John le Carré's classic novels deftly navigate readers through the intricate shadow worlds of international espionage with unsurpassed skill and knowledge and have earned him -- and his hero, British Secret Service agent George Smiley -- unprecedented worldwide acclaim.
A modern masterpiece in which le Carré expertly creates a total vision of a secret world, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy begins George Smiley's chess match of wills and wits with Karla, his Soviet counterpart.
It is now beyond doubt that a mole, implanted decades ago by Moscow Centre, has burrowed his way into the highest echelons of British Intelligence. His treachery has already blown some of its most vital operations and its best networks. It is clear that the double agent is one of its own kind. But which one? George Smiley is assigned to identify him. And once identified, the traitor must be destroyed.
About the Author
New York Times bestselling author John le Carré was born in 1931 and attended the universities of Bern and Oxford. He taught at Eton and served briefly in British Intelligence during the Cold War. For the last fifty years he has lived by his pen. He divides his time between London and Cornwall.
Read an Excerpt
Chapter One The truth is, if old Major Dover hadn't dropped dead at Taunton races Jim would never have come to Thursgood's at all. He came in mid-term without an interview -- late May, it was, though no one would have thought it from the weather -- employed through one of the shiftier agencies specialising in supply teachers for prep schools, to hold down old Dover's teaching till someone suitable could be found. "A linguist," Thursgood told the common-room, "a temporary measure," and brushed away his forelock in self-defence. "Priddo." He gave the spelling, "P-r-i-d" -- French was not Thursgood's subject so he consulted the slip of paper -- "e-a-u-x, first name James. I think he'll do us very well till July." The staff had no difficulty in reading the signals. Jim Prideaux was a poor white of the teaching community. He belonged to the same sad bunch as the late Mrs. Loveday, who had a Persian-lamb coat and stood in for junior divinity until her cheques bounced, or the late Mr. Maltby, the pianist who had been called from choir practice to help the police with their enquiries, and as far as anyone knew was helping them to this day, for Maltby's trunk still lay in the cellar awaiting instructions. Several of the staff, but chiefly Marjoribanks, were in favour of opening that trunk. They said it contained notorious missing treasures: Aprahamian's silver-framed picture of his Lebanese mother, for instance; Best-Ingram's Swiss army penknife and Matron's watch. But Thursgood set his creaseless face resolutely against their entreaties. Only five years had passed since he had inherited the school from his father, but they had taught him already that somethings are best locked away.
Jim Prideaux arrived on a Friday in a rainstorm. The rain rolled like gun-smoke down the brown combes of the Quantocks, then raced across the empty cricket fields into the sandstone of the crumbling façades. He arrived just after lunch, driving an old red Alvis and towing a second-hand trailer that had once been blue. Early afternoons at Thursgood's are tranquil, a brief truce in the running fight of each school day. The boys are sent to rest in their dormitories, the staff sit in the common-room over coffee reading newspapers or correcting boys' work. Thursgood reads a novel to his mother. Of the whole school, therefore, only little Bill Roach actually saw Jim arrive, saw the steam belching from the Alvis's bonnet as it wheezed its way down the pitted drive, windscreen wipers going full pelt and the trailer shuddering through the puddles in pursuit.
Roach was a new boy in those days and graded dull, if not actually deficient. Thursgood's was his second prep school in two terms. He was a fat round child with asthma, and he spent large parts of his rest kneeling on the end of his bed, gazing through the window. His mother lived grandly in Bath; his father was agreed to be the richest in the school, a distinction which cost the son dear. Coming from a broken home, Roach was also a natural watcher. In Roach's observation Jim did not stop at the school buildings but continued across the sweep to the stable yard. He knew the layout of the place already. Roach decided later that he must have made a reconnaissance or studied maps. Even when he reached the yard, he didn't stop but drove straight onto the wet grass, travelling at speed to keep the momentum. Then over the hummock into the Dip, head-first and out of sight. Roach half expected the trailer to jackknife on the brink, Jim took it over so fast, but instead it just lifted its tail and disappeared like a giant rabbit into its hole.
The Dip is a piece of Thursgood folklore. It lies in a patch of wasteland between the orchard, the fruit house, and the stable yard. To look at, it is no more than a depression in the ground, grass covered, with hummocks on the northern side, each about boy height and covered in tufted thickets which in summer grow spongy. It is these hummocks that give the Dip its special virtue as a playground and also its reputation, which varies with the fantasy of each new generation of boys. They are the traces of an open-cast silver mine, says one year, and digs enthusiastically for wealth. They are a Romano-British fort, says another, and stages battles with sticks and clay missiles. To others the Dip is a bomb-crater from the war and the hummocks are seated bodies buried in the blast. The truth is more prosaic. Six years ago, and not long before his abrupt elopement with a receptionist from the Castle Hotel, Thursgood's father had launched an appeal for a swimming pool and persuaded the boys to dig a large hole with a deep and a shallow end. But the money that came in was never quite enough to finance the ambition, so it was frittered away on other schemes, such as a new projector for the art school, and a plan to grow mushrooms in the school cellars. And even, said the cruel ones, to feather a nest for certain illicit lovers when they eventually took flight to Germany, the lady's native home.
