Alright...we shall start.
TANZANG LUMA FIVE ENTERTAINMENT
- Has he called yet? - No. Six minutes to go yet, Control.
Will you speak up, please?
City Removers here. I believe you wanted an estimate.
You're always welcome.
You did exactly what I told you? Talked to nobody?
Remember, Jim, trust no one. No one.
You work to me alone.
I'm sorry, there's no vodka.
I didn't expect any.
I've got a job for you.
Familiar territory. Czechoslovakia.
- Perhaps a bit too familiar. - Which identity do you want to use?
I'd suggest Vladimir Hajek.
- Still a Czech journalist? - Yes.
- Based in Paris? - Yes.
- Has anyone else used him? - No.
Do you agree?
I think it's safe.
I've had an offer of service, Jim... on the military side.
His cover name is Testify.
You're a military-minded chap. You should hit it off. He's fond of horses.
Something else you've got in common.
We can chat polo, I suppose, sir.
His real name is Stevcek. At the moment he's an artillery general.
In the past, he's worked in close liaison with Russian Intelligence...very close.
And now he wants to talk to us.
I have personally interviewed an intermediary in Austria.
Stevcek now wants to...testify...
to a ranking officer of mine who can speak Czech.
Why?
There was a girlfriend...a student. 20 years difference between them.
Such things happen.
She was shot during the uprising in '68. Stevcek never forgave the Russians.
He's been after their blood ever since. Lain low, stayed friendly.
All the time, he's been waiting his chance.
Now he's ready.
How sure are you?
Stevcek.
Rocketry...ballistics.
Fourth man in Czech Army Intelligence.
Secretary to the National Internal Security Committee.
Anglo-American desk in Prague.
He's big, Jim,
and he's got treasure for us.
He's worked for Moscow Center's England section.
He'll give us the name of the agent Moscow planted inside our set-up.
We have a mole, Jim.
- In London? - Very near the top.
In the Circus?
One of the top five.
Their codename for him is Gerald.
We've a rotten apple, Jim, and the maggots are eating up the Circus.
These people? One of these?
Why not? Are the British incapable of deception?
We've turned members of other outfits. Russians, Poles, Czechs, Americans.
Why shouldn't there be a mole in the Circus? Now...look at them.
- Control, I know who they are. - We've got to have codenames for them.
Remember the nursery rhyme, "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor"? Finish it.
Richman, poorman, beggarman, thief.
Percy Alleline, Director of Operations...Tinker.
Tinker.
Bill Haydon, Head of Personnel...Tailor.
Roy Bland, Head of Iron Curtain Networks...Soldier.
We leave out sailor. Too much like tailor.
- Richman. - Don't like it.
Sounds like police work...fraud, Swiss banks.
Toby Esterhase, Top Lamplighter, exquisite head sleuth, Poorman.
Yes...Poorman.
And George Smiley, my devoted deputy...Beggarman.
- Have you got it? - I'll remember.
All I want from you, Jim, is...one word.
Just the one codename.
If you have to scrawl it on the front door of the Embassy in Prague
or phone our resident hood and shout it in his ear before you go underground...
if there's some kind of a fumble and it's necessary, just give me that one word.
Remember, if you're caught, deny me. I don't know you're there.
Where do I meet Stevcek? How? When?
On Friday March 20...
Stevcek will be inspecting the weapon research station at Tisnov near Brno,
about 100 miles north of the Austrian border.
He'll be visiting a hunting lodge for the weekend.
It's a place high up in the forest not far from Racice.
He'll provide you with an escort from Brno,
and he expects you on the evening of Saturday March 21st.
Mm. What does he get from us?
The usual assurances. If and when he wants to come, we'll look after him.
One word will do it, Jim.
I'm almost there.
Here on business?
And some pleasure, I hope.
The French can't make beer.
How are you?
OK, but the doctor says I mustn't drive more than 3 hours at a time.
Open it.
No. You must sit with me.
Like hell.
- It's more democratic. - Open it.
- Have you a pistol? - Open it!
Have you a message for the general?
I'll tell you a story.
There's an old woman who can't keep her hands off young blokes.
Always grabbing at their balls.
Well, it was beginning to rain...
Don't move. And don't speak.
Get out, Baraku...slowly.
Put it on.
Walk to the hut.
I'll go see the general when you come back and it's safe.
Why? I know it's safe.
