John Le Carré: Three Complete Novels by John le Carré
He remembered being with Luke at Happy Valley. He remembered being with Luke.
He was still looking in the mirror when the red Jaguar hissed up the slipway behind him, just the driver, and the roof closed, no passenger. The one thing he hadn’t thought of was that she might take the lift right down to the car-park and collect the car herself rather than have the porter bring it to the door for her as he did before. Pulling out after her, he glanced up and saw the lights still burning in her window. Had she left somebody behind? Or did she propose to come back shortly? Then he thought, Don’t be so damn clever. She’s just careless about lights.
The last time I spoke to Luke, it was to tell him to get out of my hair, he thought, and the last time he spoke to me was to tell me he’d covered my back with Stubbsie.
She had turned down the hill toward the town. He headed down after her, and for a space nothing followed him, which seemed unnatural, but these were unnatural hours and Sarratt man was dying in him faster than he could handle. She was heading for the brightest part of town. He supposed he still loved her, though just now he was prepared to suspect anybody of anything. He kept close behind her, remembering that she used her mirror seldom. In this dusky fog she would only see his head-lights anyway. The fog hung in patches and the harbour looked as if it were on fire, with the shafts of crane-light playing like water hoses on the crawling smoke. In Central she ducked into another basement garage, and he drove straight in after her and parked six bays away, but she didn’t notice him. Remaining in the car, she paused to repair her make-up and he actually saw her working on her chin, powdering the scars. Then she got out and went through the ritual of locking, though a kid with a razor-blade could have cut through the soft top in one easy movement. She was dressed in a silk cape of some kind and a long silk dress, and as she walked toward the stone spiral stair she raised both her hands and carefully lifted her hair, which was gathered at the neck, and laid the pony-tail down the outside of the cape. Getting out after her, he followed her as far as the hotel lobby and turned aside in time to avoid being photographed by a bisexual drove of chattering fashion journalists in satins and bows.
Hanging back in the comparative safety of the corridor, Jerry pieced the scene together. It was a large private party, and Lizzie had joined it from the blind side. The other guests were arriving at the front entrance, where the Rolls-Royces were so thick on the ground that nobody was special. A woman with blue-grey hair presided, doing absolutely nothing but swaying about and speaking gin-sodden French. A prim Chinese public-relations girl with a couple of assistants made up the receiving line, and as the guests filed in, the girl and her cohorts came forward frightfully cordially and asked for names and sometimes invitation cards before consulting a list and saying “Oh, yes, of course.” The blue-grey woman smiled and growled. The cohorts handed out lapel pins for the men and orchids for the women, then lighted on the next arrivals.
Lizzie Worthington went through this screening woodenly. Jerry gave her a minute to clear, watched her through the double doors marked “Soirée” with a Cupid’s arrow, then attached himself to the queue. The public-relations girl was bothered by his buckskin boots. His suit was disgusting enough, but it was the boots that bothered her. On her course of training, he decided while she stared at them, she had been taught to place a lot of value on shoes. Millionaires may be tramps from the socks up but a pair of two-hundred-dollar Guccis is a passport not to be missed. She frowned at his press card, then at her guest list, then at his press card again, and once more at his boots, and she threw a lost glance at the blue-grey lush, who kept on smiling and growling. Jerry guessed she was drugged clean out of her mind. Finally the girl put up her own special smile for the marginal consumer and handed him a disc the size of a coffee saucer painted fluorescent pink with “PRESSE” an inch high in white.
“Tonight we are making everybody beautiful, Mr. Westerby,” she said.
“Have a job with me, sport.”
“You like my parfum, Mr. Westerby?”
“Sensational,” said Jerry.
“It is called Juice of the Vine, Mr. Westerby, one hundred Hong Kong for a little bottle, but tonight Maison Flaubert gives free samples to all our guests. Madame Montifiori . . . oh . . . of course, welcome to House of Flaubert. You like my parfum, Madame Montifiori?”
A Eurasian girl in a cheongsam held out a tray and whispered, “Flaubert wishes you an exotic night.”
“For Christ’s sake,” Jerry said.
Inside the double doors a second receiving line was manned by three pretty boys flown in from Paris for their charm, and a posse of security men that would have done credit to a President. For a moment he thought they might frisk him, and he knew that if they tried he was going to pull down the temple with him. They eyed Jerry without friendliness, counting him part of the help, but he was light-haired and they let him go.
“The press is in the third row back from the catwalk,” said a hermaphrodite blond in a cowboy leather suit, handing him a press kit. “You have no camera, Monsieur?”
“I just do the captions,” Jerry said, jamming a thumb over his shoulder. “Spike here does the pictures.” He walked into the reception room peering round him, grinning extravagantly, waving at whoever caught his eye.
