says Smiley. “I’ve been sent by Control to verify the message you wired. You heard this from Alois Brunner, himself?”
The veiled man laughs. He speaks some words in Arabic. The woman protests. Then, she leaves the room.
“From Brunner himself” asserts the veiled man in English. “Do you know why I asked her to leave?”
“Yes”, replies the predictable yet indispensable Smiley.
“You have seen my shadow. You have guessed my height. You have heard me speak Hebrew and Arabic and now English. You have listened to my accent and deduced my origin. So, you are certain I am the man?”.
“Fairly certain. I am willing to trust that you are most likely agent 88”.
“Trust is important. Tell me Mr. English, do you have a lighter?”.
Smiley pulls a large silver lighter out of his vest and kicks it under the white sheet. The veiled man inspects it. “To George” he reads aloud, “With all my love. Anne”.
“Yes” remarks a sullen Smiley. “So now you know who I am”.
“I do. So? We go on?” asks the veiled man as he lights a cigar.
“Does Brunner entertain often? Does he entertain many people?”
“I don’t know”.
Silence from Smiley’s side.
“I never met Alois at his home. When he is in Damascus, he stays at a hotel. Not far from the President’s Palace. As you already know”.
“Yes. Does he speak of the past often? Of the war?”.
The veiled man laughs. “He is a former Nazi. All he speaks about is the War”.
Smiley lights a cigarette. But he doesn’t smoke it. Rather, he places it in an ashtray and watches for a moment as the fire begins to consume it.
“Does he speak to you in Arabic?”
“English, only. But he understands Arabic. When I belittle him in front of Syrian friends he flinches.”
“Scars?”, inquires Smiley.
The veiled man taps his foot impatiently. “Will you ever trust me, Mr. English? You know exactly how many scars he has and where. One, above the right eyebrow. Another on the chin. Small. He carries a leg. The right one. He likes suites. Taylor made. Not like yours, Mr. English”. A moment passes. Then he goes on. “And girls. Young girls. No older than 17. His pinky is missing from his left hand. A grenade accident he says, but I doubt it.”
“Yes”, agrees Smiley. “And he told you that…”
-“that the Fuhrer, Adolf Hitler, is alive and well”.
Smiley fixes his vest. Then his glasses. He crosses his legs and lights another cigarette. As it burns in the ashtray he adds “And why do you believe him?”
“I host him. He can’t take the girls to the hotel. Damascus has its limits. After he has them he becomes…what is the word?”
-“Chatty”
“Yes, Mr. English. Chatty. He never drinks except after he has the girls. Then he drinks a lot. And he talks to me about all of them. Who is alive, where he lives and why the Jews will never find them”.
“And he is accurate?” says Smiley closely observing the lighted cigarette.
“He gave me the correct location of the Dr.”
“Mengele?”, asks Smiley
“Very good, Mr. English. You know your Nazis”.
“Any others?”
“Yes. The fat man. He gave me the name of the farm, the color of the house, the number of sheep. It was all correct”.
“So”, concludes Smiley “the Fuhrer is alive and well”.
“Exactly so, Mr. English. In Sao Paolo. A small villa with a large balcony”.
The cigarette burns out. “The mustache?” asks Smiley as he stands up. Two cigarettes equal 7 minutes. More than enough time to assess agent 88.
“Gone. Now there is a full beard”.
Smiley buttons the jacket. “Thank you 88. Your message will reach Control.”
As Smiley heads the door the veiled man asks “You did not ask about the message?”
“No”.
“At the airport in Damascus, a tall man asked me to give my best to Anne and her husband”.
“Yes”.
“He said to tell you that Percy Alleline is an idiot”.
“Yes”.
“You didn’t ask about the message”, repeats the veiled man.
“You’re a field agent, 88. I knew that you would tell me of your own volition”.
“How did you know, Mr. English”?
“Field agents are eager to share information. It’s the curse of living with too many secrets. Stay safe in Damascus, 88” says Smiley, and as he leaves the apartment he can still hear 88 laughing.
December 2nd, 1964, 23:00
The black car races along London’s Mall as Control’s coughs grow louder and increasingly menacing.
“Did he give you my message?”
“Yes. Percy Alleline is an idiot”. Control bursts out in a laugh that quickly turns to phlegm. He smothers himself with a handkerchief until he breathes, slowly. Esterhase leans backwards, like a petty criminal eavesdropping on underworld kingpins.
-“Move forward you dog!” yells Control.
Smiley looks out at the deserted city. Englishmen flee the streets when it pours.
