Original subtitles

You'll get some of that stuff.

Hello, comrade.

Hello, tovarich.

The rest of the KGB listening in, Grigor?

This is an arrangement based on trust, tovarich.

Mutual trust.

The KGB respects such trust.

Thank you.

Skopjleff is becoming an embarrassment to MI6, Grigor.

They'll have to jump him soon. He's too obvious.

And he's got some hefty bills outstanding in Soho.

Third Secretary Skopjleff will be going back to Moscow immediately.

Otherwise, we'll have the CIA poking their noses in.

What a circus.

All dust and shadows like something out of a third man. That was on last week.

Tuesday, late-night movie. That?

Yeah, well, that might have been the scene 30 years ago in Berlin,

but this is the middle of bloody London.

This dust gets right up my ute. Plays well with my sinus, doesn't it? Vienna.

What? It was Vienna. Joseph Cotton and Orson Welles.

What's the name of that bird? I don't know. Elida Pally.

A British trade delegate lost his passport in Moscow five days ago.

I can get that sort of information from FO circulars. We believe it was stolen.

We are having the hotel staff interrogated. His name is Williams.

George Henry Williams.

It's the same every time, Yashinkov.

I pass you good stuff and I get rubbish in return.

Well, ask me for something, Tovarich.

Anything.

Mutual trust.

All right.

Moscow.

And Thomas Darby.

Well, well, well, talking as a third bloody man.

Darby?

Thomas Darby.

One of our old judices.

Ghosts?

You want me to tell you about ghosts, tovarich?

What can I say to you that you don't already know?

He has been a Soviet citizen for the past 20 years.

He lives quietly in Moscow, inactive.

He's retired.

And no one's seen him for some days. He's dropped

out of sight. A sick, tired old man.

Our people say he's no longer in Moscow, so where is he?

I've heard nothing.

All I know is that he's ill.

Go on.

All right.

Thomas Darby is dying.

Perhaps he has only a few months left to live.

When it happens, you can read his obituary in Pravda. He's not in Moscow.

Your agents know more than the KGB, tovarich? It's no job.

Well, if there's nothing else...

Nothing.

Liverpool for the Kop.

Duh.

Keep taking the pills.

Until the next time, Dovaric.

The washout, don't it, sir?

Far from it.

It didn't seem to me like you were getting much. No, it's all a charade, Bodie.

It's what they don't say that matters.

And, uh, what didn't he say this time, sir? Fornell, McNaught, and Tom Darby.

The arch defectors 20 years ago, remember?

Oh, no, you were still in your nappies.

Fernell is dead, McNaught's round the loop, but Tom Darby was always the big one.

Colonel, KGB, undercover since his university days. Hardcore double agent,

top man on our own Section 9, SIS.

Defected from Syria, and all hell broke loose.

Blew out half a dozen of our major networks.

I had been out of nappies quite some time, sir. Lives in Moscow, nice pension,

and the days of wine and roses long gone. I was at school, third form. Wrong.

I was junior school.

1950... Darby's left Moscow, a dying man,

but he still hankers after the wine and roses, or something.

He's on the run, and he's carrying a British passport under the name of Williams.

Lewis, did you get it all?

Fine.

So where is Darby running to? Where do you think?

Here. He's got nowhere else to go. Has Shinkov told

you all that? More or less, Bodhi, more or less.

He brought the subject round to Moscow.

He wanted to make sure I knew about Darby.

Bodie, get C.I. to make copies of the latest

photo of Thomas Darby they've got on file.

Issue them to every member of the squad, and when you three get yours, study them.

Get to know every line on Darby's face.

If you've finished, sir, do you think I might?

Of course, of course.

Thank you.

Missed yours today.

Yes.

Today and quite some days past.

Holiday?

Abroad?

No.

Not a holiday, but I have been abroad, working.

Good to be home.

I don't know yet. It's been a long time.

Passport in the name of George Henry Williams.

That's right.

Did they tag him?

No.

Oh, he won't get within 100 miles of him, no.

He's in.

Darby came in through Dover, the car ferry.