Go! If I put on the headlights...
I can get you easily. Go on. Go go go!
Barabbas was a bookseller.
Mr Smiley, please. You're making an investment.
Remember that when I sell it back to you.
A pleasure to do business with you, sir. You always have a joke for me.
- We could trust this to the Post Office. - I'll send it on.
- I'll slip out that way, if you don't mind. - Not at all, sir.
George! Hello, there!
My dear boy! The maestro himself! Don't say you've forgotten me?
- Hello, Roddy. - How marvelous to run into you.
They told me you were locked up with the monks in St Gallen or somewhere!
Self-exile, they said. I knew it wasn't true. You, George, you'd never leave England.
You're not capable of such an act of abandonment,
no matter how shabbily the Circus treated you.
So...what have you been doing all these months?
I want to know everything, every little bit. How's the delectable wife?
How is the lovely Lady Ann? Not in town at the moment, I hear.
Pound to a penny you're shopping for her. Little prezzies all the time, they tell me.
Are you back on the beat, George... or did you never really chuck it in?
Has it all been cover? Cover, George?
- Roddy, I've retired. - Alright, George, if you say so.
- You look well, but I mustn't delay you. - No, George, really!
My friend, you can't get away like that!
Roddy Martindale simply wouldn't let you. It's months since we last had a chin-wag!
Let me buy you an aperitif and then let me take you to dinner. Allow me that privilege.
Honor me, George. I can tell that no one else has claimed you tonight.
- It's kind of you... - It's my role in life.
We all need to be good at something.
- Wasn't Jebedee your old tutor? - Yes, once upon a time.
How do you rate Sparke, the one who came from the School of Oriental Languages?
Not quite there. Had trouble with his nerves, they say.
What a pity.
All dead and gone. Only appreciated by a select few, like you and me.
You flatter me.
Now, George, let's talk about your old boss.
Control. He kept his name a secret. Shall we talk about Control?
- If you insist. - It wasn't a secret to you, was it?
He never had any secrets from you, his trusted right hand.
I don't know. That's the point about secrets.
Close as thieves Control and Smiley were, so they say.
- THEY are very complimentary. - Don't flirt, George!
I'm an old trooper.
You and Control were just like that.
That's why you were thrown out. It's why Bill Haydon's got your job.
It's why Percy Alleline got into Control's chair when it ought to be YOU
and why Bill Haydon's his cup-bearer and you're out altogether.
- If you say so, Roddy. - I do.
I say more than that. Far more.
I say this.
Control never died at all.
He's been seen...
in South Africa.
Now, we can't blame a man for wanting a bit of peace in the evening of his life.
Willy Andrewartha walked straight into him in Jo'burg Airport in the waiting room.
Not a ghost. Flesh.
That's the most idiotic story I've heard. Control died of a heart attack.
After a long illness, through which he worked. He hated South Africa.
He hated everywhere except Surrey, the Circus and Lord's Cricket Ground.
Yes, of course. Willy was always the most god-awful liar.
I said, "Willy, you should be ashamed of yourself."
I...suppose what put the last nail into Control's coffin
was the Czecho scandal, the poor devil that got shot in the back.
The one who was thick with Haydon.
With his picture in the newspaper under some fictitious name,
but we know his REAL name.
Jim Prideaux.
Somehow I don't think I can ever quite believe
in Percy Alleline as Chief, can you?
It might be just my natural cynicism,
but power sits poorly on those we've grown up with.
There are so few who can carry it off.
Percy's such an obvious fellow, especially after Control, who was a positive serpent.
How can anyone take Alleline seriously?
All that heavy good fellowship.
One thinks of him in the old days, lolling in the Travelers' bar,
sucking away on that log of a pipe... and buying drinks for all the moguls.
Really! One does like one's perfidy to be subtle, don't you agree?
What's his knack? Living off the wits of his subordinates?
Really, Roddy, I can't help you.
I never knew Percy as a force, only as a...
Striver? Right. With his eyes on Control's purple, day and night.
Now he's actually wearing it and the mob loves him.
So who's doing the business for him?
- Who is it? - I cannot help you.
Who's the clever-boots? Well, not Percy, that's for sure.
Don't say the Americans trust us again. They'd never fall for Percy.
Please stop this!
Wonderfully well he's doing.
Little committees popping up,
red carpet for Percy wherever he goes, tripping the light fantastic in Whitehall!