“Well George, this is a grenade”, coughs Control.
“Yes”.
“This could blow the whole Circus to pieces”.
“Yes”.
“We can’t tell the Americans”.
“No”.
“Because they already know. They must. And we can’t tell the…the” he coughs for a moment. Then he adds “we can’t tell Minister Lacon because he will tell the Daily Mail”.
“Yes.”
“But what about your friend? Could this be used against him?”.
Smiley plays with his glasses. “The Center will deny it”, he finally says. “Moscow will deny it. They’ll say it’s a crackpot conspiracy theory. Some new invention by the Americans”.
“Yes” thinks Control. “Western propaganda… Unless”.
It’s quiet for a few seconds. The Smiley says “That would be difficult”.
“You always say it’s difficult George. And then you succeed. Who would you take this too?”
Smiley is silent. Control barks. “Stop the car, you hound!”
The car comes to an abrupt stop. “Leave us”. Esterhase looks at the rain. He hesitates. “Leave!” yells Control as Esterhase leaps into a large puddle.
Smiley looks at Control and says, “Not Alec Leamas”.
“Why George, is that a threat?”. Control thinks back to the day Alec died, climbing the Wall in Berlin.
“No” surprises Smiley. “A reminder. Do we really want to leave another spy, out there, in the cold?”
Both of them look at the rain. Lightning strikes as poor Toby Esterhase runs amok trying to find shelter. Control laughs. Then he looks at George. “This is it George. We won’t survive this mess”.
Smiley says “Not Bill Hayden”.
“Yes”, coughs Control.
“Too tall,” adds Smiley.
“And too in love?”. Control registers Smiley’s anger. “All right George. What about Jim Prideaux?”
“Yes” agrees Smiley.
“Prideaux, Budapest, Moscow, Karla. Right?”
“Right” says Smiley, still fearing the cold.
December 22nd, 1964, 21:00
A party. Christmas. Control is drunk. Pissed, in the English vernacular. Bill Haden is making love to Anne. Smiley knows. He sees it all. But Prideaux is sober. Now, thinks Smiley. Prideaux walks to the lavatory and Smiley follows. He lurks for a moment or two. From the hall he can hear the Circus singing the “International”. The door opens and Smiley storms in pushing Prideaux back.
Jim has a kind face. But he is not entirely duplicitous. There are kind things about him. He has a warm smile, as well. It’s an asset he can deploy at will. Control always says that a spy can diffuse most threats with a warm smile.
“George?”
“Jim”.
They stand in the lavatory without speaking. Smiley waits for it to become awkward. Then he explains. “Jim, it’s time for you to leave again. Budapest, I should think. Do you still have a friend there?”
“George, I never knew you cared” answers Prideaux with the familiar smile.
-“A friend…” says Smiley, pretending to be slightly aggravated when in fact he is charmed.
“Yes” says Jim, both hands in his pockets. He glances at the mirror and fixes his receding hairline. “Although not for long, George. The friend is returning to Moscow Center”.
Smiley nods. The opportunity is present. The risk is acceptable. But he likes Jim. Smiley’s about to falter when he utters “Good Jim. Then you should leave tonight. This friend, is he ambitious?”
“He’s a communist George. They’re all ambitious” laughs Jim Prideaux.
Smiley smiles. A rarity.
“There’s a file, Jim. It’s plump. And plausible. And”-
The door opens. Someone tall walks in. Smiley grabs Jim by the elbow as they walk into the hall. Smiley leans in and says “it’s the best tradecraft available, Jim. A fabrication based on a truth. A lie whose center of gravity is a farfetched reality. It’s so implausible, that Moscow Center just might believe it. You see Jim, the Fuhrer is alive and well in Sao Paolo. Now, someone had to get him there. That someone was Karla”.
The truth is that Hitler is alive. The center of gravity is that the Russians already know this. The lie is that the head of Moscow Center, the man in charge of all KGB operations, Karla himself, is the one that helped Hitler escape.
Doubt. The file is only meant to sow doubt. To get someone in Moscow to say “maybe”. Just “maybe”. Doubt. It always leads to more questions. “If yes, then why? Why would Karla help Hitler escape?”. Doubt. If it takes hold, it can lead to dangerous speculation. “Karla would only help Hitler escape if he was a double agent. If he betrayed the Soviet Union”. Doubt. Smiley and Control will defeat Karla not with guns, or microphones or moles but with doubt.
“Can you sell it, Jim?” asks a serious Smiley.