Jim was unaware of these associations. The fact remains that by sheer luck he had chosen the one corner of Thursgood's academy which, as far as Roach was concerned, was endowed with supernatural properties.
Roach waited at the window but saw nothing more. Both the Alvis and the trailer were in dead ground, and if it hadn't been for the wet red tracks across the grass he might have wondered whether he had dreamed the whole thing. But the tracks were real, so when the bell went for the end of rest he put on his rubber boots and trudged through the rain to the top of the Dip and peered down, and there was Jim dressed in an army raincoat and a quite extraordinary hat, broadbrimmed like a safari hat but hairy, with one side pinned up in a rakish piratical curl and the water running off it like a gutter.
The Alvis was in the stable yard; Roach never knew how Jim spirited it out of the Dip, but the trailer was right down there, at what should have been the deep end, bedded on platforms of weathered brick, and Jim was sitting on the step drinking from a green plastic beaker, and rubbing his right shoulder as if he had banged it on something, while the rain poured off his hat. Then the hat lifted and Roach found himself staring at an extremely fierce red face, made still fiercer by the shadow of the brim and by a brown moustache washed into fangs by the rain. The rest of the face was criss-crossed with jagged cracks, so deep and crooked that Roach concluded in another of his flashes of imaginative genius that Jim had once been very hungry in a tropical place and filled up again since. The left arm still lay across his chest, the right shoulder was still drawn high against his neck. But the whole tangled shape of him was stock-still, he was like an animal frozen against its background: a stag, thought Roach, on a hopeful impulse; something noble.
"Who the hell are you?" asked a very military voice.
"Sir, Roach, sir. I'm a new boy."
For a moment longer, the brick face surveyed Roach from the shadow of the hat. Then, to his intense relief, its features relaxed into a wolfish grin, the left hand, still clapped over the right shoulder, resumed its slow massage while at the same time he managed a long pull from the plastic beaker.
"New boy, eh?" Jim repeated into the beaker, still grinning. "Well, that's a lucky break, I will say."
Rising now, and turning his crooked back on Roach, Jim set to work on what appeared to be a detailed study of the trailer's four legs, a very critical study that involved much rocking of the suspension, and much tilting of the strangely garbed head, and the emplacement of several bricks at different angles and points. Meanwhile the spring rain was clattering down on everything: his coat, his hat, and the roof of the old trailer. And Roach noticed that throughout these manoeuvres Jim's right shoulder had not budged at all but stayed wedged high against his neck like a rock under the mackintosh. Therefore he wondered whether Jim was a sort of giant hunchback and whether all hunch backs hurt as Jim's did. And he noticed as a generality, a thing to store away, that people with bad backs take long strides; it was something to do with balance.
"New boy, eh? Well, I'm not a new boy," Jim went on, in altogether a much more friendly tone, as he pulled at a leg of the trailer. "I'm an old boy. Old as Rip van Winkle, if you want to know. Older. Got any friends?"
"No, sir," said Roach simply, in the listless tone that schoolboys always use for saying "no," leaving all positive response to their interrogators. Jim, however, made no response at all, so that Roach felt an odd stirring of kinship suddenly, and of hope.
"My other name's Bill," he said. "I was christened Bill but Mr. Thursgood calls me William."
"Bill, eh. The unpaid Bill. Anyone ever call you that?"
"Good name, anyway."
"Known a lot of Bills. They've all been good'uns."
With that, in a manner of speaking, the introduction was made. Jim did not tell Roach to go away, so Roach stayed on the brow peering downward through his rain-smeared spectacles. The bricks, he noticed with awe, were pinched from the cucumber frame. Several had been loose already and Jim must have loosened them a bit more. It seemed a wonderful thing to Roach that anyone just arrived at Thursgood's should be so self-possessed as to pinch the actual fabric of the school for his own purposes, and doubly wonderful that Jim had run a lead off the hydrant for his water, for that hydrant was the subject of a special school rule: to touch it at all was a beatable offence.
"Hey, you, Bill. You wouldn't have such a thing as a marble on you, by any chance?"
