She was seduced.
The glow of the oil lamp had grown into a smoky light-ball, and Connie in her rocking-chair sat at the edge of it, Mother Russia herself, as they had called her in the Circus, her wasting face hallowed with reminiscence as she unfolded the story of just one of her unnumbered family of erring children. Whatever suspicions she was harbouring about Smiley's motive in coming here, she had suspended them : this was what she had lived for; this was her song, even if it was her last; these monumental acts of recollection were her genius. In the old days, Smiley remembered, she would have teased him, flirted with her voice, taken huge arcs through seemingly extraneous chunks of Moscow Centre history, all to lure him nearer. But tonight her narrative had acquired an awesome sobriety, as if she knew she had very little time.
Oleg Kirov arrived in Paris direct from Moscow, she repeated - that June, darling, same as I told you - the one when it poured and poured and the annual Sarratt cricket match had to be scrapped three Sundays in a row. Fat Oleg was listed as single, and he didn't replace anyone. His desk was on the second floor overlooking the Rue Saint-Simon - traflicky but nice, darling - whereas the Moscow Centre Residency hogged the third and fourth, to the rage of the Ambassador, who felt he was being squeezed into a cupboard by his unloved neighbours. To outward appearances, therefore, Kirov looked at first sight like that rare creature of the Soviet diplomatic community - namely, a straight diplomat. But it was the practice in Paris in those days and for all Connie knew in these days too, heart - whenever a new face showed up at the Soviet Embassy, to distribute his photograph among the migr tribal chiefs. Brother Kirov's photograph duly found its way to the groups, and in no time that old devil Vladimir was banging on his case officer's door in a state of fine excitement - Steve Mackelvore had Paris in those days, bless him, and dropped dead of a heart attack soon after, but that's another story - insisting that 'his people' had identified Kirov as a former agent provocateur named Kursky, who, while a student at Tallinn Poly technical Institute, had formed a circle of dissident Estonian dock workers, something called 'the unaligned discussion club', then shopped its members to the secret police. Vladimir's source, presently visiting Paris, had been one of those unfortunate workers, and for his sins he had personally befriended Kursky right up to the moment of his betrayal.
So far so good, except that Vladi's source - said Connie - was none other than wicked little Otto, which meant that the fat was in the fire from the start.
As Connie went on speaking, Smiley's memory once again began to supplement her own. He saw himself in his last months as caretaker Chief of the Circus, wearily descending the rickety wooden staircase from the fifth floor for the Monday meeting, a bunch of dog-eared files jammed under his arm. The Circus in those days was like a bombed-out building, he remembered; its officers scattered, its budget hamstrung, its agents blown or dead or laid off. Bill Haydon's unmasking was an open wound in everyone's mind : they called it the Fall and shared the same sense of primeval shame. In their secret hearts, perhaps, they even blamed Smiley for having caused it, because it was Smiley who had nailed Bill's treachery. He saw himself at the head of the conference, and the ring of hostile faces already set against him as one by one the week's cases were introduced, and subjected to the customary questions : Do we or do we not develop this? Shall we give it another week? Another month? Another year? Is it a trap, is it deniable, is it within our Charter? What resources will be needed and are they better applied elsewhere? Who will authorize? Who will be informed? How much will it cost? He remembered the intemperate outburst which the mere name, or workname, of Otto Leipzig immediately called forth among such uncertain judges as Lauder Strickland, Sam Collins and their kind. He tried to recall who else would have been there apart from Connie and her cohorts from Soviet Research. Director of Finance, director Western Europe, director Soviet Attack, most of them already Saul Enderby's men. And Enderby himself, still nominally a Foreign Servant, put in by his own palace guard in the guise of Whitehall linkman. but whose smile was already their laughter, whose frown, their disapproval. Smiley saw himself listening to the submission - Connie's own - much as she now repeated it, together with the results of her preliminary researches.
Otto's story figured, she had insisted. This far, it couldn't be faulted. She had shown her workings:
Her own Soviet Research Section had confirmed from printed sources that one Oleg Kursky, a law student, was at Tallinn Polytechnic during the relevant period, she said.
Foreign Office contemporary archives spoke of unrest in the docks.
A defector report from the American Cousins gave a Kursky query Karsky, lawyer, first name Oleg, as graduating from a Moscow Centre training course at Kiev in 1971.
The same source, though suspect, suggested Kursky had later changed his name on the advice of his superiors. 'owing to his previous field experience'.
Routine French liaison reports, though notoriously unreliable, indicated that for a Second Secretary, Commercial, in Paris, Kirov did indeed enjoy unusual freedoms, such as shopping alone and attending Third World receptions without the customary fifteen companions.
All of which, in short - Connie had ended, far too vigorously for the fifth-floor taste - all of which confirmed the Leipzig story, and the suspicion that Kirov had an intelligence role. Then she had slapped the file on the table and passed round her photographs - the very stills, picked up as a matter of routine by French surveillance teams, that had caused the original uproar in the Riga Group headquarters in Paris. Kirov enters an Embassy car. Kirov emerges from the Moscow Narodny carrying a brief-case. Kirov pauses at the window of a saucy bookshop in order to scowl at the magazine covers.
But none, Smiley reflected - returning to the present - none showing Oleg Kirov and his erstwhile victim Otto Leipzig disporting themselves with a pair of ladies.
'So that was the case, darling,' Connie announced, when she had taken a long pull at her drink. 'We had the evidence of little Otto with plenty on his file to prove him right. We had a spot of collateral from other sources, not oodles, I grant you, but a start. Kirov was a hood, he was newly appointed, but what sort of hood was anybody's guess. And that made him interesting, didn't it darling?'
'Yes,' Smiley said distractedly. 'Yes, Connie, I remember that it did.'
'He wasn't residency mainstream, we knew that from day one. He didn't ride about in residency cars, do night-shifts or twin up with identified fellow hoods, or use their cipher room or attend their weekly prayer-meetings or feed the residency cat or whatever. On the other hand, Kirov wasn't Karla's man, was he, heart? That was the rum thing.'
'Why not?' Smiley asked, without looking at her.
But Connie looked at Smiley all right. Connie made one of her long pauses in order to consider him at her leisure, while outside in the dying elms, the rooks wiself chose the sudden lull to sound a Shakespearean omen of screams. 'Because Karla already had his man in Paris, darling,' she explained patiently. 'As you are very well aware. That old stickler Pudin, the assistant military attach. You remember how Karla always loved a soldier. Still does, for all I know.' She broke off, in order once more to study his impassive face. He had put his chin in his hands. His eyes half closed, were turned towards the floor. 'Besides, Kirov was an idiot, and the one thing Karla never did like was idiots, did he? You weren't too kindly towards them either, come to think of it. Oleg Kirov was foul-mannered, stank, sweated, and stuck out like a fish in a tree wherever he went. Karla would have run a mile before hiring an oaf like that.' Again she paused. 'So would you,' she added.