Jim is still catching up. Smiley looks at his face. The pupils race from side to side. Then, the eyebrows converge. Next, there is a frown and then, finally, a smirk. Jim looks up and says “Yes, George. I can sell it. I’m sure I can”.
“You, Budapest, Moscow, Karla. That’s the plan. Yes?”
“Yes, George”.
They stand for a moment, each arriving at his own estimate of success. Jim thinks 70%. Smiley thinks 3%. He shakes Jim’s hand and adds “Moscow Rules, Jim. No one in the Circus or out. Radio silence. Chalk and wood”. Translation- don’t tell anyone, inside the organization or out. You will have no support if things turn sour. To communicate with the Circus, use chalk to draw signs on agreed landmarks.
Jim nods and walks off.
George heads back to the party. “Percy Alleline! You fucking Scott! Can you not take orders” asks an inebriated Control. “This punch tastes like piss!”
May 1st, 1965, 11:00
Smiley walks into Control’s office. Control is alone. By order. He stinks of the barley. And the cigarettes. His cough is worse. Phlegm has turned to spots of blood. On the desk is a picture, decorated with a gold frame. It’s a portrait of Hitler with the inscription- “To George. With All My Love.”
“Jim couldn’t sell it” says Smiley as he takes a seat.
“We should have used Bill Hayden” coughs Control who throws the picture on the ground. “Hayden would have fucked the doubt into Moscow’s mind”.
More coughs, more Whiskey. “They are circling George. Which one do you think will get it? The Circus?”
Smiley straightens his vest and adjusts his glasses.
“Not even that dog Esterhase will stay loyal now, eh George?”
“Yes.”
“But the Circus, George. The Circus should endure”.
“Yes”.
“How many?” asks Control.
Smiley locks hands and looks to the side.
“How many George?”. Control’s plan has changed. He wants to know how many loose ends exist, how many people know that the Fuhrer lives, how many know that the Circus has the information and how many could use this information against the Circus. Hitler lives. How? Where? When? Who? All these questions will follow. How did England only learn of this now? Where is Hitler at the moment? Who helped him escape, or knew that he had escaped? The answers will shred the Circus. Not directly of course. First the politicians will need a scapegoat. Then the vultures within will turn on Control. Then the journalists will ask about America.
“And we can’t afford that George. Not now. Not when we have access to the Americans’ tradecraft. We embarrass the Americans now and we’ll all be out, in the cold. So, how many?”
“Eight”.
“Me, you, Prideaux…”
-“Esterhase was in the car. The Israeli agent, Eli Cohen. His two handlers in Switzerland- a man and a woman. And his handler in Israel”.
Control sits back and takes the Whiskey, yet he coughs half of it on the table. “So four”.
“Yes”, says Smiley. Prideaux is loyal. Esterhase could still be threatened into loyalty.
Control takes a pen out of his pocket and unscrews the cap. The sound is hard to bear, the squeaky sound of ancient metal. Control then opens a file, looks at the paper and says “I leave it with you George”. Control reads on for a few minutes, yet Smiley does not leave the room. Using the pen, Control makes notes at margins of the file. “Objection noted George”, says Control, moving from one page to the next.
Later That Day
“I’m looking for a soviet, Connie”.
“I have them” she laughs, nervously. Connie is the sweet and oval archivists, the navigator of the Soviet State. The only one who knows all the men running all the operations.
“One that is approachable, Connie. One that might accept some help without asking questions”.
“Good George. Here in London?” she assumes.
“No,” says Smiley, hands in pocket.
“Budapest again?” guesses Connie. It’s a sign. She is signaling Smiley she hears all and knows all. All information runs through her. She knows that Prideaux was sent to Hungary and that he failed.
“No Connie. Damascus. How soon can you get me a name?”
“Two days” she smiles.
“One”.
“Only for you George. And what will you do once you have the name?”, asks Connie. Smiley never answers Connie’s questions. But today he is emotional. “I will betray our allies and give the Soviets the name of an Israeli spy in Syria so that he may be killed and Control may be saved. A name Connie. Any Soviet name will do”.
Connie turns white. But unlike Esterhase, she is always loyal. Willing to die for Control, or the man that Control once was.
May 18th, 1965, 10:45
Smiley lights a cigarette and puts in the ashtray. Then he turns on the wireless as the BBC announces that Eli Cohen will soon be hanged in Damascus. He hears Cohen’s wife speaking to the press in Paris. Thick smoke rises from the ashtray. Smiley closes the wireless. He steps out of the Circus and walks home already forgetting that the Fuhrer is alive and well.
The Holocaust Diaries: Short Stories 