Reviewed: A Delicate Truth by John le Carré

Secrets and lies.

A Delicate Truth
John le Carré
Viking, 336pp, £18.99

Behind the conspiracy that drives John le Carré’s new novel is an American private defence company that calls itself “Ethical Outcomes”. It might more accurately have called itself “Unethical Incomes”. Like all of his novels, A Delicate Truth asks how to create ethical outcomes in an increasingly venal society. In the cold war thrillers that established his reputation, le Carré followed the effects of the conflict between the ideologies of east and west, “communism” v“freedom”. Over the past decade or so, his books have increasingly focused on the moral vacuum that has emerged from the hollow triumph of capitalism, as we all discover that there is nothing free about a world in which anything is potentially for sale – on the contrary, it is proving very costly indeed.

If 2001’s The Constant Gardener was le Carré’s attack on Big Pharma, A Delicate Truth is an attack on what he calls “Big Greed” – the transformation of a market economy into a market society. Big Greed is ruining le Carré’s Britain, which is becoming less great by the day: there are no George Smileys left in this atomised society. Instead, a toxic individualism holds sway, which can only be answered by the increasingly rare consciences of honest men fighting their way through a dishonourable world.

The novel opens with American mercenaries in 2008 engaged in a bit of extraordinary rendition in Gibraltar, using a British diplomat named Kit Probyn as a “fig leaf” to cover their illegal operation on foreign soil. Probyn has been ordered by the minister of defence, one Fergus Quinn, to come to the aid of Queen and country, believing that the objective of “Operation Wildlife” is counter - terrorism. Eventually, Probyn learns that he was unwitting in more ways than one: told that the top-secret operation had been an unqualified success, he was shipped off to a plum post in the Caribbean and knighted, when, in reality, the operation – unethical on the face of it –was far more immoral than he knew and a fiasco to boot.

Meanwhile, Quinn’s secretary, Toby Bell, who has refused to countenance what he suspects is his minister’s hand in the nation’s till, becomes increasingly suspicious of Quinn’s dealings with the mysterious J Crispin. The name is presumably a deeply ironic reference to Henry V’s St Crispin’s Day speech, for this Crispin is busily selling arms, honour and country to the highest bidder. (The literary allusions don’t end there: Quinn calls Toby “old sport” – the italics are le Carré’s and irritating – and, two pages later, Toby wonders whether the J Crispin of whom he has heard might be named “Jay like Jay Gatsby”. Whether this is an allusion to Crispin’s criminal allegiances or his fraudulence or a wry undermining of the way that people like him are destroying American and British dreams of equality and meritocracy is impossible to say, because le Carré abandons the comparison, never to return to it.)

Toby acquires incriminating evidence about Operation Wildlife and joins forces with Probyn to expose the nefarious plot of Crispin and Quinn. The problem is that no one in their government wants it exposed. Faced with a secret state relying on plausible deniability and the subcontracting of its dirty work, Toby and Kit must search for a way to hold power accountable.

At the heart of the story is a Hitchcockian McGuffin: Toby has a recording of a secret meeting, in the comically low-tech form of reel-to-reel tapes, relics of the cold war era that no one has remembered to remove from ministerial offices. As the questions mount, so does the suspense: what really happened on the night of Operation Wildlife? What are Crispin’s real plans and who does he work for? What was the operation’s objective, behind the cover-up, and how did it go so spectacularly awry? The problem with A Delicate Truth is that the McGuffin is just that – a device so uninteresting that le Carré doesn’t even bother to answer all of these questions. He has planted the device purely for the purposes of denouncing the duplicity and hyp - ocrisy of the new secret state.

At his best, le Carré parses the workings of conflicted loyalties, the balancing of one value against another, of moral idealism against political realism. Lately, his novels have traded less in moral ambiguity and more in the certainties of heroes and villains. The book vibrates with le Carré’s patent indignation at the sense that our politicians are betraying all of us and the values they are meant to uphold. Instead of asking difficult questions about whether unethical means can justify ethical ends, however, A Delicate Truth pits the ethical against the unethical, good guys against bad, the moral against the amoral, honest British soldiers against dishonest American mercenaries.