"A, sir, what, sir?" Roach asked, patting his pockets in a dazed way.
"Marble, old boy. Round glass marble, little ball. Don't boys play marbles any more? We did when I was at school."
Roach had no marble, but Aprahamian had had a whole collection flown in from Beirut. It took Roach about fifty seconds to race back to the school, secure one against the wildest undertakings, and return panting to the Dip. There he hesitated, for in his mind the Dip was already Jim's and Roach required leave to descend it. But Jim had disappeared into the trailer, so, having waited a moment, Roach stepped gingerly down the bank and offered the marble through the doorway. Jim didn't spot him at once. He was sipping from the beaker and staring out the window at the black clouds as they tore this way and that over the Quantocks. This sipping movement, Roach noticed, was actually quite difficult, for Jim could not easily swallow standing up straight; he had to tilt his whole twisted trunk backward to achieve the angle. Meanwhile the rain came on really hard again, rattling against the trailer like gravel.
"Sir," said Roach, but Jim made no move.
"Trouble with an Alvis is, no damn springs," said Jim at last, more to the window than to his visitor. "You drive along with your rump on the white line, eh? Cripple anybody." And, tilting his trunk again, he drank.
"Yes, sir," said Roach, much surprised that Jim should assume he was a driver.
Jim had taken off his hat. His sandy hair was close-cropped; there were patches where someone had gone too low with the scissors. These patches were mainly on one side, so that Roach guessed that Jim had cut the hair himself with his good arm, which made him even more lopsided.
"I brought you a marble," said Roach.
"Very good of you. Thanks, old boy." Taking the marble, he slowly rolled it round his hard, powdery palm, and Roach knew at once that he was very skillful at all sorts of things; that he was the kind of man who lived on terms with tools and objects generally. "Not level, you see, Bill," he confided, still intent upon the marble. "Skewy. Like me. Watch," and turned purposefully to the larger window. A strip of aluminium beading ran along the bottom, put there to catch the condensation. Laying the marble in it, Jim watched it roll to the end and fall on the floor.
"Skewy," he repeated. "Listing in the stern. Can't have that, can we? Hey, hey, where d'you get to, you little brute?"
The trailer was not a homey place, Roach noticed, stooping to retrieve the marble. It might have belonged to anyone, though it was scrupulously clean. A bunk, a kitchen chair, a ship's stove, a calor gas cylinder. Not even a picture of his wife, thought Roach, who had not yet met a bachelor, with the exception of Mr. Thursgood. The only personal things he could find were a webbing kit-bag hanging from the door, a set of sewing things stored beside the bunk, and a homemade shower made from a perforated biscuit tin and neatly welded to the roof. And on the table one bottle of colourless drink, gin or vodka, because that was what his father drank when Roach went to his flat for weekends in the holidays.
"East-west looks okay, but north-south is undoubtedly skewy," Jim declared, testing the other window ledge. "What are you good at, Bill?"
"I don't know, sir," said Roach woodenly.
"Got to be good at something, surely; everyone is. How about football? Are you good at football, Bill?"
"No, sir," said Roach.
"Are you a grind, then?" Jim asked carelessly, as he lowered himself with a short grunt onto the bed and took a pull from the beaker. "You don't look a grind, I must say," he added politely. "Although you're a loner."
"I don't know," Roach repeated, and moved half a pace towards the open door.
"What's your best thing, then?" He took another long sip. "Must be good at something, Bill; everyone is. My best thing was ducks and drakes. Cheers."
Now this was an unfortunate question to ask of Roach just then, for it occupied most of his waking hours. Indeed he had recently come to doubt whether he had any purpose on earth at all. In work and play he considered himself seriously inadequate; even the daily routine of the school, such as making his bed and tidying his clothes, seemed to be beyond his reach. Also he lacked piety: old Mrs. Thursgood had told him so; he screwed up his face too much at chapel. He blamed himself very much for these shortcomings, but most of all he blamed himself for the break-up of his parents' marriage, which he should have seen coming and taken steps to prevent. He even wondered whether he was more directly responsible; whether, for instance, he was abnormally wicked or divisive or slothful, and that his bad character had wrought the rift. At his last school he had tried to explain this by screaming, and feigning fits of cerebral palsy, which his aunt had. His parents conferred, as they frequently did in their reasonable way, and changed his school. Therefore this chance question, levelled at him in the cramped trailer by a creature at least halfway to divinity -- a fellow solitary, at that -- brought him suddenly very near disaster. He felt the heat charging to his face; he watched his spectacles mist over and the trailer begin to dissolve into a sea of grief. Whether Jim noticed this, Roach never knew, for suddenly he had turned his crooked back on him, moved away to the table, and was helping himself from the plastic beaker while he threw out saving phrases.
