its next journey. The taxi, a different one from the month before, took Boris on a tour of the town and after half an hour dropped him back near the main square, not far from the Indochine. Commercial Boris walked a short distance, ducked into a second bank, a local one, and paid the entire sum straight across the counter to the credit of another account.
‘So tra-la,’ said Sam, and lit a fresh cigarette, not bothering to conceal his amused bewilderment that Smiley was rehearsing verbally a case so fully documented.
‘Tra-la indeed,’ Smiley murmured, writing hard.
After that, said Sam, they were home and dry. Sam lay low for a couple of weeks to let the dust settle, then put in his girl assistant to deliver the final blow.
‘Name?’
Sam gave it. A home-based senior girl, Sarratt-trained, sharing his commercial cover. This senior girl waited ahead of Boris in the local bank, let him complete his paying-in forms, then raised a small scene.
‘How did she do that, Sam?’ Smiley enquired.
‘Demanded to be served first,’ said Sam with a grin. ‘Brother Boris being a male chauvinist pig, thought he had equal rights and objected. Words passed.’
The paying-in slip lay on the counter, said Sam, and while the senior girl did her number she read it upside down: twenty-five thousand American dollars to the credit of the overseas account of a mickey-mouse aviation company called Indocharter Vientiane, SA: ‘Assets, a handful of clapped-out DC3s, a tin hut, a stack of fancy letter paper, one dumb blonde for the front office and wildcat Mexican pilot known round town as Tiny Ricardo on account of his considerable height,’ said Sam. He added: ‘And the usual anonymous bunch of diligent Chinese in the back room, of course.’
Smiley’s ears were so sharp at that moment that he could have heard a leaf fall; but what he heard, metaphorically, was the sound of barriers being erected, and he knew at once, from the cadence, from the tightening of the voice, from the tiny facial and physical things which made up an exaggerated show of throwaway, that he was closing on the heart of Sam’s defences.
So in his mind he put in a marker, deciding to remain with the mickey-mouse aviation company for a while.
‘Ah,’ he said lightly, ‘you mean you knew the firm already?’
Sam tossed out a small card. ‘Vientiane’s not exactly your giant metropolis, old boy.’
‘But you knew of it? That’s the point.’
‘Everybody in town knew Tiny Ricardo,’ said Sam, grinning more broadly than ever, and Smiley knew at once that Sam was throwing sand in his eyes. But he played Sam along all the same.
‘So tell me about Ricardo.’ he suggested.
‘One of the ex-Air America clowns. Vientiane was stiff with them. Fought the secret war in Laos.’
‘And lost it,’ Smiley said, writing again.
‘Single-handed,’ Sam agreed, watching Smiley put aside one sheet and take another from his drawer. ‘Ricardo was local legend. Flew with Captain Rocky and that crowd. Credited with a couple of joyrides into Yunnan province for the Cousins. When the war ended he kicked around a bit then took up with the Chinese. We used to call those outfits Air Opium. By the time Bill hauled me home they were a flourishing industry.’
Still Smiley let Sam run. As long as Sam thought he was leading Smiley from the scent, he would talk the hindlegs off a donkey; whereas if Sam thought Smiley was getting too close, he would put up the shutters at once.
‘Fine,’ he said amiably, therefore, after yet more careful writing. ‘Now let’s go back to what Sam did next, may we? We have the money, we know whom it’s paid to, we know who handles it. What’s your next move, Sam?’
Well, if Sam remembered rightly he took stock for a day or two. There were angles, Sam explained, gathering confidence: there were little things that caught the eye. First, you might say, there was the Strange Case of Commercial Boris. Boris, as Sam had indicated, was
‘So tra-la,’ said Sam, and lit a fresh cigarette, not bothering to conceal his amused bewilderment that Smiley was rehearsing verbally a case so fully documented.
‘Tra-la indeed,’ Smiley murmured, writing hard.
After that, said Sam, they were home and dry. Sam lay low for a couple of weeks to let the dust settle, then put in his girl assistant to deliver the final blow.
‘Name?’
Sam gave it. A home-based senior girl, Sarratt-trained, sharing his commercial cover. This senior girl waited ahead of Boris in the local bank, let him complete his paying-in forms, then raised a small scene.
‘How did she do that, Sam?’ Smiley enquired.
‘Demanded to be served first,’ said Sam with a grin. ‘Brother Boris being a male chauvinist pig, thought he had equal rights and objected. Words passed.’
The paying-in slip lay on the counter, said Sam, and while the senior girl did her number she read it upside down: twenty-five thousand American dollars to the credit of the overseas account of a mickey-mouse aviation company called Indocharter Vientiane, SA: ‘Assets, a handful of clapped-out DC3s, a tin hut, a stack of fancy letter paper, one dumb blonde for the front office and wildcat Mexican pilot known round town as Tiny Ricardo on account of his considerable height,’ said Sam. He added: ‘And the usual anonymous bunch of diligent Chinese in the back room, of course.’
Smiley’s ears were so sharp at that moment that he could have heard a leaf fall; but what he heard, metaphorically, was the sound of barriers being erected, and he knew at once, from the cadence, from the tightening of the voice, from the tiny facial and physical things which made up an exaggerated show of throwaway, that he was closing on the heart of Sam’s defences.
So in his mind he put in a marker, deciding to remain with the mickey-mouse aviation company for a while.
‘Ah,’ he said lightly, ‘you mean you knew the firm already?’
Sam tossed out a small card. ‘Vientiane’s not exactly your giant metropolis, old boy.’
‘But you knew of it? That’s the point.’
‘Everybody in town knew Tiny Ricardo,’ said Sam, grinning more broadly than ever, and Smiley knew at once that Sam was throwing sand in his eyes. But he played Sam along all the same.
‘So tell me about Ricardo.’ he suggested.
‘One of the ex-Air America clowns. Vientiane was stiff with them. Fought the secret war in Laos.’
‘And lost it,’ Smiley said, writing again.
‘Single-handed,’ Sam agreed, watching Smiley put aside one sheet and take another from his drawer. ‘Ricardo was local legend. Flew with Captain Rocky and that crowd. Credited with a couple of joyrides into Yunnan province for the Cousins. When the war ended he kicked around a bit then took up with the Chinese. We used to call those outfits Air Opium. By the time Bill hauled me home they were a flourishing industry.’
Still Smiley let Sam run. As long as Sam thought he was leading Smiley from the scent, he would talk the hindlegs off a donkey; whereas if Sam thought Smiley was getting too close, he would put up the shutters at once.
‘Fine,’ he said amiably, therefore, after yet more careful writing. ‘Now let’s go back to what Sam did next, may we? We have the money, we know whom it’s paid to, we know who handles it. What’s your next move, Sam?’
Well, if Sam remembered rightly he took stock for a day or two. There were angles, Sam explained, gathering confidence: there were little things that caught the eye. First, you might say, there was the Strange Case of Commercial Boris. Boris, as Sam had indicated, was
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