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the theory he liked best:
    ‘Right across the Far Eastern chequerboard,’ he wrote, ‘the Circus is performing what is known in the spy-trade as a duck-dive.’
    But why?
    The writer now quoted his ’senior American prebends of the intelligence church militant in Asia’. American intelligence agents generally, he said, and not just in Asia, were ‘hopping mad about lax security in the British organisations’. They were hopping highest about the recent discovery of a top Russian spy - he threw in the correct tradename ‘mole’ - inside the Circus’s London headquarters: a British traitor, whom they declined to name, but who in the words of the senior prebends had ‘compromised every Anglo-American clandestine operation worth a dime for the last twenty years’. Where was the mole now? the writer had asked his sources. To which, with undiminished spleen, they had replied: ‘Dead. In Russia. And hopefully both.’
    Craw had never wanted for a wrap-up, but this one, to Luke’s fond eye, had a real sense of ceremony about it. It was almost an assertion of life itself, if only of the secret life.
    ‘Is Kim the boy spy vanished for good, then, from the legends of the East?’ he asked. ‘Shall the English pundit’ never again stain his skin, slip into native costume and silently take his place beside the village fires? Do not fear,’ he insisted. ‘The British will be back! The time-honoured sport of spot-the-spook will be with us once again! The spy is not dead: he sleepeth.’
    The piece appeared. In the Club, it was fleetingly admired, envied, forgotten. A local English-language paper with strong American connections reprinted it in full, with the result that the mayfly after all enjoyed another day of life. The old boy’s charity benefit, they said: a doffing of the cap before he passes from the stage. Then the overseas network of the BBC ran it, and finally the Colony’s own torpid network ran a version of the BBC’s version, and for a full day there was a debate about whether Big Moo had decided to take the muzzle off the local news services. Yet even with this protracted billing, nobody, not Luke, not even the dwarf, saw fit to wonder how the devil the old man had known the back way into High Haven.
    Which merely proved, if proof were ever needed, that journalists are no quicker than anybody else at spotting what goes on under their noses. It was a typhoon Saturday after all.
    Within the Circus itself, as Craw had correctly called the seat of British intelligence, reactions to Craw’s piece varied according to how much was known by those who were doing the reacting. In Housekeeping Section, for instance, which was responsible for such tatters of cover as the Circus could gather to itself these days, the old boy released a wave of pent-up fury which can only be understood by those who have tasted the atmosphere of a secret department under heavy siege. Even otherwise tolerant spirits became savagely retributive. Treachery! Breach of contract! Block his pension! Put him on the watch list! Prosecution the moment he returns to England! Down the market a little, those less rabid about their security took a kindlier view, though it was still uninformed. Well, well, they said a little ruefully, that was the way of it: name us a joe who didn’t blow his top now and then, and specially one who’d been left in ignorance for as long as poor old Craw had. And after all, he’d disclosed nothing that wasn’t generally available, now had he? Really those housekeeper people should show a little moderation. Look how they went for poor Molly Meakin the other night, sister to Mike and hardly out of ribbons, just because she left a bit of blank stationery in her waste basket!
    Only those at the inmost point saw things differently. To them, old Craw’s article was a discreet masterpiece of disinformation: George Smiley at his best, they said. Clearly, the story had to come out, and all were agreed that censorship at any