He had a sheet of notes before him, so that this was just one more question in a slow stream. As he spoke, he was actually marking something with his pencil, not looking at Sam at all. But in the same way that we hear better with our eyes closed, Smiley did sense Sam’s attention harden; which is to say, Sam stretched out his legs a little, and crossed them, and slowed his gestures almost to a halt.
“Monthly transfers to the Banque de l’Indochine,” said Sam after a suitable pause. “Hefty ones. Paid out of a Canadian overseas account with their Paris affiliate.” He gave the number of the account. “Payments made on the last Friday of every month. Start date January ’seventy-three or thereabouts. It rings a bell, sure.”
Smiley detected immediately that Sam was settling to a long game. His memory was clear but his information meagre: more like an opening bid than a frank reply.
Still stooped over the papers, Smiley said, “Now can we just wander over the course here a little, Sam? There’s some discrepancy on the filing side, and I’d like to get your part of the record straight.”
“Sure,” said Sam again, and drew comfortably on his brown cigarette. He was watching Smiley’s hands, and occasionally, with studied idleness, his eyes—though never for too long. Whereas Smiley, for his part, fought only to keep his mind open to the devious options of a fieldman’s life. Sam might easily be defending something quite irrelevant. He had fiddled a little bit on his expenses, for example, and was afraid he’d been caught out. He had fabricated his report rather than go out and risk his neck; Sam was of an age, after all, where a fieldman looks first to his own skin.
Or it was the opposite situation. Sam had ranged a little wider in his enquiries than Head Office had sanctioned. Hard pressed, he had gone to the pedlars rather than file a nil return. He had fixed himself a side-deal with the local Cousins. Or the local security services had blackmailed him—in Sarratt jargon the angels had put a burn on him—and he had played the case both ways in order to survive and smile and keep his Circus pension. To read Sam’s moves, Smiley knew that he must stay alert to these and countless other options. A desk is a dangerous place from which to watch the world.
So, as Smiley proposed, they wandered. London’s request for field enquiries, said Sam, reached him in standard form, much as Smiley had described. It was shown to him by old Mac who, until his Paris posting, was the Circus’s linkman in the Vientiane Embassy. An evening session at their safe house. Routine, though the Russian aspect stuck out from the start, and Sam actually remembered saying to Mac that early, “London must think it’s Moscow Centre reptile money,” because he had spotted the cryptonym of the Circus’s Soviet research section mixed in with the prelims on the signal. (Smiley noted that Steve Mackelvore had no business showing Sam the signal.) Sam also remembered Mac’s reply to his observation. “They should never have given old Connie Sachs the shove,” he had said. Sam had agreed wholeheartedly.
As it happened, said Sam, the request was pretty easy to meet; Sam already had a contact at the Indochine, a good one—call him Johnny.
“Filed here, Sam?” Smiley enquired politely.
Sam avoided answering that question directly and Smiley respected his reluctance. The fieldman who files all his contacts with Head Office, or even clears them, was not yet born. As illusionists cling to their mystique, so fieldmen for different reasons are congenitally secretive about their sources.
Johnny was reliable, said Sam emphatically. He had an excellent track record on several arms-dealing and narcotics cases, and Sam would swear by him anywhere.
“Oh, you handled those things, too, did you, Sam?” Smiley asked respectfully.
So Sam had moonlighted for the local narcotics bureau on the side, Smiley noted. A lot of fieldmen did that, some even with Head Office consent; in their world, they likened it to selling off industrial waste. It was a perk. Nothing dramatic therefore, but Smiley stored away the information all the same.
“Johnny was okay,” Sam repeated, with a warning in his voice.
“I’m sure he was,” said Smiley with the same courtesy.
Sam continued with his story. He had called on Johnny at the Indochine and sold him a cock-and-bull cover to keep him quiet, and a few days later, Johnny, who was just a humble counter clerk, had checked the ledgers and unearthed the dockets and Sam had the first leg of the connection cut and dried.
The routine went this way, said Sam: “On the 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 brief-case, 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 U.S., 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 enquired 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 traveller’s 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 brief-case, 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 said, 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 gumshoeing after Commercial Boris himself, he stayed home an
d 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 leash-dogs watched the brief-case on 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 orally 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?”
“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 S.A.: “Assets, a handful of clapped-out DC-3s, a tin hut, a stack of fancy letter-paper, one dumb blonde for the front office, and a 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 make 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.
“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 joy-rides 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 hind legs 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 held to be a bona-fide diplomat, if such a thing existed: no known connection with any other firm. Yet he rode around alone, had sole signing rights over a pot of money, and in Sam’s limited experience, either one of these things spelt hood on one hand.
“Not just hood, a blasted supremo. A red-toothed foursquare paymaster—colonel or upwards, right?”
“What other angles, Sam?” Smiley asked, keeping Sam on the same long rein; still making no effort to go for what Sam regarded as the centre of things.
