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His destination was a tavern full of barrels at the bottom of Fleet Street. It may have been late for a pre-lunch aperitif in another area, but when Smiley gently pushed the door in, he saw a dozen hazy figures turning their heads from the bar counter to look at him. At a table in the corner, Jerry Westerbay sits with a large glass of pink gin, as inconspicuous as the fake plastic vault or the counterfeit musket on the wall.

"Dude," said Jerry Westerbay shyly, his voice coming out of the ground, "I can't imagine you." Hi Jimmy! He pressed Smiley's shoulder with one hand and hit the ...... with the other

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