EPT
The Secret Pilgrim
So, I'm reading The Secret Pilgrim, an old spy novel I found in the library by John le Carré, and it's really quite excellent. It's technical, uses interesting lingo, and talks a lot about the methods of espionage during the Cold War. It is, however, a sequel to the George Smiley series and notably Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy-- so read those first to avoid spoilers. Here's a particularly good passage I read moments ago:
...and if all of this seems to place me in a passive role, that is because the iron rule for such meetings is that the agent in the field is king, and it's the agent who decides what is the safest course for him, and the most natural to his lifestyle. What Oskar was suggesting was not what I would have suggested, nor did I understand why we had to speak on the telephone before we met. But perhaps Oskar understood. Perhaps he was afraid of a trap. Perhaps he wanted to sample the reassurance of my voice before he took the plunge.
Or perhaps there was some sidelight I had yet to learn of: he was bringing a friend with him; he wished to be evacuated at once; he had changed his mind. For there is a second rule of tradecraft as rigid as the first, which says that the outrageous is to be regarded at all times as the norm. The good case officer expects the entire Gdansk telephone system to fail the moment he begins his call. He expects the tram stop to be at the centre of a road works, or that Oskar will that morning have driven his car into a lamp-post or developed a temperature of a hundred and four, or that his wife will have persuaded him to demand a million dollars in gold before resuming contact with us, or that her baby will have decided to be premature. The whole art--as I told my students till they hated me for it--is to rely on Sod's Law and otherwise nothing.
It was with this maxim in mind that, having spend a fruitless hour telephoning the three cafés, I placed myself at the agreed tram stop at ten past nine that night, and waited for Oskar's Trabant to grope its way towards me down the street.
Or perhaps there was some sidelight I had yet to learn of: he was bringing a friend with him; he wished to be evacuated at once; he had changed his mind. For there is a second rule of tradecraft as rigid as the first, which says that the outrageous is to be regarded at all times as the norm. The good case officer expects the entire Gdansk telephone system to fail the moment he begins his call. He expects the tram stop to be at the centre of a road works, or that Oskar will that morning have driven his car into a lamp-post or developed a temperature of a hundred and four, or that his wife will have persuaded him to demand a million dollars in gold before resuming contact with us, or that her baby will have decided to be premature. The whole art--as I told my students till they hated me for it--is to rely on Sod's Law and otherwise nothing.
It was with this maxim in mind that, having spend a fruitless hour telephoning the three cafés, I placed myself at the agreed tram stop at ten past nine that night, and waited for Oskar's Trabant to grope its way towards me down the street.
The entire book is like that, filled with wonderful words and secrets and stories. It's the kind of book that makes you believe you're a spy, and not the kind who deals with explosions or gunfire or jumping off the roofs of buildings and into cars, but the kind whose heart races fast because he knows he's in the room with a killer, or has to lie to the police, or has to live a false life to serve his ideals.
I suppose this kind of book (or even sitting down to read this, which has taken me some time given how busy I've been lately) isn't for everyone. But it might be for you, if you liked that passage. Check it out-- it's 20 years old so most city libraries will have it.
