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Rain obscured the street without softness, frigid and oily, the kind of rain that didn't fall in Morocco and Peter Guillam loathed. A door slammed further down the alley. Suddenly a man's legs were tree trunks to his left in the afternoon gloom. A brick wall loomed on the right. A high muffled ringing swaddled the rest of the world in silence so complete that the gutter full of fast-moving chalky muck within arm's reach ran without sound.
Peter's heart boomed like a drum in a hollow mountain. It shook his throat, and he was thrust back into the noise of London, unprepared. The patter of raindrops on his back was thunder. He found himself crouched over, left hand and right knee on the pavement. Dirty water soaked his trousers and the bottom of his coat. The cold shocked him into full clarity, and he mentally scrambled for those lost moments. A few heartbeats, or longer? "Fuck," he muttered in his thick throat.
"What is it?" said the man, and his identity returned to Peter. Ward. William "Willie" Ward. The man whose promotion was given to Peter.
Ward stepped closer to the building, head swivelling on his great, thick neck as he looked about, and then down at Peter, annoyed. "If you're hurt more'n you let on --"
Peter cleared his throat wetly. "Tripped."
"It was only a little choking. Pull yourself together."
"Sod off. This alley is a tip. Look at the rubbish. I fucking tripped." Peter braced his hand against the wall to pull himself up and hissed at the sting. His right knee smarted where his trousers brushed it, and his throat throbbed. He tugged at his coat and swore when he smeared blood down the front. Glass bits from a shattered bottle studded his palm. He flicked them out as he bitterly mourned the camel coat. Yesterday had been a good day. Until he'd got saddled with this goose chase, today had held promise.
Ward mumbled complaints in general disgruntlement -- why the fuck didn't they send a proper scalphunter to run Travel -- and at Peter specifically. "You're in Brixton, mate, and look at what you're wearing. You expect to be walked to the door and kissed on the fucking cheek?"
Peter glared at him, saw a shadow of movement beyond his shoulder, and then said, “There he goes. There! Pay attention, for God’s sake."
Peter and Ward dashed to the end of the alley after their quarry, Duncan Headicar, who was nothing but a name,a face, and their task to capture. They skidded to a walk as they turned on the street and followed the man to a chippy, nonchalant as they could without umbrellas to keep the rain from beating against their skulls. Ward lobbied to storm the castle; Peter shut him down. "Go round the back and watch. I'll cover the front and call in help."
A quick call from a phone box, an eye on the front of the store from the Greek cafe across the street, and soon enough the man emerged out the back into the warm welcome of Ward and the two scalphunters called to help, no one Peter knew well. From the cafe Peter didn't see the pick-up, but one of Ward's men emerged from the chippy and charged across the street, grinning.
"Heavens," he said as he shook out his umbrella outside the open door. "I thought Willie had gone for a swim, but you missed Noah's ark. You look like a drowned cat and about as mad. But this ought to cheer you up." He described the snatch, and how a team had been called in to ferret out any secrets in the particular buildings Headicar had led them, as per Peter's orders from the phone box.
Peter didn't know the man's name and didn't care as he chattered on, dry and bright faced, and maybe twenty-five years old. The rain worsened into a vicious torrent and the boy suggested they wait it out. Peter considered making a run for it -- no one sane would bother chasing him down in that mess. Just steal the umbrella and walk out. Ward might know how to read and write -- he could make the bloody report.
But Peter endured the nattering and self-congratulations until the torrent narrowed to merely a drenching rain and they decamped the cafe. The child returned to the Brixton office with Ward and left Peter to report to the Circus. "You're purpling up like a tyre. Have a mother make you tea. I'm sure Willie can start the paper trail rolling," he said before they parted. Later, Peter knew he made the right decision not to pound that earnest, round face into the pavement, but he regretted missing the satisfaction it would have brought.
*
Peter was to report directly to the top floor, where Control pulled the strings in Circus Heaven, so directly upon entering the Circus, up Peter went. In the elevator he draped his coat, with the rusty streaks down the front, the muck around the hem and still dripping rainwater, over his arm and tugged on his tie to ease his neck. A hot bath, he thought. Whiskey. A fire to stare into, to warm his feet, to burn his thoughts until the whiskey took hold.
The meeting room held Smiley, Esterhase, and Haydon, and Control himself sat at the head of the table, ashtray half full by his elbow. A girl from the typing pool sat to one side to record the meeting, an unassuming brown-eyed blonde he hadn't formally met, though he'd noticed her new face as another small change in the landscape of people at the Circus. Evidence that life continued without remorse no matter who joined it, or left. Closing the door killed all depth of sound in the room. Peter might have to breathe through his mouth to get enough air in the stifling silence.
"Mr Ward said it got rough," said Smiley before Peter found a chair. "Are you all right?"
"It was nothing," replied Peter. Fury at Ward and his infant helper clenched his teeth a moment, but this was hardly the place to express it. He was good at faking levity when necessary. "Headicar's friend just wanted a slap and tickle. I discouraged him."
"Threw a drink in his face, eh?" said Esterhase.