At almost the dead centre of the novel, Kit Probyn, who has retired with his wife to a picturesque village in Cornwall, attends the local “annual fayre”, over which he has been asked to preside as the lord of misrule. “It’s here and now, Kit thinks, as the elation rises in him,” Le Carré writes.

The jostling crowds, the palominos cavorting in the meadows, the sheep safely grazing on the hillside, even the new bungalows that deface the lower slopes of Bailey’s Hill: if this isn’t the land they have loved and served for so long, where is? And all right, it’s Merrie bloody England, it’s Laura bloody Ashley, it’s ale and pasties and yo-ho for Cornwall, and tomorrow morning all these nice, sweet people will be back at each other’s throats, screwing each other’s wives and doing all the stuff the rest of the world does. But right now it’s their National Day, and who’s an ex-diplomat of all people to
complain if the wrapping is prettier than what’s inside?

Yet his recognition that this is sentimental nonsense does not make it less sentimental or less nonsensical. Le Carré once told an interviewer that his style developed from his training as a young intelligence officer writing reports: “We went for a bald style . . . profound suspicion of adjectives, and making the verb do the work.” A Delicate Truth continues to follow this stylistic principle but he should be more suspicious of this adjectival scene. It is disconcerting, to say the least, to read a writer of le Carré’s acuity defending the pretty wrapper of heritage tourism and superficial patriotism. This scene undermines everything that the novel ought to be about: defending the heart of the nation, not its selfdeceiving trappings.

As if to compensate for the degradation of the world he portrays, le Carré has responded with fictions that are increasingly consoling and heroes who are rewarded with upright women who stiffen their moral backbones. These women may be more admirable than the serially unfaithful Ann Smiley of earlier books but they are no less one-dimensional. If they are not quite cardboard characters, there is certainly no George Smiley here, either. And the plot proves to be as under - developed as the characters, the conspiracy so gestural, that it is hard to remember that the author is the man who gave us the intricate, internecine plots of Smiley’s world.

In the end, the question of what happens to the whistle-blower is at the heart of the story and the best thing about this book is its final paragraph, in which le Carré gives his deeply sinister answer to that question. That paragraph alone makes A Delicate Truth worth reading, not only for the obvious pleasures to be offered by a master of suspense but for the brutal truth he forces us to confront at the story’s end.

Sarah Churchwell’s “Careless People: Murder, Mayhem and the Invention of the Great Gatsby” will be published in June by Little, Brown

John le Carré at home in Cornwall in 2010. Photograph: Paul Calver

This article first appeared in the 29 April 2013 issue of the New Statesman, What makes us human?

Photo: Barry Lewis / Alamy
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Special Brew with George

My time in the gutter taught me how much the homeless deserve our compassion.

George begs beneath the NatWest cashpoint across the road from Stockwell Tube station. Sometimes you’ll see other people begging there, but mostly this is George’s pitch. He’s a wizened man with the weathered-walnut complexion of the long-term street sleeper and addict-alcoholic. George is small and very thin and has hardly any teeth; I rather like him.

His backstory will be familiar to anyone who has ever taken an interest in the homeless: his father a drug addict who died young; his mother an alcoholic who couldn’t cope. George and his sister were in and out of care throughout their early childhood and then vanished into the system.

I haven’t been able to get from George a straight account of the events that precipitated him into a gutter near me, but that is not surprising: alcoholics are usually pretty resentful people, and because they are so ill-used by their malady it is difficult for them to distinguish between the world’s bemerding and the shit they’ve got themselves into. George speaks of a young daughter’s untimely death and an estranged wife. Once he had both a home of his own and a decent trade – plastering – but now he gets plastered to forget about everything he’s lost.

I first began chatting to George in the autumn – chatting to him and giving him a pound or two. He’s good at begging, George: he keeps eye contact and speaks politely while maintaining an unthreatening demeanour. But anyway, I give money to homeless beggars: that’s my thing. I never ended up on the street myself, but 20 years of drug addiction will lead you down some crooked and filthy alleyways of human experience. I’ve begged for money in the street and got high with the homeless enough times not to shy away instinctively from their lowly estate. From time to time I’ll join them on their cardboard palliasses and take a swig of Special Brew.

Thomas Hobbes averred that charity exists solely in order to relieve the rich man of the burden of his conscience, but I’ve no wish to be so eased: I welcome the burden of my conscience, because it keeps my eyes down on the ground, where they are more likely to spot the Georges of this world, who are as deserving of our compassion as anyone.

