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TIME: Almanac 1990
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1990 Time Magazine Compact Almanac, The (1991)(Time).iso
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052989
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05298900.063
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1990-09-22
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BOOKS, Page 86A Master Hits His Old PaceBy Paul Gray
THE RUSSIA HOUSE
by John le Carre
Knopf; 353 pages; $19.95
Under interrogation, quite a few members of John le Carre's
vast and devoted reading public might confess a gnawing secret: the
wish that the author would get on with his stories a bit more
speedily than he has been doing for the past 15 or so years. Ever
since Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (1974), in this view, Le Carre
has been unduly shifting emphasis from action to atmospherics; his
espionage plots remained splendidly inventive, but they arrived
splintered into ambiguities worthy of Henry James. Which was fine,
maybe, for those who wanted their cold war shenanigans decked out
in the trappings of The Golden Bowl. But what was wrong with the
heart-stopping pace of The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1963)?
And will it ever come again?
Nothing was wrong with it, of course, and it is back for sure
in The Russia House. Scarcely a dozen pages into this novel, Le
Carre's twelfth, a document of potentially enormous importance has
been passed from East to West during an exhibit of audiocassette
wares in Moscow. Three grubby notebooks full of highly technical
drawings and mathematical notations also contain some eye-popping
assertions: "The American strategists can sleep in peace. Their
nightmares cannot be realised. The Soviet knight is dying inside
his armour." If true, such statements and the accompanying evidence
pointing out the military incompetence of the U.S.S.R. will
obviously have profound effects on Western defense policies. On the
other hand, the whole thing could be just another piece of devious
disinformation.
The task of deciding which it is initially falls on British
intelligence; the notebooks have fetched up in London, intended for
a seedy and temporarily missing publisher named Bartholomew Scott
Blair, known familiarly as Barley. The first priority is to find
him. The second is to grill him until he admits his involvement in
a duplicitous plot. Failing that, the third imperative is to enlist
Barley as a spy and send him off to discover more about his
mysterious Soviet informant.
The publisher seems particularly ill-suited for such an
assignment. His life so far has been a model of irresponsibility:
heavy drinking, an accumulation of debts, ex-wives and mistresses.
But Barley is not the only odd man out. Witnessing and narrating
these events is Horatio Benedict dePalfrey, a lawyer who has spent
the past 20 years of his career papering over the questionable
deeds of the secret service, mopping up after the people he calls
espiocrats. "I am quickly dealt with," he writes of himself. "You
need not stumble on me long." To the contrary. He, "old Harry" or
"old Palfrey" to his colleagues, is the one who shapes this story,
colors it with his own disillusionments, invites credibility
through his own refusal to believe in much of anything at all. And,
early on, he drops a crucial hint about what is to come, portraying
himself in his nondescript office "while I draft our official
whitewash of the operation we called the Bluebird."
This touch alone reveals the reason why Le Carre makes all his
alleged competitors -- the Ludlums, the Clancys, the Trevanians,
even the Deightons -- look like knuckle-typers. Palfrey is
describing a failure, an intricate scheme that collapses somewhere
along the tortuous road plotted for its success. The world will not
be saved, love will not triumph, and tomorrow will dawn with the
same grimy sense of indeterminate morals and motives as yesterday.
This much is certain. What remains to be discovered is the
marvelously engrossing way in which everything can go wrong.
So. Barley passes muster with the British crew and later with
the more suspicious contingent from the CIA, but not before
protesting, "I thought the Cold War was supposed to be over." Back
in the Soviet Union, seeking out the woman who had forwarded the
presumptive secrets and trying to get at their source, he
encounters glasnost and perestroika everywhere he turns. One Moscow
literary type wonders, "When will they start repressing us again
to make us comfortable?" Another informs him, "We have no more
problems! In the old days we had to assume that everything was a
mess! Now we can look in our newspapers and confirm it!" Barley
must tunnel beneath this thawing surface, test how far it takes to
get to the chilling center underneath.
It is impossible to tell, from page to page, just how this
improbable hero will perform his role, not only for the nervous
intelligence officers monitoring his every move but for the readers
as well. With scarcely an intimation of sex, no violence and not
a side arm visible, Le Carre has again managed to construct a plot
of commanding suspense. Never before has he so successfully merged
his narrative and contemplative gifts. The Russia House is both
afire and thought provoking, a thriller that demands a second
reading as a treatise on our times.