海角大神

In 1997, George Plimpton interviewed John le Carr茅 for The Paris Review. While discussing the ample subject matter sifted in his fiction after the Cold War ended, le Carr茅 told Plimpton, 鈥淭he one thing you can bet is that spying is never over.鈥� It will go on and on and on.鈥�

Now 84, le Carr茅 seems blessedly eternal in his own right. Or write. To date, le Carr茅鈥檚 published writing life spans 55 years, with no discernible decline in quality.

His latest book, The Pigeon Tunnel: Stories from My Life, includes more than a few forbidding reflections on political machinations and incompetence among various governments, oddities such as a one-off lunch with media baron Rupert Murdoch, and several harrowing reflections on personal research missions that informed his many novels. Thus, we get a glimpse of le Carr茅 securing an audience with the late PLO leader Yasser Arafat and indulging the late Russian poet and essayist Joseph Brodsky the day Brodsky learns he has won the Nobel Prize.

Of Arafat, le Carr茅 writes, 鈥淲e enter an Arab embrace, left, right, left. The beard is not bristle, it鈥檚 silky fluff. It smells of Johnson鈥檚 Baby Powder. Releasing me, he keeps a hand possessively on my shoulder as he addresses our audience. I may walk freely among his Palestinians, he declares 鈥� he who never sleeps in the same bed twice, handles his own security and insists he is married to nobody but Palestine.鈥�

Fans of le Carr茅 probably know at least a bit of his personal biography. That his real name is David Cornwell. That he was a lower-level spy in Britain鈥檚 MI6 before quitting the service in 1963 after his third book 鈥� 鈥淭he Spy Who Came in from the Cold鈥� 鈥� became that enviable literary combination of best-seller and critical darling. And, particularly for readers of 鈥淭he Perfect Spy,鈥� considered by Philip Roth, among others, to be le Carr茅鈥檚 magnum opus, that characters Rick and Magnus Pym are close to stand-ins for Ronnie Cornwell and his son, David.

In 鈥淪on of the Author鈥檚 Father,鈥� le Carr茅 delves into his real-life con man father鈥檚 misadventures.

He disdains and laments his father鈥檚 foolish and hurtful behavior while wondering how much of the father resides within the son. Gravitating toward the deceptive world of intelligence and spying must have sprung from the mistrust and deceit of childhood, le Carre鈥檚 posits.

And, as the author has often noted, lines long ago blurred between deceit, spy craft, and writing novels.

鈥淩onnie the common man could spin you a story out of the air, sketch in a character who did not exist, and paint a golden opportunity when there wasn鈥檛 one,鈥� le Carr茅 writes of his father. 鈥淗e could blind you with bogus detail or helpfully clarify a non-existent knotty point if you weren鈥檛 quick enough on the uptake to grasp the technicalities of his con first time round. He could withhold a great secret on grounds of confidentiality, then whisper it to your ear alone because he has decided to trust you.鈥�

Earlier in 鈥淭he Pigeon Tunnel,鈥� le Carr茅 reflects on the benefit of spies-turned-authors. Graham Greene, a thriller writer who preceded le Carr茅 as a novelist who took a dim view of the ethics and success of espionage, was also a former British spy who defected to the best-seller list.

鈥淐ompared with the hell we might have raised by other means, writing was as harmless as playing with our bricks,鈥� le Carr茅 asserts. 鈥淗ow much our poor beleaguered spies must be wishing that Edward Snowden had done the novel instead.鈥�

Le Carr茅鈥檚 reminiscences include a dry wit embracing the futility of spy-world omniscience. In his own career, the novelist recalls plenty of occasions when a politician or another notable sought his expertise on some international episode or another.

Invariably, le Carr茅 relates, he had no insight whatsoever. And, of course, in the actual practice of spying, the author witnessed and heard countless examples of ineptitude and botched intelligence.

In the days when le Carr茅 joined MI6, intelligence services only recruited 鈥� and did not solicit 鈥� applicants.

鈥淚f you applied you could be enemy, whereas if you were spotted, you couldn鈥檛 possibly be. And we all know how well that worked.鈥�

A comment which makes the perfect segue to the infamous British agent Kim Philby, who conveyed innumerable secrets to the enemy Soviet Union before defecting in 1963. (Philby died in Moscow at age 76 in 1988.) Nicholas Elliott, Philby鈥檚 close friend, was an MI6 officer who came under heavy criticism for not stopping Philby鈥檚 escape after hearing Philby鈥檚 confession.

In 1986, le Carr茅 hosted Elliott at his home and they discussed the Philby affair.

The author came away unimpressed. Elliott, he writes, was a 鈥渄upe鈥� if also 鈥渢he most entertaining spy I ever met.鈥� Elliott 鈥渨as thin as a wand, and seemed always to hover slightly above the ground at a jaunty angle, a quiet smile in his face and one elbow cocked for the martini glass or cigarette.鈥�

Such dilettantism loses its allure when one considers that Elliott鈥檚 鈥渁ccount is a fiction he has come to believe鈥� and that the traitorous behavior of Philby combined with MI6 ineptitude led to 鈥渄ozens and perhaps hundreds of British agents鈥� being 鈥渋mprisoned, tortured and shot.鈥�

At the opposite end of the spectrum stands the late Yvette Pierpaoli, 鈥渁 diminutive French provincial businesswoman鈥� who improbably outwitted Pol Pot and other horrible people to rescue and feed and clothe suffering children in Cambodia, various parts of Africa, and Kosovo. Le Carr茅 met and befriended Pierpaoli, who was killed helping refugees in Kosovo in 1999. She lives on as the heroine of one of le Carr茅鈥檚 most powerful books, 鈥淭he Constant Gardener.鈥