The pyramid of champagne glasses was six feet tall, with black satin steps so that the waiters could take them from the top. In sunken ice coffins lay magnums awaiting burial. There was a wheelbarrow full of cooked lobsters and a wedding cake of pâté de foie gras, with “Maison Flaubert” done in aspic on the top. Space music was playing and there was even conversation under it, if only the bored drone of the extremely rich. The catwalk stretched from the foot of the long window to the centre of the room. The window faced the harbour but the fog broke the view into patches. The air-conditioning was turned up so that the women could wear their mink without sweating. Most of the men wore dinner-jackets but the young Chinese playboys sported New York-style slacks and black shirts and gold chains. The British taipans stood in one sodden circle with their womenfolk, like bored officers at a garrison get-together.
Feeling a hand on his shoulder, Jerry swung fast, but all he found in front of him was a little Chinese queer called Graham who worked for one of the local gossip rags. Jerry had once helped him out with a story he was trying to sell to the comic. Rows of armchairs faced the catwalk in a rough horseshoe, and Lizzie was sitting in the front between Mr. Arpego and his wife or paramour. Jerry recognised them from Happy Valley. They looked as though they were chaperoning Lizzie for the evening. The Arpegos talked to her, but she seemed barely to hear them. She sat straight and beautiful and she had taken off her cape, and from where Jerry sat she could have been stark naked except for her pearl collar and her pearl earrings. At least she’s still intact, he thought. She hasn’t rotted or got cholera or had her head shot off. He remembered the line of gold hairs running down her spine as he stood over her that first evening in the lift. Queer Graham sat next to Jerry, and Phoebe Wayfarer sat two along. He knew her only vaguely but gave her a fat wave.
“Gosh. Super. Pheeb. You look terrific. Should be up there on the catwalk, sport, showing a bit of leg.”
He thought she was a bit tight, and perhaps she thought he was, though he’d drunk nothing since the plane. He took out a pad and wrote on it, playing the professional, trying to rein himself in. Easy as you go. Don’t frighten the game. When he read what he had written, he saw the words “Lizzie Worthington” and nothing else. Chinese Graham read it too, and laughed.
“My new byline,” said Jerry, and they laughed together, too loud, so that people in front turned their heads as the lights began to dim. But not Lizzie, though he thought she might have recognised his voice.
Behind them the doors were being closed, and as the lights went lower Jerry had a mind to fall asleep in this soft and kindly chair. The space music gave way to a jungle beat brushed out on a cymbal, till only a single chandelier flickered over the black catwalk, answeri
Lights came on, there was a crash of nervous applause followed by laughter and drinks. Everyone was talking at once and Jerry was talking loudest: to Miss Lizzie Worthington, the well-known aristocratic society beauty whose mother couldn’t even boil an egg, and to the Arpegos who owned Manila and one or two of the out-islands, as Captain Grant of the Jockey Club had once assured him. Jerry was holding his notebook like a headwaiter.
“Lizzie Worthington, gosh, all Hong Kong at your feet, Madame, if I may say so. My paper is doing an exclusive on this event, Miss Worth or Worthington, and we’re hoping to feature you, your dresses, your fascinating life-style, and your even more fascinating friends. My photographers are bringing up the rear.” He bowed to the Arpegos. “Good evening, Madame. Sir. Proud to have you with us, I’m sure. This your first visit to Hong Kong?”
He was doing his big-puppy number, the boyish soul of the party. A waiter brought champagne and he insisted on transferring the glasses to their hands rather than let them help themselves. The Arpegos were much amused by this performance. Craw said they were crooks. Lizzie was staring at him and there was something in her eyes he couldn’t make out, something real and appalled, as if she, not Jerry, had just opened the door on Luke.
“Mr. Westerby has already done one story on me, I understand,” she said. “I don’t think it was ever printed, was it, Mr. Westerby?”
“Who you write for?” Mr. Arpego demanded suddenly. He wasn’t smiling any more. He looked dangerous and ugly, and she had clearly reminded him of something he had heard about and didn’t like. Something Tiu had warned him of, for instance.
Jerry told him.
“Then go write for them. Leave this lady alone. She don’t give interviews. You got work to do, you work somewhere else. You didn’t come here to play. Earn your money.”
“Couple of questions for you then, Mr. Arpego. Just before I go. How can I write you down, sir? As a rude Filipino millionaire? Or only half a millionaire?”
“For God’s sake,” Lizzie breathed, and by a mercy the lights went out again, the drum-beat began, everyone went back to his corner, and a woman’s voice with a French accent began a soft commentary on the loudspeaker. At the back of the catwalk the two black girls were performing long insinuating shadow dances. As the first model appeared, Jerry saw Lizzie stand up ahead of him in the darkness, pull her cape over her shoulders, and walk fast and softly up the aisle past him and toward the doors, head bowed. Jerry went after her. In the lobby she half turned as if to look at him, and it crossed his mind she was expecting him. Her expression was the same and it reflected his own mood. She looked haunted and tired and utterly confused.
“Lizzie!” he called as if he had just sighted an old friend, and ran quickly to her side before she could reach the powder-room door. “Lizzie! My God! It’s been years! A lifetime! Super!”
