The world of espionage, we have been given to understand, is drab, sordid, and lumpenbourgeois. Base motives dominate, vile acts are common, and agents bespeak cynicism and weariness. This is the tradition of spy fiction, developed long ago by masters like Conrad. It is also, however, no more than a milieu, and in spying it is important not to be misled by appearances.

Spies deceive, and the fictions a spy novelist writes are deceptions about deceivers. Subterfuge is the business of the art, and John le Carre's political teaching is a good deal subtler than many critics imagine. It is not true, for example, that le Carre's heroes are—as Michael Wood described them—all “glum, deceived…[and] tired of spying.” In fact, George Smiley's people yearn for the harness. “Thank you,” Otto Leipzig tells the widow Ostrakova, who sets the plot in motion, “for calling me to arms.” General Vladimir, the old emigre, almost races to his doom.