handsomely.
“The weapon used to kill Vladimir was a standard Moscow Centre assassination device,” Smiley said. “Concealed in a camera, a brief-case, or whatever. A soft-nosed bullet is fired at point-blank range. To obliterate, to punish, and to discourage others. If I remember rightly, they even had one on display at Sarratt in the black museum next to the bar.”
“They still have. It’s horrific,” said Mostyn.
Strickland vouchsafed Mostyn a foul glance.
“But, George!” Lacon cried.
Smiley waited, knowing that in this mood Lacon could swear away Big Ben.
“These people—these émigrés—of whom this poor chap was one—don’t they come from Russia? Haven’t half of them been in touch with Moscow Centre—with or without our knowledge? A weapon like that—I’m not saying you’re right, of course—a weapon like that, in their world, could be as common as cheese!”
Against stupidity, the gods themselves fight in vain, thought Smiley; but Schiller had forgotten the bureaucrats. Lacon was addressing Strickland.
“Lauder. There is the question of the D-notice to the Press outstanding.” It was an order. “Perhaps you should have another shot at them, see how far it’s got.”
In his stockinged feet, Strickland obediently padded down the room and dialled a number.
“Mostyn, perhaps you should take these things out to the kitchen. We don’t want to leave needless traces, do we?”
With Mostyn also dismissed, Smiley and Lacon were suddenly alone.
“It’s a yes or no, George,” Lacon said. “There’s cleaning up to be done. Explanations to be given to tradesmen, what do I know? Mail. Milk. Friends. Whatever such people have. No one knows the course as you do. No one. The police have promised you a head start. They will not be dilatory but they will observe a certain measured order about things and let routine play its part.” With a nervous bound Lacon approached Smiley’s chair and sat awkwardly on the arm. “George. You were their vicar. Very well, I’m asking you to go and read the Offices. He wanted you, George. Not us. You.”
From his old place at the telephone, Strickland interrupted: “They’re asking for a signature for that D-notice, Oliver. They’d like it to be yours, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Why not the chief’s?” Lacon demanded warily.
“Seem to think yours will carry a spot more weight, I fancy.”
“Ask him to hold a moment,” Lacon said, and with a wind-mill gesture drove a fist into his pocket. “I may give you the keys, George?” He dangled them in front of Smiley’s face. “On terms. Right?” The keys still dangled. Smiley stared at them and perhaps he asked “What terms?” or perhaps he just stared; he wasn’t really in a mood for conversation. His mind was on Mostyn, and missing cigarettes; on phone calls about neighbours; on agents with no faces; on sleep. Lacon was counting. He attached great merit to numbering his paragraphs. “One, that you are a private citizen, Vladimir’s executor, not ours. Two, that you are of the past, not the present, and conduct yourself accordingly. The sanitised past. That you will pour oil on the waters, not muddy them. That you will suppress your old professional interest in him, naturally, for that means ours. On those terms may I give you the keys? Yes? No?”
Mostyn was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was addressing Lacon, but his earnest eyes veered constantly towards Smiley.
“What is it, Mostyn?” Lacon demanded. “Be quick!”
“I just remembered a note on Vladimir’s card, sir. He had a wife in Tallinn. I wondered whether she should be informed. I just thought I’d better mention it.”
“The card is once more not accurate,” said Smiley, returning Mostyn’s gaze. “She was with him in Moscow when he defected, she was arrested and taken to a forced-labour camp. She died there.”
“Mr. Smiley must do whatever he thinks fit about such things,” Lacon said swiftly,
“The weapon used to kill Vladimir was a standard Moscow Centre assassination device,” Smiley said. “Concealed in a camera, a brief-case, or whatever. A soft-nosed bullet is fired at point-blank range. To obliterate, to punish, and to discourage others. If I remember rightly, they even had one on display at Sarratt in the black museum next to the bar.”
“They still have. It’s horrific,” said Mostyn.
Strickland vouchsafed Mostyn a foul glance.
“But, George!” Lacon cried.
Smiley waited, knowing that in this mood Lacon could swear away Big Ben.
“These people—these émigrés—of whom this poor chap was one—don’t they come from Russia? Haven’t half of them been in touch with Moscow Centre—with or without our knowledge? A weapon like that—I’m not saying you’re right, of course—a weapon like that, in their world, could be as common as cheese!”
Against stupidity, the gods themselves fight in vain, thought Smiley; but Schiller had forgotten the bureaucrats. Lacon was addressing Strickland.
“Lauder. There is the question of the D-notice to the Press outstanding.” It was an order. “Perhaps you should have another shot at them, see how far it’s got.”
In his stockinged feet, Strickland obediently padded down the room and dialled a number.
“Mostyn, perhaps you should take these things out to the kitchen. We don’t want to leave needless traces, do we?”
With Mostyn also dismissed, Smiley and Lacon were suddenly alone.
“It’s a yes or no, George,” Lacon said. “There’s cleaning up to be done. Explanations to be given to tradesmen, what do I know? Mail. Milk. Friends. Whatever such people have. No one knows the course as you do. No one. The police have promised you a head start. They will not be dilatory but they will observe a certain measured order about things and let routine play its part.” With a nervous bound Lacon approached Smiley’s chair and sat awkwardly on the arm. “George. You were their vicar. Very well, I’m asking you to go and read the Offices. He wanted you, George. Not us. You.”
From his old place at the telephone, Strickland interrupted: “They’re asking for a signature for that D-notice, Oliver. They’d like it to be yours, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Why not the chief’s?” Lacon demanded warily.
“Seem to think yours will carry a spot more weight, I fancy.”
“Ask him to hold a moment,” Lacon said, and with a wind-mill gesture drove a fist into his pocket. “I may give you the keys, George?” He dangled them in front of Smiley’s face. “On terms. Right?” The keys still dangled. Smiley stared at them and perhaps he asked “What terms?” or perhaps he just stared; he wasn’t really in a mood for conversation. His mind was on Mostyn, and missing cigarettes; on phone calls about neighbours; on agents with no faces; on sleep. Lacon was counting. He attached great merit to numbering his paragraphs. “One, that you are a private citizen, Vladimir’s executor, not ours. Two, that you are of the past, not the present, and conduct yourself accordingly. The sanitised past. That you will pour oil on the waters, not muddy them. That you will suppress your old professional interest in him, naturally, for that means ours. On those terms may I give you the keys? Yes? No?”
Mostyn was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was addressing Lacon, but his earnest eyes veered constantly towards Smiley.
“What is it, Mostyn?” Lacon demanded. “Be quick!”
“I just remembered a note on Vladimir’s card, sir. He had a wife in Tallinn. I wondered whether she should be informed. I just thought I’d better mention it.”
“The card is once more not accurate,” said Smiley, returning Mostyn’s gaze. “She was with him in Moscow when he defected, she was arrested and taken to a forced-labour camp. She died there.”
“Mr. Smiley must do whatever he thinks fit about such things,” Lacon said swiftly,
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