"You're a good watcher, anyway, I'll tell you that for nothing, old boy. Us singles always are -- no one to rely on, what? Nobody else spotted me. Gave me a real turn up there, parked on the horizon. Thought you were a juju man. Best watcher in the unit, Bill Roach is, I'll bet. Long as he's got his specs on. What?"
"Yes," Roach agreed gratefully, "I am."
"Well, you stay here and watch, then," Jim commanded, clapping the safari hat back on his head, "and I'll slip outside and trim the legs. Do that?"
"Where's damn marble?"
"Call out when she moves, right? North, south, whichever way she rolls. Understand?"
"Know which way's north?"
"That way," said Roach promptly, and struck out his arm at random.
"Right. Well, you call when she rolls," Jim repeated, and disappeared into the rain. A moment later, Roach felt the ground swaying under his feet and heard another roar either of pain or anger, as Jim wrestled with a recalcitrant leg.
In the course of that same summer term, the boys paid Jim the compliment of a nickname. They had several shots before they were happy. They tried "Trooper," which caught the bit of military in him, his occasional, quite harmless cursing, and his solitary rambles in the Quantocks. All the same, "Trooper" didn't stick, so they tried "Pirate" and for a while "Goulash." "Goulash" because of his taste for hot food, the smell of curries and onions and paprika that greeted them in warm puffs as they filed past the Dip on their way to evensong. "Goulash" for his perfect French, which was held to have a slushy quality. Spikely, of Five B, could imitate it to a hair: "You heard the question, Berger. What is Emile looking at?" -- a convulsive jerk of the right hand -- "Don't gawp at me, old boy, I'm not a juju man. Qu'est-ce qu'il regarde, Emile dans le tableau que tu as sous le nez? Mon cher Berger, if you do not very soon summon one lucid sentence of French, je te mettrai tout de suite à la porte, tu comprends, you beastly toad?"
But these terrible threats were never carried out, either in French or in English. In a quaint way, they actually added to the aura of gentleness which quickly surrounded him, a gentleness only possible in big men seen through the eyes of boys.
Yet "Goulash" did not satisfy them, either. It lacked the hint of strength contained. It took no account of Jim's passionate Englishness, which was the only subject where he could be relied on to waste time. Toad Spikely had only to venture one disparaging comment on the monarchy, extol the joys of some foreign country, preferably a hot one, for Jim to colour sharply and snap out a good three minutes' worth on the privilege of being born an Englishman. He knew they were teasing him but he was unable not to rise. Often he ended his homily with a rueful grin, and muttered references to red herrings, and red faces too, when certain people would have to come in for extra work and miss their football. But England was his love; when it came down to it, no one suffered for her.
"Best place in the whole damn world!" he bellowed once. "Know why? Know why, toad?"
Spikely did not, so Jim seized a crayon and drew a globe. To the west, America, he said, full of greedy fools fouling up their inheritance. To the east, China-Russia; he drew no distinction: boiler suits, prison camps, and a damn long march to nowhere. In the middle...
Finally they hit on "Rhino."
Partly this was a play on "Prideaux," partly a reference to his taste for living off the land and his appetite for physical exercise, which they noted constantly. Shivering in the shower queue first thing in the morning, they would see the Rhino pounding down Combe Lane with a rucksack on his crooked back as he returned from his morning march. Going to bed, they could glimpse his lonely shadow through the plastic roof of the fives court as the Rhino tirelessly attacked the concrete wall. And sometimes, on warm evenings, from their dormitory windows they would covertly watch him at golf, which he played with a dreadful old iron, zigzagging across the playing fields, often after reading to them from an extremely English adventure book: Biggles, Percy Westerman, or Jeffrey Farnol, grabbed haphazard from the dingy library. At each stroke they waited for the grunt as he started his backswing, and they were seldom disappointed. They kept a meticulous score. At the staff cricket match he made twenty-five before dismissing himself with a ball deliberately lofted to Spikely at square leg. "Catch, toad, catch it -- go on. Well done, Spikely, good lad -- that's what you're there for."
He was also credited, despite his taste for tolerance, with a sound understanding of the criminal mind. There were several examples of this, but the most telling occurred a few days before the end of term, when Spikely discovered in Jim's waste-basket a draft of the next day's examination paper, and rented it to candidates at five new pence a time. Several boys paid their shilling and spent an agonised night memorising answers by torchlight in their dormitories. But when the exam came round Jim presented a quite different paper.
"You can look at this one for nothing," he bellowed as he sat down. And, having hauled open his Daily Telegraph, he calmly gave himself over to the latest counsels of the juju men, which they understood to mean almost anyone with intellectual pretension, even if he wrote in the Queen's cause.