Press got a hold of it? No, and they're not going to.

I put a red clothes down on it.

For one tired old spy? That tired old spy could topple a government,

start a feral massacre and bring a lot of maggots crawling out of the woodwork.

Well, it must be an embarrassment to Yashinkov and the KGB. They'd want him back.

Oh, they'd want him dead.

And there's a handful of ex-SIS men, agents

he blew up, people with long, ugly memories.

They'd be after his blood.

And there's a fourth man.

Aye, the fourth man.

Who's he? I've made a dozen guesses. Maybe all

wrong. A lot of speculation, nothing positive.

The banker, the fellow who stayed behind, the fellow who financed everything.

Thought to be rich, influential, pillar of the establishment.

Powerful, respectable.

Keeping his secret from everyone and still here.

He oiled the cogs for the three of them 20 years ago, and with good, clean money.

He underwrote every operation, every payoff,

every expense to the tune of hundreds of thousands of pounds.

Darby knows who he is?

Right. Well, even if Darby wasn't dying, his life wouldn't be worth a bent penny.

Right again. And personally, I don't care.

But we've still got to find him before anyone else does.

Because I want to know why the hell he's taken it into his head to come back here.

And I want to know who the fourth man is.

Sir Howell Mortimer, stockbroker, chairman of Howell, Hughes and Featherstone,

retired in 1963, lives in St Albans.

Had many meetings with Thomas Derby on numerous occasions,

right up until Derby's defection.

Mrs Eileen Pearce, widow.

Her husband was killed in the Spanish Civil War

fighting with the International Brigade.

He was politically active, but there was nothing in her.

Believed to be a distant cousin of Darby's, but there's a query against that.

Eileen Pearce saw a lot of him in the years up to his defection.

Said to be living in Highgate now.

Address is on file.

London's quite crowded, eh?

Yes, tourists.

Arabs spending some of that black gold.

Good job we've got some of our own.

What?

Oil.

Good job we've got our own.

Oh, yeah.

Right Honourable Paul Cantwell, ex-Cabinet Minister, now retired.

Still active in the business world, still a millionaire.

Was seen more than once or twice in Derby's company.

Did not re-contest his seat in the election following Derby's defection.

Arthur Pulford, solicitor in a small way, saw very little of Darby,

but there is a connection.

Pulford was his lawyer and also the lawyer of Eileen Pearce.

May or may not be significant.

Nothing else known.

He tailed O'Leary from the airport.

Looks like he got too close.

I found this in the jacket pocket.

Know London well, sir?

Very well.

Live in the country?

Yes.

Which part, sir?

What?

In the country.

Hearts.

Parkfordshire.

Well, I bet you have a Victoria.

Yes, sir.

I've been visiting.

Friends.

Brigadier James Bernard Staden, known as Brigadier S,

a latterly controller SIS, head of Section 4.

It was Brigadier Staden who recruited Tom Darby into the SIS in 1942,

remained at his immediate superior up until Darby's defection.

Officially retired, but believed still active

as consultant to counterintelligence section.

One of these is the banker, the fourth man.

Probably.

You've included yourself in the list of suspects.

Of course. Some of my colleagues still think it's me. The files had to be complete.

Do you think it's me, Carly?

No.

Of all the men in London, I'm the one that Darby would keep farthest away from.

When he defected, he left my section in shreds. He destroyed a lot of good men.

I'd kill him, but for other reasons.

You must have a favourite among this lot. Politician,

stockbroker, peer of the realm?

Not really.

I need to know, Brigadier.

Darby's floating around somewhere, and if the banker gets to him... Fool,

he should have stayed in Moscow.

Sentimentality is a mortal handicap for spies. Sentimentality?

Anyway, those files are not up to date.

The last CI check was a month ago. Eileen Pierce is dead.

She died last Tuesday week.

Natural causes.

I like to keep my finger on the pulse of things.

That was ten days ago. Darby was still in Moscow. Now he's here. Oh,

too much of a coincidence.

Darby came back because Eileen Pierce died.

Who was she?

I'm not the banker. I'm not Darby's cousin, either.