A couple of security guards looked on meekly as he flung his arms round her for the kiss of long friendship. He had slipped his left hand under her cape, and as he bent his laughing face to hers he laid the small revolver against the bare flesh of her back, the barrel just below her nape, and in that way, linked to her with bonds of old affection, led her straight into the street, chatting gaily all the way, and hailed a cab. He hadn’t wanted to produce the gun but he couldn’t risk having to manhandle her. That’s the way it goes, he thought: you come back to tell her you love her and end up by marching her at gunpoint.
She was shivering and furious but he didn’t think she was afraid, and he didn’t even think she was sorry to be leaving that awful gathering.
“That’s all I need,” she said as they wound up the hill again, through the fog. “Perfect. Bloody perfect.”
She wore a scent that was strange to him, but it smelt a deal better than Juice of the Vine.
Guillam was not bored exactly, but neither was his capacity for concentration infinite, as George’s appeared to be. When he wasn’t wondering what the devil Jerry Westerby was up to, he found himself basking in the erotic deprival of Molly Meakin or else remembering the Chinese boy with his arms inside out, whining like a half-shot hare after the disappearing car. Murphy’s theme was now the island of Po Toi and he was dilating on it remorselessly.
Volcanic, sir, he said.
Hardest rock substance of the whole Hong Kong group, sir, he said.
And the most southerly of the islands, he said.
Seven hundred and ninety feet high, sir; fishermen use it as a navigation point from far out to sea, sir, he said.
Technically not one island but a group of six islands, the other five being barren and treeless and uninhabited.
Fine temple, sir. Great antiquity. Fine wood carvings but little natural water.
“Jesus Christ, Murphy, we’re not buying the damn place, are we?” Martello expostulated. With action close and London far away, Martello had lost a lot of his gloss, Guillam noticed, and all his Englishness. His tropical suits were honest-to-cornball American, and he needed to talk to people, preferably his own. Guillam suspected that even London was an adventure for him, and Hong Kong was already enemy territory. Whereas under stress Smiley went quite the other way; he became private and rigidly polite.
Po Toi itself has a shrinking population of one hundred and eighty farmers and fishermen, mostly Communist, three living villages and three dead ones, sir, said Murphy. He droned on. Smiley continued to listen intently but Martello impatiently doodled on his pad.
“And tomorrow, sir,” said Murphy, “tomorrow is the night of Po Toi’s annual festival intended to pay homage to Tin Hau, the goddess of the sea, sir.”
Martello stopped doodling: “These people really believe that crap?”
“Everybody has a right to his religion, sir.”
“They teach you that at training college too, Murphy?” Martello returned to his doodling.
There was an uncomfortable silence before Murphy valiantly took up his pointer and laid the tip on the southern edge of the island’s coastline.
“This festival of Tin Hau, sir, is concentrated in the one main harbour, sir, right here on the south-west point where the ancient temple is situated. Mr. Smiley’s informed prediction, sir, has the Ko landing operation taking place here, away from the main bay, in a small cove on the east side of the island. By landing on that side of the island, which has no habitation, no natural access to the sea, at a point in time when the diversion of the island festival in the main bay—”
Guillam never heard the ring. He just heard the voice of Martello’s other quiet man answering the call: “Yes, Mac,” then the squeak of his airport chair as he sat bolt upright, staring at Smiley. “Right, Mac. Sure, Mac. Right now. Yes. Hold it. Right beside me. Hold everything.”
Smiley was already standing over him, his hand held out for the phone. Martello was watching Smiley. On the podium Murphy had his back turned while he pointed out further intriguing features of Po Toi, not quite registering the interruption.
“This island is also known to seamen as Ghost Rock, sir,” he explained, in the same dreary voice. “But nobody seems to know why
Smiley listened briefly then put down the telephone. “Thank you, Murphy,” he said courteously. “That was very interesting.”
He stood dead still a moment, his fingers to his upper lip in a Pickwickian posture of deliberation. “Yes,” he repeated. “Yes, very.”
He walked as far as the door then paused again.
“Marty, forgive me, I shall have to leave you for a while. Not above an hour or two, I trust. I shall telephone you in any event.”
He reached for the door handle, then turned to Guillam.
“Peter, I think you had better come along too—would you mind? We may need a car and you seem admirably unmoved by the Hong Kong traffic. Did I see Fawn somewhere? Ah, there you are.”
On Headland Road the flowers had a hairy brilliance, like ferns sprayed for Christmas. The pavement was narrow and seldom used, except by amahs to exercise the children, which they did without talking to them, as if they were walking dogs. The Cousins’ surveillance van was a deliberately forgettable brown Mercedes lorry, battered-looking, with clay dust on the wings and “H. K. DEVP. & BLDG. SURVEY LTD.” sprayed on one side. An old aerial with Chinese streamers trailing from it drooped over the cab, and as the lorry nosed its lugubrious way past the Ko residence—for the second, or was it the fourth time that morning?—nobody gave it a thought. In Headland Road, as everywhere in Hong Kong, somebody is always building.
Stretched inside the lorry on leather bunks fitted for the purpose, the two men watched intently from among a forest of lenses, cameras, and radio-telephone appliances. For them also, their progress past Seven Gates was becoming something of a routine.