Chapter Text
The Minister leans against the wall and stares out the window at the bleary sky, at the clouds hanging fat and heavy over the city. It's that time of year; soon winter will spread itself over London like a thick velvet blanket. He can already feel the chill in his bones.
Or perhaps that has nothing to do with the weather. His gaze skims over the streets and the tops of the buildings across his office and he thinks that somewhere out there is the greatest threat to what he holds dearest. Dearest, yes, even though he'll never admit it. He needs to get a handle on this, to bring this under control before it destroys --
His assistant -- very attractive, dark-haired, a perma-mask of lazy indifference hiding the true extent of her lazy indifference -- clears her throat behind him.
"He's here, Sir."
He straightens up to his full height, smoothes his waistcoat lightly with both hands as if to brush away imaginary wrinkles. There are none, of course, his navy blue pinstripe suit is immaculate as always, but he is careful in the presence of his next visitor as he is with very few other people, including the Prime Minister himself.
"Thank you, Anthea. You may let him in."
Her heels click on the floor as she walks out and he takes a moment or two to compose himself before she comes clicking back in.
"Mr. Smiley, Sir," she announces.
"Thank you, Anthea."
He hears his visitor's gently mumbled "Thank you" and waits for his assistant's clicking to fade away before he fixes his pleasant politician's smile on his face and turns around.
"George," he says, allowing the smile to take up only the bottom half of his face. "So very good of you to come."
George Smiley in a brown coat, looking like a crumpled paper sack with eyeglasses and a briefcase.
"Minister," he says in that quiet, quiet voice, pitched at a level that Mycroft Holmes imagines only dogs and very alert humans can hear. "Always glad to be of help."
Mycroft notices the subtle implication in the word "help", instead of the usual "service". It's entirely correct, of course, he does need Smiley's help and because this is a matter both extremely sensitive and intensely personal, he can't be issuing orders; Smiley has to cooperate of his own free will.
"George, I can't tell you how grateful I am --"
Smiley holds up a hand. "It would be best to discuss the mechanics of the operation at once."
Mycroft simultaneously feels annoyance and relief. He has always wondered how it is possible for someone to be both undeniably brilliant and unutterably dull at the same time, and yet here is George Smiley, two objects occupying the same space at the same time, defying the laws of physics.
"Of course, George. Please, let's sit down." Mycroft motions toward the soft beige couches in the centre of the room.
There's a knock on the door just as the two men settle themselves on opposite couches, facing each other, and Anthea pokes her head in, the barest lift of an eyebrow and Mycroft nods. She holds the door open and a middle-aged man rolls in a small trolley with tea and sandwiches. Everyone waits in silence as he lays the refreshments out on the table between Mycroft and Smiley. Everyone knows some tea may be drunk but the sandwiches will wither away and die without being touched.
When they're alone again, Mycroft, ever the genial host, pours his guest a cup of tea which is gratefully accepted. He pours himself a cup as well and the two men drink without saying a word.
It is Smiley who speaks first after carefully laying down his teacup and saucer on the table.
"I have been thinking, and it seems to me that the best approach would be to not let your brother know that he is being followed."
Mycroft frowns. "But he already knows that he is always being followed."
"By your people," Smiley nods. "Not by mine."
Mycroft had hoped that Smiley would suggest a quick, clean, and indefinite sequestration; at least that's how he himself would have done it. Now he is dismayed in no small measure that Smiley appears to be proposing quite the opposite: to let his brother continue as he always has, exposing himself to the dangers of ... His face wrinkles in disgust.
Smiley has remained very still throughout Mycroft's private musings. Now he adjusts the spectacles on the bridge of his nose and leans forward. "Minister, if we were to hold your brother indefinitely so soon after the incident, it is very likely that he would try to escape -- in fact, succeed in escaping. There would be no telling then what he would try to do. It is very likely that he would become even more ... reckless, and endanger himself further."
Mycroft chews on this a long moment, but he can't deny that Smiley is right. He's annoyed with himself that he's allowed his usual flawless logic and cold pragmatism to be compromised by this overweening concern for his brother. But after what happened at the pool, he no longer trusts his instincts where his brother's welfare is concerned.
Still, he feels a need to put up some kind of resistance, to advocate his own desire to just shut his brother away where he can be completely safe from this dreadful business.
"So we simply allow him to run amuck all over London, then? Chase down the man who nearly killed him, and left his best friend in a coma?"
George Smiley, sad and sensible and oh so very still. "I think you and I both know it's not nearly as simple as all that."
Mycroft takes a deep breath, holds it several beats longer than necessary, then exhales. "Very well, George. Do what you think is right. But I need your assurance that you will employ only your very best people in this undertaking."
Smiley nods. "That goes without saying, Sir."
Smiley hears the Citroën hum into the driveway as he is puttering in his tiny garden, the slam of the car door and footsteps coming up the path. Without turning around, he says, "Good morning, Peter."
"George," Peter Guillam says.
"I have half a mind to scrap all the cyclamen, Peter," Smiley says, rising from his low crouch beside the scraggly flower bed with a groan. "Maybe I'll have better luck with parsnips."
Peter surveys the sickly patch of cyclamen with mild distaste. "Parsnips, definitely. Winter coming and all."
Smiley chuckles. "Ah, young Peter. Ever the romantic." He puts a hand out, his legs slightly unsteady from having been in a crouching position for so long. Peter quickly stretches out an arm to support him. Slowly they begin to walk toward the house, the back door leading into the kitchen.
Once inside, Smiley puts a kettle on the stove. "Or would you prefer something stronger?" he asks Peter, following an unspoken question with a spoken one.
Peter shakes his head, tea will do. They don't say a word and Smiley busies himself with teacups and saucers, a pack of biscuits. Peter looks out the kitchen window, watchful as always, old habits die hard.
The tea is ready, poured into cups, heavily sugared in Smiley's and plain in Peter's.
"The young man seems to be oblivious to the danger he's in," Smiley finally says.
Peter sits back, looking annoyed. "He's a Holmes, of course he would think himself immune to -- George, why do we have to do this? Isn't standard protection sufficient?"
Smiley shakes his head. "The boy is in much deeper trouble than that, I'm afraid. The man at the pool is ... shall we say, well-connected. To Beijing. To Hanoi. To Moscow."
At that last word, Peter starts. "You can't possibly be serious."
Smiley nods.
"But he's a local player, isn't he? Admittedly a brilliant one, but certainly not one with that kind of reach, surely?"
"He's been diversifying, I'm afraid." Smiley removes his spectacles, cleans the lenses slowly with the edge of his jumper. "The older Holmes has received very disturbing reports from his own contacts overseas. Arms shipments, funds transfers, all conducted at the very highest levels. The boy only saw the tip of the iceberg. And now with his friend in a coma -- his only friend, apparently -- the Minister is deeply concerned that he might do something rash."
Peter snorts derisively. "From what I gather, the 'boy' is incapable of doing anything that can't be described as rash." He sets his teacup and saucer back on the table. "And you can stop calling him a boy, by the way. He's only a little bit younger than I am."
The older man smiles gently. He doesn't say that he still thinks of Peter as a boy. Right at this moment, all shining blonde head and sneering petulance, he is very much an overgrown boy in a bespoke three-piece suit.
"I trust you'll make the arrangements?" Smiley asks, quietly but firmly.
Peter, exquisitely peeved, kicks his right foot out, connecting with nothing. "It's called Scalphunters, George. Not Babysitters."