I don’t consider giving money to homeless beggars to be an act of charity. I view it more as a redistribution of the tokens required for food, shelter and the warming overcoat of intoxication. I also prefer to give my money directly to people who need it, rather than having this act gussied up as something “fun” for me, or as a means of providing wealthy young people with ­careers in the charitable sector that give them a good conscience. Hence George and his predecessors – because usually, at any given time, I have a redistributive relationship with someone of his ilk.

The Big Issue vendors now wear fluorescent tabards that proclaim “A hand-up not a handout”, and of course I appreciate that many concerned people are working flat out trying to get the homeless off the streets and socially reintegrated; but as the years have passed, and all sorts of welfare provision have been pruned and cut and pruned some more, so the position of the Georges of this world – slumped beneath the vomitous cashpoints like so many personifications of the rising Gini coefficient – has come to seem altogether intractable.

***

As the winter nights drew in, I got to know George better, and as a consequence began giving him more money. After all, it may be easy to leave nameless hordes lying in the streets on frigid nights, but not people you actually know. If he was too obviously on the lash I’d proffer only a fiver or a tenner. Not because I’m judgemental, though – far from it. In my view, it’s perfectly reasonable to spend a tenner on booze or a bag of smack if you’re on the streets; it’s just that if George is bingeing he starts spinning yarns to hook in more drug money, and nobody likes being taken for a mug. However, if he was staying sober and going to AA meetings I’d dob George £15 for a night in a backpackers’ hostel.

Like many of the homeless, George avoids the free hostels, which can be veritable cesspits of abuse; he thinks he’s better off sleeping out, which may be true some of the time, but not in the cold and wet, because people die out there, they really do. The outreach workers do the rounds of our cities’ parks and wastelands every morning in the winter, shaking the figures bundled up in sleeping bags to check they’re still breathing.

At my instigation George got back in touch with the local authority’s services, because, along with the Big Issue’s hand-up, the only way for a street-sleeping alcoholic to clamber out of the gutter is for him to re-enter the system.

I live only three hundred yards from George’s pitch, and his bash (the rough sleepers’ term for an improvised shelter)is equidistant. On one faintly delirious occasion in December I was standing on the first-floor walkway of the former council block my flat’s in, talking to my Labour councillor about an unrelated local matter, when George crawled out from a concrete cranny off the courtyard below, where he had evidently spent the night. I observed to Councillor Bigham that we really should be doing more for the likes of George, and he agreed.

However, to me, George’s situation had begun to seem not so much a failure in social provision as a cosmic solecism. Since the resurgence of so-called Victorian values under the Thatcher regime, it’s become de rigueur to regard poverty as epithetic rather than environmental. The undeserving poor, it seems, are now all around us, victims of little besides their own bad character. But my feeling is that once a man or a woman is caught in the Kafka-like trap of homelessness, all bets are off: without a house you can’t get a job; without a job you certainly can’t get a house, and actually, it’s pretty bloody hard to get one even if you do have a job; of which more later.

A few days before Christmas George had a fit as a result of alcohol withdrawal and ended up in the nearby St Thomas’ Hospital for three nights. As soon as he was well enough to walk, he was pointed in the direction of the door. Then came some encouraging news: the local authority’s rough sleepers’ team had managed to secure George an inpatient detox. He’d have to wait a few weeks, but this time, after patching him up, they would also secure him some form of temporary accommodation, and then he’d have at least a hand on the ladder back into ordinary society. An ordinary society in which the bailiffs were already waiting for George with a view to collecting £4,000 in unpaid debts – because nowadays, no matter how stony broke someone is, the presumption remains that there’s blood to be squeezed from them.

On the day he went into the rehab facility I breathed a sigh of relief – but that evening I spotted the bowed and Buddhistic figure back under the cashpoint. Within hours of being admitted, George had got into a scrap with another client and been discharged, with the rider that he was not to be admitted to any London detox facility.

The good news is that today George does have another place secured at a facility; but now he’ll be heading to the West Country for a full three months of rehab – if, that is, he can hold out for another three weeks on the streets of Lambeth. This week, with my assistance, he’s gone to visit his sister in Liverpool – another child of the oxymoronic “care system” who, unsurprisingly, seems to have all the same issues as George, with this exception: she is at least housed. Why? Because she has a child, although, if George’s account is to be believed, she has some difficulties in looking after him. I get the impression that drink is often taken.

