last Friday of each month a telexed money order arrived from Paris to the credit of a Monsieur Delassus presently staying at the Hotel Condor, Vientiane, payable on production of passport, number quoted.’ Once again, Sam effortlessly recited the figures. ‘The bank sent out the advice, Delassus called first thing on the Monday, drew the money in cash, stuffed it in a briefcase and walked out with it. End of connection,’ said Sam.
‘How much?’
‘Started small and grew fast. Then went on growing, then grew a little more.’
‘Ending where?’
‘Twenty-five thousand US in big ones.’ said Sam without a flicker.
Smiley’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘A month?’ he said, in humorous surprise.
‘The big table,’ Sam agreed and lapsed into a leisurely silence. There is a particular intensity about clever men whose brains are under-used, and sometimes there is no way they can control their emanations. In that sense, they are a great deal more at risk, under the bright lights, than their more stupid colleagues. ‘You checking me against the record, old boy?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m not checking you against anything, Sam. You know how it is at times like this. Clutching at straws, listening to the wind.’
‘Sure,’ said Sam sympathetically and, when they had exchanged further glances of mutual confidence, once more resumed his narrative.
So Sam checked at the Hotel Condor, he said. The porter there was a stock sub-source to the trade, everybody owned him. No Delassus staying there, but the front desk cheerfully admitted to receiving a little something for providing him with an accommodation address. The very next Monday - which happened to follow the last Friday of the month, said Sam - with the help of his contact Johnny, Sam duly hung around the bank ‘cashing travellers’ cheques and whatnot’, and had a grandstand view of the said Monsieur Delassus marching in, handing over his French passport, counting the money into a briefcase and retreating with it to a waiting taxi.
Taxis, Sam explained, were rare beasts in Vientiane. Anyone who was anyone had a car and a driver, so the presumption was that Delassus didn’t want to be anyone.
‘So far so good,’ Sam concluded, watching with interest while Smiley wrote.
‘So far so very good,’ Smiley corrected him. Like his predecessor Control, Smiley never used pads: just single sheets of paper, one at a time, and a glass top to press on, which Fawn polished twice a day.
‘Do I fit the record or do I deviate?’ asked Sam.
‘I’d say you were right on course, Sam,’ Smiley said. ‘It’s the detail I’m enjoying. You know how it is with records.’
The same evening, Sam said, hugger-mugger with his linkman Mac once more, he took a long cool look at the rogues’ gallery of local Russians, and was able to identify the unlovely features of a Second Secretary (Commercial) at the Soviet Embassy, Vientiane, mid-fifties, military bearing, no previous convictions, full names given but unpronounceable and known therefore around the diplomatic bazaars as ‘Commercial Boris’.
But Sam, of course, had the unpronounceable names ready in his head and spelt them out for Smiley slowly enough for him to write them down in block capitals.
‘Got it?’ he enquired helpfully.
‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Somebody left the card index on a bus, have they, old boy?’ Sam asked.
‘That’s right,’ Smiley agreed, with a laugh.
When the crucial Monday came round again a month later, Sam went on, he decided he would tread wary. So instead of gum-shoeing after Commercial Boris himself he stayed home and briefed a couple of locally based leash-dogs who specialised in pavement work.
‘A lace curtain job,’ said Sam. ‘No shaking the tree, no branch lines, no nothing, Laotian boys.’
‘Our own?’
‘Three years at the mast,’ said Sam. ‘And good,’ added the fieldman in him, for whom all his geese are swans.
The said leashdogs watched the briefcase on
‘How much?’
‘Started small and grew fast. Then went on growing, then grew a little more.’
‘Ending where?’
‘Twenty-five thousand US in big ones.’ said Sam without a flicker.
Smiley’s eyebrows lifted slightly. ‘A month?’ he said, in humorous surprise.
‘The big table,’ Sam agreed and lapsed into a leisurely silence. There is a particular intensity about clever men whose brains are under-used, and sometimes there is no way they can control their emanations. In that sense, they are a great deal more at risk, under the bright lights, than their more stupid colleagues. ‘You checking me against the record, old boy?’ Sam asked.
‘I’m not checking you against anything, Sam. You know how it is at times like this. Clutching at straws, listening to the wind.’
‘Sure,’ said Sam sympathetically and, when they had exchanged further glances of mutual confidence, once more resumed his narrative.
So Sam checked at the Hotel Condor, he said. The porter there was a stock sub-source to the trade, everybody owned him. No Delassus staying there, but the front desk cheerfully admitted to receiving a little something for providing him with an accommodation address. The very next Monday - which happened to follow the last Friday of the month, said Sam - with the help of his contact Johnny, Sam duly hung around the bank ‘cashing travellers’ cheques and whatnot’, and had a grandstand view of the said Monsieur Delassus marching in, handing over his French passport, counting the money into a briefcase and retreating with it to a waiting taxi.
Taxis, Sam explained, were rare beasts in Vientiane. Anyone who was anyone had a car and a driver, so the presumption was that Delassus didn’t want to be anyone.
‘So far so good,’ Sam concluded, watching with interest while Smiley wrote.
‘So far so very good,’ Smiley corrected him. Like his predecessor Control, Smiley never used pads: just single sheets of paper, one at a time, and a glass top to press on, which Fawn polished twice a day.
‘Do I fit the record or do I deviate?’ asked Sam.
‘I’d say you were right on course, Sam,’ Smiley said. ‘It’s the detail I’m enjoying. You know how it is with records.’
The same evening, Sam said, hugger-mugger with his linkman Mac once more, he took a long cool look at the rogues’ gallery of local Russians, and was able to identify the unlovely features of a Second Secretary (Commercial) at the Soviet Embassy, Vientiane, mid-fifties, military bearing, no previous convictions, full names given but unpronounceable and known therefore around the diplomatic bazaars as ‘Commercial Boris’.
But Sam, of course, had the unpronounceable names ready in his head and spelt them out for Smiley slowly enough for him to write them down in block capitals.
‘Got it?’ he enquired helpfully.
‘Thank you, yes.’
‘Somebody left the card index on a bus, have they, old boy?’ Sam asked.
‘That’s right,’ Smiley agreed, with a laugh.
When the crucial Monday came round again a month later, Sam went on, he decided he would tread wary. So instead of gum-shoeing after Commercial Boris himself he stayed home and briefed a couple of locally based leash-dogs who specialised in pavement work.
‘A lace curtain job,’ said Sam. ‘No shaking the tree, no branch lines, no nothing, Laotian boys.’
‘Our own?’
‘Three years at the mast,’ said Sam. ‘And good,’ added the fieldman in him, for whom all his geese are swans.
The said leashdogs watched the briefcase on
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