“The money wasn’t mainstream,” said Sam. “It was oddball. Mac said so. I said so. We all said so.”
Smiley’s head lifted even more slowly than before.
“Why?” he asked, looking very straight at Sam.
“The above-the-line Soviet residency in Vientiane ran three bank accounts round town. The Cousins had all three wired. They’ve had them wired for years. They knew every cent the residency drew, and even, from the account number, whether it was for intelligence-gathering or subversion. The residency had its own money-carriers, and a triple-signature system for any drawing over a thousand bucks. Christ, George, I mean it’s all in the record, you know!”
“Sam, I want you to pretend that record doesn’t exist,” said Smiley gravely, still writing. “All will be revealed to you in due season. Till then, bear with us.”
“Whatever you say,” said Sam, breathing much more easily, Smiley noticed; he seemed to feel he was on firmer ground.
It was at this point that Smiley proposed they get old Connie to come and lend an ear, and perhaps Doc di Salis, too, since South East Asia was, after all, Doc’s patch. Tactically, he was content to bide his time with Sam’s little secret; and strategically, the force of Sam’s story was already of burning interest. So Guillam was sent to whip them in while Smiley called a break and the two men stretched their legs.
“How’s trade?” Sam asked politely.
“Well, a little depressed,” Smiley admitted. “Miss it?”
“That’s Karla, is it?” said Sam, studying the photograph.
Smiley’s tone became at once donnish and vague.
“Who? Ah, yes, yes it is. Not much of a likeness, I’m afraid, but the best we can do as yet.”
They might have been admiring an early water-colour.
“You’ve got some personal thing about him, haven’t you?” said Sam ruminatively.
At this point, Connie, di Salis, and Guillam filed in, led by Guillam, with little Fawn needlessly holding open the door.
With the enigma temporarily set aside therefore, the meeting became something of a war party: the hunt was up. First Smiley recapitulated for Sam, incidentally making it clear in the process that they were pretending there were no records—which was a veiled warning to the new-comers. Then Sam took up the tale where he had left off: about the angles, the little things that caught the eye; though really, he insisted, there was not a lot more to say. Once the trail led to Indocharter Vientiane S.A., it stopped dead.
“Indocharter was an overseas Chinese company,” said Sam, with a glance at Doc di Salis. “Mainly Swatownese.”
At the name “Swatownese” di Salis gave a cry, part laughter, part lament. “Oh, they’re the very worst,” he declared, meaning the most difficult to crack.
“It was an overseas Chinese outfit,” Sam repeated for the rest of them, “and the loony-bins of South East Asia are jam-packed with honest fieldmen who have tried to unravel the life-style of hot money once it entered the maw of the overseas Chinese.” Particularly, he added, of the Swatownese or Chiu Chow, who were a people apart, and controlled the rice monopolies in Thailand, Laos, and several other spots as well. Of which league, said Sam, Indocharter Vientiane S.A. was classic. His trade cover had eviden
tly allowed him to investigate it in some depth.
“First, the société anonyme was registered in Paris,” he said. “Second, the société, on reliable information, was the property of a discreetly diversified overseas Shanghainese trading company based in Manila, which was itself owned by a Chiu Chow company registered in Bangkok, which in turn paid its dues to a totally amorphous outfit in Hong Kong called China Airsea, quoted on the local Stock Exchange, which owned everything from junk-fleets to cement factories to racehorses to restaurants. China Airsea was, by Hong Kong standards, a blue-chip trading house, long-established and in good standing,” said Sam, “and probably the only connection between Indocharter and China Airsea was that somebody’s fifth elder brother had an aunt who was at school with one of the shareholders and owed him a favour.”
Di Salis gave another swift, approving nod and, linking his awkward hands, thrust them over one crooked knee and drew it to his chin.
Smiley had closed his eyes and seemed to have dozed off. But in reality he was hearing precisely what he had expected to hear: when it came to the full staffing of the firm of Indocharter Vientiane S.A., Sam Collins trod very lightly round a certain personality.
“But I think you mentioned there were also two non-Chinese in the firm, Sam,” Smiley reminded him. “A dumb blonde, you said, and a pilot: Ricardo.”
Sam lightly brushed the objection aside. “Ricardo was a madcap March Hare,” he said. “The Chinese wouldn’t have trusted him with the stamp money. The real work was all done in the back room. If cash came in, that’s where it was handled, that’s where it was lost. Whether it was Russian cash, opium cash, or whatever.”
Di Salis, pulling frantically at one ear-lobe, was prompt to agree. “Reappearing at will in Vancouver, Amsterdam, or Hong Kong, or wherever it suited somebody’s very Chinese purpose,” he declared, and writhed in pleasure at his own perception.
Once again, thought Smiley, Sam had got himself off the hook. “Well, well,” he said. “And how did it go from there, Sam, in your authorised version?”