***

What does the sorry – and, some might say, drab – tale of George tell us? That the housing crisis in Britain is intractable seems a given, so long as planning policy is rigged, in effect, in favour of unscrupulous developers and the bourgeois buy-to-let bandits. The rising tide of neoliberalism in the past quarter-century (which I can’t help visualising as a vomitous tsunami coursing along London’s gutters) has had this psychic sequel: individuals no longer connect their dream of home ownership with anyone else’s.

We Britons are once-and-future Mr Wemmicks, firing our toy guns from our suburban battlements at anyone who dares to do anything in our backyards aimed at improving the commonwealth. Dickens wasn’t just the creator of the nimby avant la lettre; he also understood George’s predicament. In his celebrated long essay Night Walks, he describes a condition he terms “the Dry Rot in men”: a progressive deterioration in capabilities that leads inexorably to “houselessness” or the debtors’ prison. These are the Victorian values that contemporary Britain still vigorously upholds; yet it need not have been this way.

Reading The Autonomous City: a History of Urban Squatting, a new book by Alexander Vasudevan, put me back in touch with my youth during the 1970s and early 1980s, when to go equipped with a crowbar and a screwdriver in order to “open” a squat was regarded as the righteous contemporary equivalent of the Paris Commune or Mao’s Long March. The role of squatting in uniting those intent on pursuing what were then deemed “alternative lifestyles” (being gay, non-white or – gasp! – a feminist) with established working-class agitations for improved housing conditions was due for appraisal; Vasudevan observes that remarkably little has been published on the subject, but he makes good the deficiency with his carefully researched and discursive study.

Squatting has a long history – you could go back as far as Gerrard Winstanley and his 17th-century Diggers – but it is worth remembering that in the London of the mid-1970s there were at least 50,000 squatters and probably a great deal more. The squats could be terrifying and anarchic places; I remember them well. But they were also often havens for women and children fleeing domestic abuse and places where people afflicted with the Dickensian ‘‘Dry Rot’’ could at least find shelter. Moreover, as Vasudevan amply demonstrates, the squats were cynosures for experiments in autonomous living: hence the book’s title.

Squatting provided a buffer zone between the realm of commoditised place and space and utter houselessness, but over the past forty years this has been progressively encroached on, as squatters either made their peace with local authorities and were offered tenancies of one kind or another, or faced, in effect, criminalisation. A series of punitive measures, beginning in the 1970s, culminated in a law being passed in 2012 that for the first time made it an offence to squat in a residential building in the UK.

In This Is London: Life and Death in the World City, published last year, Ben Judah painted a compelling picture of the human crumbs being brushed from the stony skirts of the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street: with nowhere to squat any longer and space at a premium as never before, London’s houseless are being driven on to the streets, while migrant workers from eastern Europe “hot-bed” in Zone 5 dosshouses. Meanwhile I sit typing this in my one-bedroom ex-council flat, which I rent for the princely sum of £1,350 per month.

On my return to London from university in 1982, I – a single man, no less – was offered a council flat. Granted, this was on the old Greater London Council “mobility scheme”, which aimed to match not particularly deserving tenants with substandard housing stock, but there it was: an actual flat in a 22-storey, system-built block in Cubitt Town on the Isle of Dogs. The rent, as far as I can recall, was about £40 a month.

Now George begs beneath the NatWest cashpoint opposite Stockwell Tube, while my Cubitt Town flat is long gone, demolished to make way for the burgeoning Canary Wharf development and the multi­national financial services companies it now houses. Space and place have become so comprehensively monetised in contemporary London that a begging pitch can acquire a rental value.

I have never asked George if he pays for his pitch; I do hope not, because shortly before heading off to Liverpool he told me he had been served with an antisocial behaviour order, banning him from going within 200 metres of the cashpoint. I couldn’t make it up – and I’ve been publishing fiction for nigh on thirty years. 

Will Self is an author and journalist. His books include Umbrella, Shark, The Book of Dave and The Butt. He writes the Madness of Crowds and Real Meals columns for the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 22 June 2017 issue of the New Statesman, The zombie PM

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