Read Online Honourable Schoolboy by John le Carré - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: John le Carré
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as he called them, the implications were unsettling.
Lacon was getting to know Smiley’s handwriting too.
‘Any collateral for that rather academic theory?’ he enquired, examining Smiley’s expressionless features over the top of his pencil, which he held between his two index fingers, like a rule.
‘We’ve been making an inventory of our own audio stores,’ Smiley confessed with a puckering of his brow. ‘There’s a quantity of house equipment missing. A lot seems to have disappeared during the alterations of sixty-six.’ Lacon waited, dragging it out of him. ‘Haydon was on the building committee responsible for having the work carried out,’ Smiley ended, as a final sop. ‘He was the driving force, in fact. It’s just - well, if the Cousins ever got to hear of it, I think it would be the last straw.’
Lacon was no fool, and the Cousins’ wrath just when everyone was trying to smooth their feathers was a thing to be avoided at any cost. If he had had his way, he would have ordered the ferrets out the same day. Saturday was a compromise and without consulting anybody he despatched the entire team, all twelve of them, in two grey vans painted ‘Pest Control’. It was true that they tore the place apart, hence the silly rumours about the destruction of the pepper-pot room. They were angry because it was the weekend, and perhaps therefore needlessly violent: the tax paid on overtime was frightful. But their mood changed fast enough when they bagged eight radio microphones in the first sweep, every one of them Circus standard-issue from audio stores. Haydon’s distribution of them was classic, as Lacon agreed when he called to make his own inspection. One in a drawer of a disused desk, as if innocently left there and forgotten about, except that the desk happened to be in the coding room. One collecting dust on top of an old steel cupboard in the fifth-floor conference room - or, in the jargon, rumpus room. And one, with typical Haydon flair, wedged behind the cistern in the senior officers’ lavatory next door. A second sweep, to include load-bearing walls, threw up three more embedded in the fabric during the building work. Probes, with plastic snorkel-straws to pipe the sound back to them. The ferrets laid them out like a game-line. Extinct, of course, as all the devices were, but put there by Haydon nevertheless, and tuned to frequencies the Circus did not use.
‘Maintained at Treasury cost, too, I declare,’ said Lacon, with the driest of smiles, fondling the leads which had once connected the probe microphones with the mains power supply. ‘Or used to be, till George rewired the place. I must be sure to tell Brother Hammer. He’ll be thrilled.’
Hammer, a Welshman, being Lacon’s most persistent enemy.
On Lacon’s advice Smiley now staged a modest piece of theatre. He ordered the ferrets to reactivate the radio microphones in the conference room and to modify the receiver on one of the Circus’s few remaining surveillance cars. Then he invited three of the least bending Whitehall desk jockeys, including the Welsh Hammer, to drive in a half-mile radius round the building, while they listened to a pre-scripted discussion between two of Smiley’s shadowy helpers sitting in the rumpus room. Word for word. Not a syllable out of place.
After which, Smiley himself swore them to absolute secrecy, and for good measure made them sign a declaration, drafted by the housekeepers expressly to inspire awe. Peter Guillam reckoned it would keep them quiet for about a month.
‘Or less if it rains,’ he added sourly.
Yet if Martindale and his colleagues in the Whitehall outfield lived in a state of primeval innocence about the reality of Smiley’s world, those closer to the throne felt equally removed from him. The circles around him grew smaller as they grew nearer, and precious few in the early days reached the centre. Entering the brown and dismal doorway of the Circus, with its temporary barriers
Lacon was getting to know Smiley’s handwriting too.
‘Any collateral for that rather academic theory?’ he enquired, examining Smiley’s expressionless features over the top of his pencil, which he held between his two index fingers, like a rule.
‘We’ve been making an inventory of our own audio stores,’ Smiley confessed with a puckering of his brow. ‘There’s a quantity of house equipment missing. A lot seems to have disappeared during the alterations of sixty-six.’ Lacon waited, dragging it out of him. ‘Haydon was on the building committee responsible for having the work carried out,’ Smiley ended, as a final sop. ‘He was the driving force, in fact. It’s just - well, if the Cousins ever got to hear of it, I think it would be the last straw.’
Lacon was no fool, and the Cousins’ wrath just when everyone was trying to smooth their feathers was a thing to be avoided at any cost. If he had had his way, he would have ordered the ferrets out the same day. Saturday was a compromise and without consulting anybody he despatched the entire team, all twelve of them, in two grey vans painted ‘Pest Control’. It was true that they tore the place apart, hence the silly rumours about the destruction of the pepper-pot room. They were angry because it was the weekend, and perhaps therefore needlessly violent: the tax paid on overtime was frightful. But their mood changed fast enough when they bagged eight radio microphones in the first sweep, every one of them Circus standard-issue from audio stores. Haydon’s distribution of them was classic, as Lacon agreed when he called to make his own inspection. One in a drawer of a disused desk, as if innocently left there and forgotten about, except that the desk happened to be in the coding room. One collecting dust on top of an old steel cupboard in the fifth-floor conference room - or, in the jargon, rumpus room. And one, with typical Haydon flair, wedged behind the cistern in the senior officers’ lavatory next door. A second sweep, to include load-bearing walls, threw up three more embedded in the fabric during the building work. Probes, with plastic snorkel-straws to pipe the sound back to them. The ferrets laid them out like a game-line. Extinct, of course, as all the devices were, but put there by Haydon nevertheless, and tuned to frequencies the Circus did not use.
‘Maintained at Treasury cost, too, I declare,’ said Lacon, with the driest of smiles, fondling the leads which had once connected the probe microphones with the mains power supply. ‘Or used to be, till George rewired the place. I must be sure to tell Brother Hammer. He’ll be thrilled.’
Hammer, a Welshman, being Lacon’s most persistent enemy.
On Lacon’s advice Smiley now staged a modest piece of theatre. He ordered the ferrets to reactivate the radio microphones in the conference room and to modify the receiver on one of the Circus’s few remaining surveillance cars. Then he invited three of the least bending Whitehall desk jockeys, including the Welsh Hammer, to drive in a half-mile radius round the building, while they listened to a pre-scripted discussion between two of Smiley’s shadowy helpers sitting in the rumpus room. Word for word. Not a syllable out of place.
After which, Smiley himself swore them to absolute secrecy, and for good measure made them sign a declaration, drafted by the housekeepers expressly to inspire awe. Peter Guillam reckoned it would keep them quiet for about a month.
‘Or less if it rains,’ he added sourly.
Yet if Martindale and his colleagues in the Whitehall outfield lived in a state of primeval innocence about the reality of Smiley’s world, those closer to the throne felt equally removed from him. The circles around him grew smaller as they grew nearer, and precious few in the early days reached the centre. Entering the brown and dismal doorway of the Circus, with its temporary barriers
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