His mistress?

Lovely old-fashioned turn of phrase, isn't it?

Oh, well, Darby was human. She was very attractive.

He knew her husband, met him in Spain when

Darby was active with the Iberian section.

Politically naive.

Darby wouldn't come back just to mourn at Arlene Pearce's

grave. Sentimentality. Not enough.

Together, they compounded an unforeseen mystic.

What the devil does that mean?

They had a child. It was an occupational hazard

for mistresses in the days before the pill.

Eileen Pierce gave birth to a baby girl some 20 years ago.

Name of Helen Pierce. Darby came back to see his daughter.

Sentimentality.

It's a cardinal sin, especially for traitors. Find her and we find him.

Not difficult. She lives in Lewisham somewhere.

Who else knows?

Most of you are suspects. The banker certainly does, and the KGB, of course.

If he goes to her, he's dead.

I'd say so.

But if Darby is due, he's a pro. At least he was.

Maybe senility and sentimentality breed carelessness.

Thank you, Brigadier.

Oh, please.

I like to give you new boys all the help I can. It's just like old times,

with Darby hell-bent on stirring things up again.

Good hunting.

Thank you.

Just like old times.

Is that you, Sorensen?

Stanton here.

Yes, Stanton.

I thought you and some of the others might like

to know that Darby is back. Thomas Darby.

That's right.

Probably here in London.

Oh, yes.

Yes, I'll tell them.

Yes, thank you. Thank you, sir.

Fortunately, we got a call from CI Central to say that Liam O'Leary came in.

O'Leary, the jackal of Dublin. Yeah,

they said they had him safely tabbed and followed by

their duty man at the airport, this man Forrester.

He was recently transferred from military intelligence.

They would have given him a proper brief, only

they were a little bit busy, you know.

At about the same time, Pietro Calinari came in from

Amsterdam. Another jackal, like dogs around a boon.

Anyway, Forrester took it on his own initiative

to jump O'Leary. Didn't do much good.

Took two in the chest.

O'Leary took off out the window.

At least he left his gear behind.

Lewis came in after Central made their second report.

We got in before CID and found that in O'Leary's jacket. Target photo.

Anyone else see it? No, sir.

Thank God for small mercies.

The bankers bringing them in.

He's the only one who could afford the most expensive hitmen in Europe.

So where is Calinari? Lost. He gave the CI men the slip in Tottenacourt Road.

All this for Derby. It has to be more than just sentimentality.

Got Helen Pearce's address.

Yeah, low rental area, she must be pretty hard up.

I've got somebody watching the place. She there?

I want you two watching the place.

I want to know when Helen Pierce gets back, the moment she gets back.

I want to know the instant Darby shows up, or O'Leary, or Kalanari,

or Yashinkov's heavies. And Uncle Tom Cobbley. Or anyone.

You said something about dust, Bodhi. Well, that's right, 20-year-old dust,

but it's lethal. It can still choke you to death.

Ask him.

Was it Forrester?

I knew him.

Then you knew a bloody fool.

Not a very pleasant place to drop you, sir.

Still, we've all got to go sometime.

Thank you for a pleasant journey.

You're changed, sir.

You keep it.

Oh, thank you, sir.

Good luck, sir.

Yes?

I love Elsa.

Still translating?

Russian folk tales.

Why translate when you could write your own?

What about the Official Secrets Act?

Change the names to protect the innocent.

If you come to reminisce, I would rather not.

Better memories.

Better enough.

We have a visitor.

Tom Darby.

You're going too?

Yes.

Matter of honour, I think.

Hello, hello.

I'm sorry.

Do I know you?

You?

The prodigal father.

Keep looking at your mother's grave, please.

Please try to act normally.

I'm sorry if I gave you a shock.

Normally?

There wasn't any easy way of getting in touch with you.

There wasn't any way of warning you.

You appear from nowhere after 20 years and say, act normally.

How did you get here?

Old tricks and good luck.

Do the authorities know you're back?

Probably. You're in danger. It doesn't really matter.

Yes, it does.

I'm all right.

I still have an instinct for these things.