"More likely a right hook. You box, don't you?" Haydon's gaze flicked from the knee of his ruined trousers to his loosened tie as Peter settled in the chair next to Smiley. "You know how to take care of yourself."
"Oh, yes, well enough to keep popping back round like a cat, even. Don't you, Peter. Or a bad penny." Esterhase drew from his pipe to punctuate his wit.
"It's good to have you back safe," said Smiley, putting his back to Esterhase.
"Save the hail fellows for later," said Control. "Talk, Mr Guillam. We got the bare bones about Duncan Headicar from Mr Ward. Let's hear about his friend, the one that got away."
Fingers like tarred rope. "He wasn't much, just a bit of rough that Headicar used as muscle."
"I asked for a report, not an opinion." Cigarette smoke jetted from Control's mouth with his words.
Peter mentally threaded the facts like beads on a string: How Peter was ordered to bring in Headicar, a low-level nobody with possible Russian contacts. How Peter participated directly to settle into his new role as the head of the scalphunters. How Peter took Willie Ward and his pack of favourites because most of the people Peter knew had been posted around the world, died, or both. Where Ward's men were positioned, who followed what lead, which agents paired together, what strategy they used -- all of which flew through Peter's head in a few heartbeats and none of which Control wanted to hear.
"Ward and I caught up with Headicar, but he twigged us. We followed and ran him to ground at a pub. Chased him down into the cellar. Thought we had him trapped, but he had help -- a tall man, dark, with a moustache. There was a bit of a scuffle, and they escaped through a bolt-hole into the basement of the next building over, a chemists' shop. We followed them out into the alley behind, and they split up. We stuck with Headicar."
"The man," said Smiley. "Describe him."
He did. Tall, yes; dark, yes; impressive moustache, yes. Shoes too nice for his labourer's clothes, thick hair, Turkish accent, beefy strength. Peter omitted the man's breath, the specificity of the calluses on his rock-hard hands, the vulnerability to Peter's manoeuvre to break a choke hold.
Haydon wanted as much as Peter could remember about the pub and the chemist. Control smoked at Peter, apparently annoyed that he must attend this report personally. The girl scribbled her shorthand without pause. Peter had heard her name in passing. Sarah? Sally? Sal. She'd made eyes at him the day before he'd left the Circus proper for Brixton.
"After all that, we followed him to the chippy, called in the troops, and watched the front until we got word he'd had been plucked up from the back."
"Enough," said Control. He dismissed Peter with flick of his hand even as he turned to Haydon and asked, "Who can you put on this?"
Smiley touched Peter's elbow and quietly asked him to wait on the ground floor. "I shouldn't be above half an hour."
*
Peter waited on the landing, leaning over the railing just above the little cage where Bryant the Janitor sat watch on the door. He tore at his tie until it came undone and twisted open the top two buttons of his shirt. Wishing to disguise his obvious loitering, he regretted the lack of an appropriate prop to occupy his hands, but he couldn't bear to find one. Not if it required him to navigate the bustle on the main floor of the Circus, and it would. Instead, with each passerby he took out his cigarettes and turned the pack over and over in his hands, making as if to take one out to smoke, absorbed as if he'd been gasping for one all day.
"Peter."
Peter jerked upright. "Mr Smiley."
"Woolgathering?"
"Waiting to put my feet up."
"Come with me," he said, and Peter followed. Out on the pavement, the rain had finally gone to mist. Smiley asked, "Have you ever eaten at Bernier's? Let me take you there."
Peter knew a directive when he heard one. Smiley insisted on a cab as well. Outside the restaurant Peter groped at his open shirt collar and loose tie.
"There's no need," said Smiley. "Just come in. We'll sit in the back."
Peter buttoned his coat, tugged its collar higher, and followed. Followed Smiley into the restaurant, followed Smiley and the maître d' to a small table tucked away near the kitchen. Smiley settled in with little fuss.
"The food here is more Italian than French, but it's good." Smiley peered at the menu suspiciously. "Best read the descriptions carefully. Wine?" Smiley ordered a bottle of red and veal for his dinner. When Peter didn't immediately offer his choice of meal to the waiter, Smiley gently interjected, "He'll have the lamb."
The kitchen door threw a wave of heat and the heavy smell of pasta and roasting meat every time it opened. Peter's upper lip and hairline were dewed with sweat. He hadn't yet taken off his coat and shrugged it off. Some of the day fell away with its weight.
"Mr Ward said it got rough today."
Hadn't Smiley said that earlier? Peter frowned. "And I said I'm fine."
"Tell me what happened."
"Again?" Peter frowned deeper. Had Smiley forgotten? For all that he maintained a wise man's stillness, he hid nothing like forgetfulness or senility. How old was Mr Smiley? Older than he looked, but surely he wasn't old enough to forget. No one had a memory as keen as George Smiley.
"No, not your report," Smiley said. His gaze dropped to Peter's open collar, and then back up again.