There was lastly the incident of the owl, which had a separate place in their opinion of him, since it involved death, a phenomenon to which children react variously. The weather continuing cold, Jim brought a bucket of coal to his classroom and one Wednesday lit it in the grate, and sat there with his back to the warmth, reading a dictée. First some soot fell, which he ignored; then the owl came down, a full-sized barn owl which had nested up there, no doubt, through many unswept winters and summers of Dover's rule, and was now smoked out, dazed and black from beating itself to exhaustion in the flue. It fell over the coals and collapsed in a heap on the wooden floorboard with a clatter and a scuffle, then lay like an emissary of the devil, hunched but breathing, wings stretched, staring straight out at the boys through the soot that caked its eyes. There was no one who was not frightened; even Spikely, a hero, was frightened. Except for Jim, who had in a second folded the beast together and taken it out the door without a word. They heard nothing, though they listened like stowaways, till the sound of running water from down the corridor as Jim evidently washed his hands. "He's having a pee," said Spikely, which earned a nervous laugh. But as they filed out of the classroom they discovered the owl still folded, neatly dead and awaiting burial, on top of the compost heap beside the Dip. Its neck, as the braver ones established, was snapped. Only a gamekeeper, declared Sudeley, who had one, would know how to kill an owl so well.
Among the rest of the Thursgood community, opinion regarding Jim was less unanimous. The ghost of Mr. Maltby, the pianist, died hard. Matron, siding with Bill Roach, pronounced him heroic and in need of care: it was a miracle he managed with that back. Marjoribanks said he had been run over by a bus when he was drunk. It was Marjoribanks also, at the staff match where Jim so excelled, who pointed out the sweater. Marjoribanks was not a cricketer but he had strolled down to watch with Thursgood.
"Do you think that sweater's kosher," he asked in a high, jokey voice, "or do you think he pinched it?"
"Leonard, that's very unfair," Thursgood scolded, hammering at the flanks of his Labrador. "Bite him, Ginny, bite the bad man."
By the time he reached his study, however, Thursgood's laughter had quite worn off and he became extremely nervous. Bogus Oxford men he could deal with, just as in his time he had known classics masters who had no Greek and parsons who had no divinity. Such men, confronted with proof of their deception, broke down and wept and left, or stayed on half-pay. But men who withheld genuine accomplishment -- these were a breed he had not met but he knew already that he did not like them. Having consulted the university calendar, he telephoned the agency -- a Mr. Stroll, of the house of Stroll & Medley.
"What precisely do you want to know?" Mr. Stroll asked with a dreadful sigh.
"Well, nothing precisely." Thursgood's mother was sewing at a sampler and seemed not to hear. "Merely that if one asks for a written curriculum vitae one likes it to be complete. One doesn't like gaps. Not if one pays one's fee."
At this point Thursgood found himself wondering rather wildly whether he had woken Mr. Stroll from a deep sleep to which he had now returned.
"Very patriotic bloke," Mr. Stroll observed finally.
"I did not employ him for his patriotism."
"He's been in dock," Mr. Stroll whispered on, as if through frightful draughts of cigarette smoke. "Laid up. Spinal."
"Quite so. But I assume he has not been in hospital for the whole of the last twenty-five years. Touché," he murmured to his mother, his hand over the mouthpiece, and once more it crossed his mind that Mr. Stroll had dropped off to sleep.
"You've only got him till the end of term," Mr. Stroll breathed. "If you don't fancy him, chuck him out. You asked for temporary, temporary's what you've got. You said cheap, you've got cheap."
"That's as may be," Thursgood retorted gamely. "But I've paid you a twenty-guinea fee; my father dealt with you for many years and I'm entitled to certain assurances. You've put here -- may I read it to you? -- you've put here: 'Before his injury, various overseas appointments of a commercial and prospecting nature.' Now that is hardly an enlightening description of a lifetime's employment, is it?"
At her sewing his mother nodded her agreement. "It is not," she echoed aloud.
"That's my first point. Let me go on a little."
"Not too much, darling," warned his mother.
"I happen to know he was up at Oxford in 1938. Why didn't he finish? What went wrong?"
"I seem to recall there was an interlude round about then," said Mr. Stroll after another age. "But I expect you're too young to remember it."
"He can't have been in prison all the time," said his mother after a very long silence, still without looking up from her sewing.
"He's been somewhere," said Thursgood morosely, staring across the windswept gardens towards the Dip.
