John Le Carré: Call For The Dead

"Nothing. He's dead. Killed himself at 10.30 this evening. Left a letter to the Foreign Secretary. The police rang one of his secretaries and got permission to open the letter. Then they told us. There's going to be an enquiry, Smiley, you’re sure, aren’t you."

"Sure of what?"

". . . never mind. Get round as soon as you can?"

It had taken him hours to get a taxi. He rang three cab ranks and got no reply. At last the Sloan Square rank replied, and Smiley waited at his bedroom window wrapped in his overcoat until he saw the cab draw up at the door. It reminded him of the air raids in Germany, this unreal anxiety in the dead of night.

At Cambridge Circus he stopped the cab a hundred yards from the office, partly from habit and partly to clear his head in anticipation of Maston's febrile questioning.

He showed his pass to the constable on duty and made his way slowly to the lift.

The Duty Officer greeted him with relief as he emerged, and they walked together down the bright cream corridor.

"Maston's gone to see Sparrow at Scotland Yard. There's a squabble going on about which police department handles the case. Sparrow says Special Branch, Evelyn says C.I.D. and the Surrey police don't know what's hit them. Bad as a will. Come and have coffee in the D.O's glory hole. It's out of a bottle but it Does."

Smiley was grateful it was Peter Guillam's duty that night. A polished and thoughtful man who had specialised in Satellite espionage, the kind of friendly spirit who always has a timetable and a penknife.

"Special Branch rang at twelve five. Ferman's wife went to the theatre and didn't find him till I she got back alone at quarter to eleven. She eventually rang the police?"

"He lived down in Surrey somewhere?"

"Walliston, off the Kingston by-pass. Only just outside the Metropolitan area. When the police arrived they found a letter to the Foreign Secretary on the floor beside the body. The Superintendent rang the Chief Constable, who rang the Duty Officer at the Home Office, who rang the Resident Clerk at the Foreign Office, and eventually they got permission to open the letter. Then the fun started."

"Go on."

"The Director of Personnel at the Foreign Office rang us. He wanted the Adviser's home number. Said this was the last time Security tampered with his staff, that Fennan had been a loyal and talented officer, bla ... bla ... bla ... ?"

"So he was. So he was?"

"Said the whole affair demonstrated conclusively that Security had got out of hand — Gestapo methods which were not even mitigated by a genuine threat . . . bla. . . ."

"I gave him the Adviser's number and dialled it on the other 'phone while he went on raving. By a stroke of genius I got the F.O. off one line and Maston on the other and gave him the news. That was at 12.20. Maston was here by one o'clock in a state of advanced pregnancy — he'll have to report to the Minister tomorrow morning?"

They were silent for a moment, while Guillam poured coffee essence into the cups and added boiling water from the electric kettle.

"What was he like?" he asked.

"Who? Fennan? Well, until tonight I could have told you. Now he doesn't make sense. To look at, obviously a Jew. Orthodox family, but dropped all that at Oxford and turned Marxist. Perceptive, cultured ... a reasonable man. Soft spoken, good listener. Still educated; you know, facts galore. Whoever denounced him was right of course: he was in the Party?"

"How old?"

"Forty-four. Looks older really?" Smiley went on talking as his eyes wandered round the room. "; ... sensitive face — mop of straight dark hair undergraduate fashion, profile of a twenty year old, fine dry skin, rather chalky. Very lined too — lines going all ways, cutting the skin Into squares. Very thin fingers ... compact sort of chap; self-contained unit. Takes his pleasures alone. Suffered alone too, I suppose?"

They got up as Maston came in.

"Ah, Smiley. Come in?" He opened the door and put out his left arm to guide Smiley through first. Maston's room contained not a single piece of government property. He had once bought a collection of nineteenth-century water colours, and some of these were hanging on the walls. The rest was off the peg, Smiley decided. Maston was off the peg too, for that matter. His suit was just too light for respectability; the string of his monocle cut across the invariable cream shirt. He wore a light grey woolen tie. A German would call him flott thought Smiley; chic, that's what he is — a barmaid's dream of a real gentleman.

"I've seen Sparrow. It's a clear case of suicide. The body has been removed and beyond the usual formalities the Chief Constable is taking no action. There'll be an inquest within a day or two. It has been agreed — I can't emphasise this too strongly, Smiley — that no word of our former interest in Fennan is to be passed to the Press?"

"I see." (You're dangerous, Maston. You're weak and frightened. Anyone's neck before yours, I know. You're looking at me that way — measuring me for the rope.)

"Don't think I'm criticising, Smiley; after all if the Director of Security authorised the interview you have nothing to worry about?"

"Except Ferman"

"Quite so. Unfortunately the Director of Security omitted to sign off your minute suggesting an interview. He authorised it verbally, no doubt?"

"Yes. I'm sure he'll confirm that?"

Maston looked at Smiley again, sharp, calculating; something was beginning to stick in Smiley's throat. He knew he was being uncompromising, that Maston wanted him nearer, wanted him to conspire.

"You know Fennan's office has been in touch with me?"

"Yes?"

"There will have to be an enquiry. It may not even be possible to keep the Press out. I shall certainly have to see the Home Secretary first thing tomorrow." (Frighten me and try again. . . I'm getting on . . . pension to consider . . . unemployable, too ... but I won't share your lie, Maston.) "I must have all the facts, Smiley. I must do my duty. If there's anything you feel you should tell me about that interview, anything you haven't recorded, perhaps, tell me now and let me be the judge of its significance?"

"There's nothing to add, really, to what's already on the file, and what I told you earlier tonight. It might help you to know (the 'you' was a trifle strong, perhaps) — it might help you to know that I conducted the interview in an atmosphere of exceptional informality. The allegation against Fennan was pretty thin — university membership in the '30s and vague talk of current sympathy. Half the Cabinet were in the Party in the '30s. Maston frowned. "When I got to his room in the Foreign Office it turned out to be rather public — people trotting in and out the whole time, so I suggested we should go out for a walk in the park?"

"Go on?"

"Well we did. It was a sunny, cold day and rather pleasant. We watched the ducks." Maston made a gesture of impatience. "We spent about half an hour in the park — he did all the talking. He was an intelligent man, fluent and interesting. But nervous, too, not unnaturally. These people love talking about themselves, and I think he was pleased to get it off his chest. He told me the whole story — seemed quite happy to mention names — and then we went to an espresso cafe he knew near Millbank."

"A what?"

"An espresso bar. They sell a special kind of coffee for a shilling a cup. We had some."

"I see. It was under these ... convivial circumstances that you told him the Department would recommend no action?"

"Yes. We often do that, but we don't normally record it." Maston nodded. That was the kind of thing he understood, thought Smiley; goodness me, he really is rather contemptible. It was exciting to find Maston being as unpleasant as he had expected.