'How many junks make up a fleet?' Martello asked.
'Twenty to thirty,' said Smiley.
'Check,' said Murphy meekly.
'So what does Nelson do, George? Kind of get out to the edge of the pack there, and stray a little?'
'He'll hang back,' said Smiley. 'The fleets like to move in column astern. Nelson will tell his skipper to take the rear position.'
'Will he, by God,' Martello muttered under his breath. 'Murphy, what identifications are traditional?'
'Very little known in that area, sir. Boat people are notoriously evasive. They have no respect for marine regulations. Out to sea they show no lights at all, mostly for fear of pirates.'
Smiley was lost to them again. He had sunk into a wooden immobility, and though his eyes stayed fixed on the big sea chart, his mind, Guillam knew, was anywhere but with Murphy's dreary recitation of statistics. Not so Martello.
'How much coastal trade do we have overall, Murphy?'
'Sir, there are no controls and no data.'
'Any quarantine checks as the junks enter Hong Kong waters, Murphy?' Martello asked.
'Theoretically all vessels should stop and have themselves checked, sir.'
'And in practice, Murphy?'
'Junks are a law to themselves, sir. Technically Chinese junks are forbidden to sail between Victoria Island and Kowloon Point, sir, but the last thing the Brits want is a hassle with the Mainland over rights of way. Sorry, sir.'
'Not at all,' said Smiley politely, still gazing at the chart. 'Brits we are and Brits we shall remain.'
It's his Karla expression, Guillam decided: the one that comes over him when he looks at the photograph. He catches sight of it, it surprises him and for a while he seems to study it, its contours, its blurred and sightless gaze. Then the light slowly goes out of his eyes, and somehow the hope as well, and you feel he's looking inward, in alarm.
'Murphy, did I hear you mention navigation lights?' Smiley enquired, turning his head, but still staring toward the chart.
'Yes, sir.'
'I expect Nelson's junk to carry three,' said Smiley. 'Two green lights vertically on the stern mast and one red light to starboard.'
'Yes, sir.'
Martello tried to catch Guillam's eye but Guillam wouldn't play.
'But it may not,' Smiley warned as an afterthought. 'It may carry none at all; and simply signal from close in.'
Murphy resumed. A new heading. Communications.
'Sir, in the communications area, sir, few junks have their own transmitters but most all have receivers. Once in a while you get a skipper who buys a cheap walkie-talkie with range about one mile to facilitate the trawl, but they've been doing it so long they don't have much call to speak to each other, I guess. Then as to finding their way, well navy int. says that's near enough a mystery. We have reliable information that many long-liners operate on a primitive compass, a hand lead-and-line, or even just a rusty alarm clock for finding true north.'
'Murphy, how the hell do they work that, for God's sakes?' Martello cried.
'Line with a lead plumb and wax stuck to it, sir. They sound the bed, and know where they are from what sticks to the wax.'
'Well they really do it the hard way,' Martello declared. A phone rang. Martello's other quiet man took the call, listened, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.
'Quarry Worth's just gotten back, sir,' he said to Smiley. 'Party drove around for an hour, now she's checked in her car back at the block. Mac says sounds like she's running a bath so maybe she plans going out again later.'
'And she's alone,' Smiley said impassively. It was a question.
'She alone there, Mac?' He gave a hard laugh. 'I'll bet you would, you dirty bastard. Yes, sir, the lady's all alone taking a bath, and Mac there says when will we ever get to use video as well. Is the lady singing in the bath, Mac?' He rang off. 'She's not singing.'
'Murphy, get on with the war,' Martello snapped.
Smiley would like the interception plans rehearsed once more, he said.
'Why George! Please! It's your show, remember?'
'Perhaps we could look again at the big map of Po Toi island, could we? And then Murphy could break it down for us, would you mind?'
'Mind, George, mind!' Martello cried, so Murphy began again, this time using a pointer. Navy int. observation posts here, sir... constant two-way communication with base, sir... no presence at all within two sea-miles of the landing zone... Navy int. to advise base the moment the Ko launch starts back for Hong Kong, sir... interception will take place by regular British police vessel as the Ko launch enters harbour... US to supply op. int. and stand off only, for unforeseen supportive situation...
Smiley monitored every detail with a prim nod of his head.
'After all, Marty,' he put in, at one point, 'once Ko has Nelson aboard, there's nowhere else he can go is there? Po Toi is right at the edge of China waters. It's us or nothing.'
One day thought Guillam, as he continued listening, one of two things will happen to George. He'll cease to care, or the paradox will kill him. If he ceases to care, he'll be half the operator he is. If he doesn't, that little chest will blow up from the struggle of trying to find the explanation for what we do. Smiley himself, in a disastrous off-the-record chat to senior officers, had put the names to his dilemma, and Guillam, with some embarrassment, recalled them to this day. To be inhuman in defence of our humanity, he had said, harsh in defence of compassion. To be single-minded in defence of our disparity. They had filed out in a veritable ferment of protest. Why didn't George just do the job and shut up instead of taking his faith out and polishing it in public till the flaws showed? Connie had even murmured a Russian aphorism in Guillam's ear which she insisted on attributing to Karla.
'There'll be no war, will there, Peter darling?' she bad said reassuringly, squeezing his hand as he led her along the corridor. 'But in the struggle for peace not a single stone will be left standing, bless the old fox. I'll bet they didn't thank him for that one in the Collegium either.'
A thud made Guillam swing round. Fawn was changing cinema seats again. Seeing Guillam, he flared his nostrils in an insolent sneer.
'He's of his head,' thought Guillam with a shiver.
Fawn too, for different reasons, was now causing Guillam serious anxiety. Two days ago, in Guillam's company, he had been the author of a disgusting incident. Smiley as usual had gone out alone. To kill time, Guillam had hired a car and driven Fawn up to the China border, where he had sniggered and puffed at the mysterious hills. Returning, they were waiting at some country traffic lights when a Chinese boy drew alongside on a Honda. Guillam was driving. Fawn had the passenger seat. Fawn's window was lowered, he had taken his jacket off and was resting his left arm on the door where he could admire a new gilt watch he had bought himself in the Hilton shopping concourse. As they pulled away, the Chinese boy ill-advisedly made a dive for the watch, but Fawn was much too quick for him. Catching hold of the boy's wrist instead, he held on to it, towing him beside the car while the boy struggled vainly to break free. Guillam had driven fifty yards or so before he realised what had happened and he at once stopped the car, which was what Fawn was waiting for. He jumped out before Guillam could stop him, lifted the boy straight off his Honda, led him to the side of the road and broke both his arms for him, then returned smiling to the car. Terrified of a scandal, Guillam drove rapidly from the scene, leaving the boy screaming and staring at his dangling arms. He reached Hong Kong determined to report Fawn to George immediately, but luckily for Fawn it was eight hours before Smiley surfaced, and by then Guillam reckoned George had enough on his plate already.