All through the summer holidays, as he moved uncomfortably between one household and another, embracing and rejecting, Bill Roach fretted about Jim: whether his back was hurting; what he was doing for money now that he had no one to teach and only half a term's pay to live on; worst of all, whether he would be there when the new term began, for Bill had a feeling he could not describe that Jim lived so precariously on the world's surface that he might at any time fall off it into a void; he feared that Jim was like himself, without a natural gravity to hold him on. He rehearsed the circumstances of their first meeting, and in particular Jim's enquiry regarding friendship, and he had a holy terror that just as he had failed his parents in love, so he had failed Jim, largely owing to the disparity in their ages. And that therefore Jim had moved on and was already looking somewhere else for a companion, scanning other schools with his pale eyes. He imagined also that, like himself, Jim had had a great attachment that had failed him and that he longed to replace. But here Bill Roach's speculation met a dead end: he had no idea how adults loved each other.
There was so little he could do that was practical. He consulted a medical book and interrogated his mother about hunchbacks and he longed but did not dare to steal a bottle of his father's vodka and take it back to Thursgood's as a lure. And when at last his mother's chauffeur dropped him at the hated steps, he did not pause to say goodbye but ran for all he was worth to the top of the Dip, and there to his immeasurable joy was Jim's trailer in its same spot at the bottom, a shade dirtier than before, and a fresh patch of earth beside it, he supposed for winter vegetables. And Jim sitting on the step, grinning up at him as if he had heard Bill coming and got the grin of welcome ready before he appeared at the brink.
That same term, Jim invented a nickname for Roach. He dropped "Bill" and called him "Jumbo" instead. He gave no reason for this and Roach, as is common in the case of christenings, was in no position to object. In return, Roach appointed himself Jim's guardian; a regent-guardian was how he thought of the appointment; a stand-in replacing Jim's departed friend, whoever that friend might be.
Copyright © 1977 by David Cornwell
What People are Saying About This
“The premier spy novelist of his time. Perhaps of all time.”—Time
“A rattling good novel.”—San Francisco Chronicle
“John le Carré is the great master of the spy story…the constant flow of emotion lifts him not only above all modern suspense novelists, but above most novelists now practicing.”—Financial Times
“Stunning.”—Wall Street Journal
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
George Smiley and Control,the head of the Circus, have been disgraced and removed from Her Majesty's Secret Sercvice (A.K.A. The Circus)With a new group of bright young men running the operation, the quality of the Circus's product (Secret Information) has never been better or more consistent. But maybe that's the problem. Is the Circus's product just a little too good to be true? Information sufaces from a renegade Circus agent in Hong Kong that causes the very highest man of the Secret Service to look over his shoulder for fear of a mole. (A mole is a double agent planted deep in Circus's fabric by the Soviet Union.) George Smiley is called back from his forced retirement to root out the mole. You can't put the book down until you have reached the last page.
I decided to reread this thriller because of the new movie version. I found the book as thrilling as the first time I read it. And I was glad I had reread it as it helped the movie make sense to me (and my friends whom having not read the book, needed some gaps filled in).
I’ve only ever read one book from John le Carre before, and it’s entirely possible that The Mission Song is not representative of the rest of the author’s writing, but I was not expecting this book to be as good as it was. The skill with which Mr. le Carre worked this story into being is nothing short of amazing. The entire book feels like it was one big crescendo, building anticipation and constantly working toward a closing note that sounds resiliently. This is a book that I’ll definitely be suggesting to customers when they come in asking for a book to read, and I’ll also be seeking out some other books written by John le Carre. 4/5
This was an absolutely marvelous book. Intriguing and clever, Le Carre deftly takes you through the role of George Smiley and the mysterious Karla. More twists than a roller coaster, it never gets boring. This is one book that should be preserved through history.
Highly recommend reading or rereading this absorbing trio of books: Tinker Taylor, The Honorable Schoolboy, and Smiley's People. These books offer insight into the Cold War period, particularly because they were written during the 1970s, only a decade or so before the fall of the Soviet Union and the toppling of the Berlin Wall. George Smiley and team are an engaging, if somewhat enigmatic group, and the complexity of the plots are quite enjoyable.
I first read this book in the 1980s, and enjoyed it immensely then. I just saw the recent movie, and went back to reread it, and was pleased to see it was as good as I remembered. LeCarre is the antidote to Ian Fleming. His characters are plodding, methodical but every bit as competent at what they do as the glitzy Mr. Bond. This is not an action novel, but it is a wonderful read.
Le Carre amazes me with how he develops and integrates his characters. He not only writes about the spy story but covers each of his characters with a very human brush. If one has ever followed the machinations of the Cold War this is a very real picture.