- You're out of my depth, truly. - So who's earning him his reputation?
- Anything you want, sir? - No, thank you. We've finished now.
It's my party, George. I'll get the bill when I'm ready.
So who's pulling the strings for Percy Puppet?
How about dashing Bill Haydon, your old rival...
in EVERY sense, I'm told.
Of course, he never was orthodox, was he? Genius never is.
Alright, then, it's Roy Bland, the shop-soiled white hope.
The first redbrick don to make the Circus.
If it's neither of them, and Control is really dead, then there's only one possibility left.
It's someone who's pretending to be in retirement.
YOU, George. Admit it!
You featherhead, Martindale! You pompous, bogus, gossiping old featherhead!
Roy Bland is not redbrick. He was at St Antony's College, Oxford.
Oh, don't be silly, dear. Of course St Antony is redbrick.
Makes no difference there's a bit of sandstone in the same street.
Bill was father to them all, wasn't he? Or something like that.
- It's not mine, thank you. - Don't tip him.
It's a guinea at Christmas.
Anyway, it's MY party.
- Bill draws them like bees to a honey pot. - Goodnight, Roddy.
Fancy a nightcap? Start afresh with the bubbly?
Why not, George? I think I will.
Of course, Bill's got the glamor. Not like some of us.
Star quality, I call it. One of the very few.
I'm told that women literally bow down before him...if that's what women do.
Goodnight.
Love to Ann.
EVERYBODY'S love to Ann.
Bits of sandstone...shop-soiled white hope.
Everybody's love to Ann.
Oh, damn! Oh...damn!
Peter?
I'd leave that coat on if I were you, George. We've a long way to go.
Well, you're not me. Before I go anywhere, I shall change out of my sopping shoes.
- And, also, make a pot of coffee. - You sound a little testy, George.
- Lacon is waiting for you. - Me, Peter?
George, I've been sent to deliver you.
I've been reviewing my situation in the last half-hour of hell
and I've come to a very grave decision.
After a lifetime of living by my wits and on my memory,
I shall give myself up full-time to the profession of forgetting.
I'll put an end to emotional attachments which have long outlived their purpose.
Namely the Circus, this house, my whole past.
I shall sell up and buy a cottage, in the Cotswolds, I think.
Steeple Aston sounds about right. Do I need overnight things?
- I'm not taking any. - I shall establish myself as a mild eccentric.
Discursive, withdrawn, but possessing one or two loveable habits,
such as muttering to myself as I bumble along innocent pavements.
I shall become an oak of my own generation.
You make the coffee.
You know where everything is.
You can even pick my front door locks.
Clever Peter Guillam.
I saw you parking this toy in Curzon Street. I ran away. Good guess on your part.
- Why did you think I was looking for you? - I hoped you weren't, but you found me.
You had to come home sometime.
- It's far too young for you, Peter. - It's quick.
I'm surprised you didn't get thrown out, too. You had all the qualifications for dismissal.
Good at your work, loyal, discreet.
What happened tonight, George?
How's Ann?
Roddy Martindale happened tonight.
Why do I permit it? I tell myself it's for politeness' sake,
It's not. It's weakness.
And the fact that I've nothing better to do.
My wife's fine, thank you.
They've put me in charge of scalphunters.
You are Jim Prideaux's successor? You? Looking after the heavy mob?
Why not?
Tucked away at Brixton behind the broken glass and barbed wire,
dispatching thugs occasionally, kept at arm's length from the Circus ringmasters.
- How is Jim? Do you know? - In quarantine.
I don't mean to pry. I merely ask. Can he get around? Can he walk and so on?
- Bad backs can be terribly tricky. - The word is he manages pretty well.
He's back in England. Address unknown.
Travel. Is that still the scalphunters' official name?
Hit and run, cosh and carry.
Sorry. Now, Control always preached that good intelligence work is gradual
and rests on a kind of gentleness.
- It's not my department. - No.
The scalphunters were the exception Control allowed to his own rule.
On Bill Haydon's persuasion. A reflection of Bill temperament, of course.
The solo initiative.
Very dashing...very audacious.
I'm sorry, Peter. What?
- Lateralism. Are you familiar with the word? - I most certainly am not.
It's the "in" doctrine. We used to go up and down. Now we go along.
- What does that mean? - Before, the Circus ran itself by regions.