Ah, of course not senility. Peter's doubts were ridiculous and he knew it. Smiley would outlive everyone, serene and enduring as a statue of Buddha. No, Smiley had a motive that Peter wouldn’t like. Peter glanced away, his lips pressed tight, irritated with his self-delusion as he braced for whatever Smiley was about to throw his way. Smiley continued, not gently, thank God, but solemn. "In the basement and in the alley. How did that happen?"
Indignation raised his head. "What did Willie say?"
"He said the Turk got the jump on you. Throttled you with his bare hands until you broke the hold and knocked him down."
"It was nothing. I did fight him off, but the bastard didn't stay down. Both of them ran, after that. They split in different directions. The target was our priority, so." Peter shrugged.
"And in the alley?"
Heat flooded Peter's face. "He did, didn't he. Willie said something. What? What did he say?"
"Peter."
"It was nothing, you know. He was --"
"Peter."
The waiter approached with their bottle of wine. Interrupted, Smiley glared at him but said nothing. Without speaking or making eye contact the waiter poured two glasses before withdrawing. Peter gripped his glass, raised it. The wine trickled down his throat too sour, too slowly, and he coughed. He would never manage to choke down a meal.
Smiley held his silence for another long moment, and then he said, "The past rarely rests easily. It would be easier if we could write the condolence letters personally."
Peter's sudden calm wasn't peaceful. Smiley had cut through all the static, as usual, and forced him to remember the men and women hanged as spies. His men and women -- Peter's own string of agents throughout North Africa, hanged. He had imagined them when the rope tightened around their necks, a horror that had dogged him from the moment he was burned. He had put it out of his mind once he reached London, but he'd made a hash out of wilful forgetting. Smiley's comment brought no peace, but Peter's throat eased.
"I hate stating the obvious," said Smiley, "especially to you. You know the risks we all take. You know exactly how disaster can strike without ever finding out the reason why. And you know to learn from it."
"Bad luck," he muttered into his glass.
"What?"
"Bad luck. Bill Haydon told me, the first day I came back to the Circus. Stroke of bad luck, he said." Peter didn't mention how he'd overheard Percy Alleline tell Haydon bad luck's a stench that rarely comes clean.
"It wasn't luck that got you out of Rabat. Not many could have done what you did."
Peter's hand on his glass shook. He set it down, careful as a drunk, and gripped his hands together in his lap.
"You took no time off to settle in when you came home, and then they shipped you to Brixton." Irritation pinched his mouth. "I advised against it, but I didn't have a better suggestion. It takes time to start all over, no matter what part of the world."
"I could hardly turn down a promotion."
"It's exile, and you know it." Smiley's anger on Peter's behalf was mortifying and uplifting all at once.
"Mr Smiley --"
"We're off the clock, Peter. Call me George."
A quiet moment concentrating on the wine seemed best, and they got down most of the bottle during the lull. Courage all around, thought Peter, though whiskey would have served better. Talking like this was agony, including the silence, but Peter knew it served a purpose. The food arrived, the waiter left, and then George began again.
"I've found it's always an adjustment, coming home after living abroad," he said, as if discussing the weather, instead of needling a sore topic. "It's been, what, less than a fortnight in your new position. Where are you living? Have you unpacked anything?"
Was it that easy? Mortifying -- and a relief.
Peter had left Africa with one briefcase of obsolete intelligence, the clothes he wore, and burdened by grief he was denied to express. His new flat was strewn with unopened boxes and dusty furniture from before he'd moved to Rabat. His old jackets were tight in the shoulders and his trousers were loose, so he left them in the boxes and bought new. Old bric-a-brac and art for the walls were colourless, outdated. He made use of one pan to toast cheese and one pot to boil eggs in the morning, pasta at night. Mostly he ate in restaurants, pubs, and cafes, like a normal man, sitting near the window so he could look out on the world through a pane of glass. He saw no happiness in the traffic passing by, or even normality, but with each day brought him more of a future. Sharing lunch with an old face from the Circus. Tying the laces on new trainers for his first run around a London park in close to two years. The Mohair coat purchased on a whim. An invitation to play squash from his new neighbour. In the grander scheme of things, today had just been a bad day.
Peter inhaled deeply and sighed. He knew George would hear it as the admission of unhappiness it was. As with most confessions, Peter came out the other side humbler, lighter.
"The flat's nice enough, but no, I haven't unpacked much," said Peter, and he picked up his knife and fork. If George could force himself to express a bit of candour and carry on, then Peter wouldn't be a coward in the conversation. If he chewed long enough, he could swallow anything, and right now he was facing a dish of veal. "I suppose I could do something about that."
"Oh?"
"Control took Headicar off my hands. There’s no reason why I can’t take tomorrow and make a long weekend of it. There's a tie I've missed. I forgot to pack it when I moved to Rabat and haven't seen it since. Lovely thing, matching handkerchief. Buried in a box marked miscellaneous when everything went into storage, I'm sure. Or books. They’re all labeled miscellaneous or books.”
"Well, if you're up to the challenge." There he was, good old Smiley, dry as a twig and far more sharp.
"Actually, I'm thinking of buying a car. Something sporty to zip about in. Feel the miserable city wind in my hair.”
"A fast car in London." George caught his eye and smiled. "You're a brave man, Peter."
*