A fantastic book. Great characters, lot of tension, and wonderful twists. Le Carre is a master storyteller.
it was one of the best spy books that i have read.
The book is set to correspond with the Kim Philby affair in Great Britian. Although fiction, there are a great many paralles as to how Philby might have been caught. It is a good book for any one who likes spy thrillersd.
Thick plot, slow paced. Could get confusing with the story line switching back and forth in time, but that keeps the suspense and makes the plot a jigsaw puzzle. The ending however is abrupt.
I enjoyed every morsel as I read them. Can't wait to read more Le Carre.
Ok, so it's hard to follow and is devoid of "action." But what amazing writing! If you can't appreciate that, you need to go back to kindergarten!
Can't believe I've never read this book or seen the film. But with a new film coming out decided to read the book. Loved it but had to concentrate and it took me a few chapters to really get into it. Smiley has one complicated brainand it is razor sharp. Have visions of Alec Guinness in the role of Smiley but am going to read the rest of the trilogy.
An astonishing, gripping tour-de-force. I cannot fault this book.
I listened via audio and my only regret was I was not reading it straight through. The characters are brilliantly portrayed, I enjoyed learning more about MI-6 and the inner circle via flashbacks and George Smiley was a character one could not help but admire. I highly recommend Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy to anyone looking for an intellectually stimulating spy thriller.
An amazing book with a lot of depth. Takes the reader seriously. Many Many shades of gray. A masterpiece.
I think I've always been a bit in love with George Smiley. There's something so appealing to me about him - aging and ordinary-looking but with a brilliant mind. He makes sense to me as a spy who probably should be someone who can blend into a crowd.I read this series first when I was in high school and have re-read it about every ten years or so sense. I enjoy it immensely each time. This is the first in the series and it's smart, well-plotted, riddled through with paranoia and betrayal - appropriate to its times when you consider it was first published in 1974, but equally appropriate to these times.This whole series is le Carré writing at his best, reinventing the espionage novel, and creating a group of characters that will move into your heart and take up residence, knocking on the door occasionally to come outside and visit again.
Nobody gets inside the mindset of spies like le Carré. The world of his characters consists of grim futility, uncertain loyalties, brutal betrayals, and fallible agents.le Carré creates detailed psychological portrayals of Smiley, his most famous character, and many others involved in the spy game. Smiley is a retired British intelligence officer tasked to discover the identity of a mole in the upper ranks of the secret service. One of four high-ranking officers is working for Karla, the chief of the Soviet Covert Espionage Bureau. Smiley operates completely undercover, to avoid alerting anyone that there is any suspicion, as he gathers and sifts through very complex information. le Carré draws from personal experience in the foreign service and MI6 so that his novels authoritatively evoke the psychology of Cold War paranoia.
As much as I like John Le Carre, this is not one of my favorite novels. A little too dark and murky for my taste.
This is the story of a mole hunt; but unlike other mole hunt stories, (like the first Mission: Impossible movie, whose main character was also called Hunt) the exotic locales, swashbuckling secret agents, and suave shoot-em-ups are either few and far between, inversed in their characterizations, or altogether absent. Le Carré's masterspy George Smiley is short, frumpy, and insecure, but; similar to Rex Stout's stout Nero Wolfe, his primary weapon is his sharp intellect and eagle-eye for detail, not to mention the seemingly superhuman ability to read the contents of file after file after file without going schizo.What Le Carré excels at the most is infusing even the most ancillary characters with dimension; from the nebbish schoolboy roped into assisting a blown agent, to the enigmatic Soviet mastermind Karla, who has no lines but still exudes an air of quiet menace.As a spy novel, this book is more of a mystery; pieces and players are put into place in the early chapters, and they're slowly moved towards the inevitable conclusion; while at the same time, fragments of tales from the backgrounds of Smiley and his fellow operatives are related in flashback, almost always in conversation, until the end story is revealed to be larger than the just the individual pieces.
The first in John LeCarre's Karla trilogy, this is considered to be the best espionage novel written. The superbly conceived mystery follows George Smiley, a retired British spy, in his quest to discover a mole within the Circus (British Intelligence Headquarters). "Tinker, Tailor, etc." is wording taken from a nursery rhyme that refers to the four men who have taken over the Circus, all of which are prime suspects in the case. The plot shows more similarities to an Agatha Christie novel than to modern spy thrillers, such as the Bourne series; there is very little action, but plenty of puzzles to solve. Knowing the reputation of this book, I really wanted to like it more, but I got extremely bogged down by the details. It was an extremely difficult read for this genre, and there were so many characters, events, and places, that I felt like I needed to take notes to keep track of them all. In the end, everything tied together very well, but it took quite a while for me to understand what was happening. I'll try LeCarre again at a later date, when I have fewer distractions.