Africa, Satellites, Russia, China, South East Asia, West Indies.
Each region was commanded by its own juju man.
- Control held the strings. Remember? - It strikes a distant chord.
Today everything operational is under one hat. It's called London Station.
Regions are out, lateralism is in.
Who's station commander?
Bill Haydon. His No.2 is Roy Bland.
Toby Esterhase runs between them like a poodle.
They're a service within the service, share secrets and don't mix with the proles.
- There are three of them and Alleline. - That's right.
- The object is to make us more secure. - A very good idea.
Why did Lacon send you for me?
Why did he send ME for you or WHY did he send me?
Quite right. I should've known better than to ask.
Remember your last day at the Circus?
One day before Control departed and the new regime took over.
You stuck your head round my door and said "I've been sacked".
We went out and you got drunk.
Why pick me, George? I was pretty low grade.
Running some very sketchy networks of merchant seamen...
whatever Poles, Russians, Chinks, I could cobble together
Why me, George?
You want a reason?
You fastened on that word when I asked why you'd been kicked out.
- I'll tell you what you said. - I hope this won't be embarrassing.
You said, "Reason as logic or reason as motive or reason as a way of life?"
"They don't have to give reasons. I can write my own,"
"and that is not the same as the half-baked tolerance that comes from no longer caring."
I thought that was pretty impressive stuff from a man as drunk as you were.
At least I had the good sense not to let you drive me home.
Lacon sent me for you, George.
- It's like Dracula's blood bank! - Lacon said it was his Hampshire Camelot.
Built by a teetotal millionaire. He thinks that explains everything.
I'm so out of touch. Does Lacon have any particular title nowadays?
Just Sir Oliver of the Cabinet Office.
Permanent watchdog of intelligence affairs. He loves being one of nature's prefects.
George, hello! Thanks for coming! Come on in, will you?
Guillam.
Been enjoying retirement, George?
You haven't missed the warmth of human contact?
I rather would, I think.
One's work with old buddies.
Oh, I think I manage very well, thank you.Yes, yes, I'm sure I do.
And you? All goes well with you?
Oh, no great changes. No, no, all very smooth.
- Charlotte got her scholarship to Roedean. - Oh, very good.
How about your wife? In the pink and so on?
Very bonny, thank you.
Ah, all spruce and shipshape again, Guillam?
You were grubby. He did look a ruffian, didn't he, George?
Well...shall we?
Please, George, I want him to talk particularly to you.
Alright, Fawn, lock us in, please.
- I think you know Mr Smiley, don't you? - 'Course I do. You once gave me a job.
You remember? Tarr, sir. Ricki Tarr. The lawyer's boy from Marseilles.
You changed my first nappies.
They were very tough interviews you gave us tender young recruits.
Of course, 12 years ago. It's that long. You don't look any different to me, sir.
No, 12 years ago nobody, but nobody, got taken on unless we got past you.
Not even scalphunters, who aren't quite your type.
- We all had to get the nod from Mr Smiley. - Tarr.
Of course I remember you. Your father was an Australian, I recall.
A solicitor and a Nonconformist lay preacher.
Altogether a most unusual chap to pop up in Marseilles.
Just such odd circumstances do seem to provide us with...suitable personnel.
Bad boys like Ricki.
Daddy thought he could beat the sin out of me, but you knew better.
He only beat it further in...
and that's what scalphunters are made of.
- Isn't that right, Mr Guillam? - We're waiting, Tarr.
Yes, we ought to get on.
- I guess I'd better make my pitch. - Let's keep it precise.
Before you begin, Ricki, do I understand correctly
that no one at the Circus knows you're in England?
Only Mr Guillam.
You're officially absent without leave.
On the wanted list.
I think I'm safe now.
I've got a story to tell you all about spies. And if it's true, which I think it is,
you boys are gonna need a whole new organization, right?
Shall I start with the day you sent me to Lisbon? It changed my life.
You might find it's going to change all your lives.
Lord, now lettest thou thy servant
Depart in peace
According to
Thy word
For mine eyes have seen
Thy salvation
Which thou hast prepared before the face
Of all people
To be a light
To lighten
The gentiles
And to be the glory
Of thy people
Israel
Glory be to the Father
And to the Son
And to the Holy Ghost
As it was in the beginning
Is now and ever shall be
World without end
Amen