again. Smiley caught the name “Ellis” floating backward to him on the leafy morning air. For a moment, as in the car with Guillam, an odd nervousness overcame him.
“After all,” Lacon was saying, “we both held perfectly honourable positions. You felt that Ellis had been betrayed and you wanted a witch-hunt. My Minister and I felt there had been gross incompetence on the part of Control—a view which to put it mildly the Foreign Office shared—and we wanted a new broom.”
“Oh, I quite understood your dilemma,” said Smiley, more to himself than to Lacon.
“I’m glad. And don’t forget, George: you were Control’s man. Control preferred you to Haydon, and when he lost his grip towards the end—and launched that whole extraordinary adventure—it was you who fronted for him. No one but you, George. It’s not every day that the head of one’s secret service embarks on a private war against the Czechs.” It was clear that the memory still smarted. “In other circumstances, I suppose, Haydon might have gone to the wall, but you were in the hot seat and—”
“And Percy Alleline was the Minister’s man,” said Smiley, mildly enough for Lacon to slow himself and listen.
“It wasn’t as if you had a suspect, you know! You didn’t point the finger at anyone! A directionless enquiry can be extraordinarily destructive!”
“Whereas a new broom sweeps cleaner.”
“Percy Alleline has produced intelligence instead of scandals, he has stuck to the letter of his charter and won the trust of the customers. And he has not, to my knowledge, invaded Czechoslovak territory. All in all he has done extremely well.”
“With Bill Haydon to field for him, who wouldn’t?”
“Control, for one,” said Lacon, with punch.
They had drawn up at an empty swimming pool and now stood staring into the deep end. From its grimy depths Smiley fancied he heard again the insinuating tones of Roddy Martindale: “Little reading rooms at the Admiralty, little committees popping up with funny names . . .”
“Is that special source of Percy’s still running?” Smiley enquired. “The Witchcraft material, or whatever it’s called these days?”
“I didn’t know you were on the list,” Lacon said, not at all pleased. “Since you ask, yes. Source Merlin’s our mainstay and Witchcraft is still the name of his product. The Circus hasn’t turned in such good material for years. Since I can remember, in fact.”
“And still subject to all that special handling?”
“Certainly, and now that this has happened I’ve no doubt that we shall take even more rigorous precautions.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Gerald might smell a rat.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Lacon observed quickly. His strength was improbable, Smiley reflected. One minute he was like a thin, drooping boxer whose gloves were too big for his wrists; the next he had reached out and rocked you against the ropes, and was surveying you with Christian compassion. “We can’t move. We can’t investigate because all the instruments of enquiry are in the Circus’s hands, perhaps in the mole Gerald’s. We can’t watch, or listen, or open mail. To do any one of those things would require the resources of Esterhase’s lamplighters, and Esterhase like anyone else must be suspect. We can’t interrogate; we can’t take steps to limit a particular person’s access to delicate secrets. To do any of these things would be to run the risk of alarming the mole. It’s the oldest question of all, George. Who can spy on the spies? Who can smell out the fox without running with him?” He made an awful stab at humour: “Mole, rather,” he said, in a confiding aside.
In a fit of energy Smiley had broken away and was pounding ahead of Lacon down the path that led towards the paddock.
“Then go to the competition,” he called. “Go to the security people. They’re the experts; they’ll do you a job.”
“The Minister won’t have
“After all,” Lacon was saying, “we both held perfectly honourable positions. You felt that Ellis had been betrayed and you wanted a witch-hunt. My Minister and I felt there had been gross incompetence on the part of Control—a view which to put it mildly the Foreign Office shared—and we wanted a new broom.”
“Oh, I quite understood your dilemma,” said Smiley, more to himself than to Lacon.
“I’m glad. And don’t forget, George: you were Control’s man. Control preferred you to Haydon, and when he lost his grip towards the end—and launched that whole extraordinary adventure—it was you who fronted for him. No one but you, George. It’s not every day that the head of one’s secret service embarks on a private war against the Czechs.” It was clear that the memory still smarted. “In other circumstances, I suppose, Haydon might have gone to the wall, but you were in the hot seat and—”
“And Percy Alleline was the Minister’s man,” said Smiley, mildly enough for Lacon to slow himself and listen.
“It wasn’t as if you had a suspect, you know! You didn’t point the finger at anyone! A directionless enquiry can be extraordinarily destructive!”
“Whereas a new broom sweeps cleaner.”
“Percy Alleline has produced intelligence instead of scandals, he has stuck to the letter of his charter and won the trust of the customers. And he has not, to my knowledge, invaded Czechoslovak territory. All in all he has done extremely well.”
“With Bill Haydon to field for him, who wouldn’t?”
“Control, for one,” said Lacon, with punch.
They had drawn up at an empty swimming pool and now stood staring into the deep end. From its grimy depths Smiley fancied he heard again the insinuating tones of Roddy Martindale: “Little reading rooms at the Admiralty, little committees popping up with funny names . . .”
“Is that special source of Percy’s still running?” Smiley enquired. “The Witchcraft material, or whatever it’s called these days?”
“I didn’t know you were on the list,” Lacon said, not at all pleased. “Since you ask, yes. Source Merlin’s our mainstay and Witchcraft is still the name of his product. The Circus hasn’t turned in such good material for years. Since I can remember, in fact.”
“And still subject to all that special handling?”
“Certainly, and now that this has happened I’ve no doubt that we shall take even more rigorous precautions.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Gerald might smell a rat.”
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” Lacon observed quickly. His strength was improbable, Smiley reflected. One minute he was like a thin, drooping boxer whose gloves were too big for his wrists; the next he had reached out and rocked you against the ropes, and was surveying you with Christian compassion. “We can’t move. We can’t investigate because all the instruments of enquiry are in the Circus’s hands, perhaps in the mole Gerald’s. We can’t watch, or listen, or open mail. To do any one of those things would require the resources of Esterhase’s lamplighters, and Esterhase like anyone else must be suspect. We can’t interrogate; we can’t take steps to limit a particular person’s access to delicate secrets. To do any of these things would be to run the risk of alarming the mole. It’s the oldest question of all, George. Who can spy on the spies? Who can smell out the fox without running with him?” He made an awful stab at humour: “Mole, rather,” he said, in a confiding aside.
In a fit of energy Smiley had broken away and was pounding ahead of Lacon down the path that led towards the paddock.
“Then go to the competition,” he called. “Go to the security people. They’re the experts; they’ll do you a job.”
“The Minister won’t have
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