To be honest Tinker Tailor was one of the most confusing books I have ever tried to read. For starters, it's one of those start-in-the-middle-of-the-plot books. The only successful way to catch the reader up on what has been missed is a series of flashbacks. I kept getting the flashbacks confused with the here and now. Another thing I kept getting confused was the language. le Carre has a whole series of secret words to describe the Cold War spy game. For example, a babysitter is really a bodyguard.The plot itself is really straightforward inasmuch as an espionage thriller could be. George Smiley is pulled out of retirement as a British Intelligence officer. He is recruited to uncover a Russian mole deep in the BIA's ranks. Of course, that it the simplest, dumbed-down plot synopsis I could make. Many reviewers have called Tinker Tailor "complicated" and I would have to agree.
The first book in the Karla Trilogy (which includes The Honourable Schoolboy  and Smiley's People ; all three books were collected in omnibus form as The Quest for Karla in 1982) and the fifth novel featuring John Le Carré's "fat spy" George Smiley, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy is a quietly gripping, intelligent spy thriller that drops the reader in media res into the grim jockeyings of Britain's foreign intelligence service (MI6, here styled "the Circus") and the Soviet Union's KGB and the officially retired Smiley's hunt for a highly-placed Soviet mole within the Circus that is being run by his opposite Soviet number, Karla. Much of the action unfolds in the form of flashbacks and third person narratives; though there is even less conventional thriller-type action here than in the first of Len Deighton's Bernard Samson trilogies (the Game, Set and Match trilogy), I found it to be no less gripping: Le Carré does an excellent job of plunking the reader into the mind of three borderline paranoid schizophrenics (though, in fairness, this mindset is almost certainly a job requirement), forever unsure of whom to trust, whom to support, in both their professional and personal lives, and always uncomfortable at the way that they seem to bleed into each other. Le Carré's intellectual heft isn't ostentatious -- his glancing references to John Buchan, Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen and Rupert Brooke may be safely ignored without missing over-much -- but they do add a dimension to the narrative (and, in the case of Buchan, a bit of meta-commentary, given that Buchan's "boy's own" tales of derring do in the service of His Majesty's Government are usually regarded as predecessors to Ian Fleming's James Bond thrillers; there's a reason that Le Carré didn't name-check Eric Ambler or Graham Greene) if the reader is already aware of them, or willing to spend a few minutes flipping through a decent set of encyclopedias, or switch-hitting between Google and Wikipedia, to fill in the blanks. Le Carré's morally ambiguous world is paralleled by the works of Deighton, the late, lamented British TV series The Sandbaggers, and the latter's most obvious tribute-cum-heir apparent, Greg Rucka's Queen & Country series, which is bound to perplex, if not infuriate, readers looking for more conventional thrills, or a more starkly black-and-white weltanschauung. (Le Carré notes that "Smiley had always been a little embarrassed by protestations of anti-Communism" [p. 150] -- this in spite of Smiley having no illusions about the niceties of life in the Soviet Union -- while one of his superiors at the Circus, Bill Haydon [a cousin and lover of his wayward wife, Ann], refers to some of "the cousins" [i.e., the CIA], as "Fascist puritans" [p. 132], a description that is exactly right, given how beholden the CIA was to Nazi Generalmajor Reinhard Gehlen's ORG well in to the 1960s for grossly misleading "intelligence" on the U.S.S.R.'s activities, capabilities and intentions.) Then too, the irreverent aside regarding the vagaries of intelligence work that a character gives Smiley's apprentice, Peter Guillam, will also perhaps put certain readers off: "'Cheer up, Peter, old son. Jesus Christ only had twelve, you know, and one of them was a double'" (p. 187). In short, those looking for the next Ian Fleming (or, Allah forfend, Ted Bell....) should give Tinker, Tailor a pass; all others -- perhaps particularly those fed up to the gills with sophomoric schoolboy twaddle -- should give it their best attention.
I was inspired to read this by the BBC television series, sometime in the late 1980¿s. I understand that John LeCarre is now upset that everyone pictures George Smiley as Alec Guiness, and in the Folio Society edition I have the author asked that no faces be depicted in the illustrations. I picked up the book idly, when the new edition came, and re-read the last half, eagerly. LeCarre tells a complex tale of spying, and his characters are unforgettable. The ousted spy George Smiley is recalled to duty when a minor agent becomes embroiled in a love affair, and becomes certain that the death of his girlfriend means there is a mole in the British intelligence service. Smiley gradually and carefully exposes the mole. The atmosphere is cold war, and the spy tradecraft is lovingly described.