I've been very careful.

I can still make myself invisible.

It's an act.

Father.

An owned talent.

I wonder just how good they were. Who?

The whole brigade.

Spies that came in from the cold, Brigadier Staden's mob.

Those old dark corners, back alleys, grey dust.

Cowley reckons they were good. He was just starting, then.

Never send a boy and a man's errand, they'll pinch his bike.

George Cowley, words of wisdom, chapter one.

You know, Cowley came in just after Darby went missing,

which means Darby pinched his bike.

Yeah, and I wish Cowley had stayed right where he was.

He knows this general surveillance gets right up my nose. Relax.

I lift my mind onto a higher transcendental plane.

Yeah.

Like who won the 230 at Haydock.

I've just had a very nasty thought. Forgot to phone your bookie.

Somebody ought to go and check that place.

Oh, the Pierce place? Yeah.

She's not in.

Lewis said. I know she's not in,

but it doesn't mean to say there's not somebody waiting for her inside. Well,

Cowley said nothing about turning the place

over. Calinari and O'Leary are pros, mate.

They're not just going to walk up and down in broad daylight, are they?

Somebody's got to go and check.

Cool.

Heads.

Tails.

Oh, well, I bet Flirty Gert wasn't even placed.

Two bleeps, if anyone shows, OK?

For God's sake, try and stay awake, will you? Boil.

Yeah.

Bloody good.

Yeah. 25 to 1.

I've got a tip.

It would be quite understandable if you despised me, Helen.

How can I despise you?

I don't understand what you did or why you did it, but I couldn't hate you for it.

Then nothing else matters.

I hope your mother understood.

My mother loved you up until the moment she died.

Did she have pain?

No.

She died in her sleep.

Did she ever speak to you about a solicitor, someone who looked after her affairs?

Yes.

It was the same person?

Yes, I suppose so. There wasn't much for him to do, ever,

but he looked after things for over 20 years.

Good.

I cannot wear him.

No, I'm afraid not.

Thomas Darby is dying.

Perhaps he has only a few more months to live.

When it happens, you can read his obituary in Pravda.

Playing it pretty close to his chest is really

only giving you the bare bones. I know that.

He's saying that if a bullet doesn't finish Darby soon enough, his heart will.

So he's come home to die, prompted by the death of his mistress,

and the need to see his forgotten love child. That's more than that.

Taste a pint of bitter again, see an oak tree and leaf, walk a country lane? More.

Does it matter? Yes.

Maybe you're right. I know damn well I'm right.

You read this, I suppose? Thomas Darby's book.

You read Spy at Night? Yes, I've read it.

You know, most people have. It was a bestseller.

It doesn't tell us anything we don't know already. That's right.

It's supposed to be a big expose. It turned out to be a damp squid.

Some people say it was written by a bunch of trapped-up journalists.

Still, it sold a few million, enough to make Darby a fortune.

But it didn't.

Royalties, those they bothered to collect, would all have gone to the state.

So?

Enough to make a man sour.

Still not reason enough. The book's written, that's history.

Yes, it's not the book he could have written. Probably did write...

What do you mean? His own records, his diaries,

his own story, the truth, the whole chronicle.

Naming real names, real places, real proof.

Enough to blow every facet of the establishment sky high.

That's the book Red Spy at night should have been.

A second book.

Somewhere, naming real names like that of the banker.

It'd be worth a fortune.

Oh, he'd never get it published. Not here.

But foreign publishers would jump at it.

Swiss, French, Dutch, Dynamite.

They'd pay a fortune for it. Anything he'd care to ask.

Enough to keep Helen Pearson comfort for the rest of her life.

I need to watch Cal.

This'll tell us when someone gets worried. How do we

get out? Look, don't worry. Too many close shaves.

I had the close shave, me lad.

And for the money we're getting, I'll take on anything they throw.

Maybe he hasn't contacted her, and she knows nothing.

Look, don't worry.

I'll get something out of her. Now, don't worry about it.

Yes, that would bring Darby back a bequest to his daughter.

Sell it to a foreign publisher, deed the royalties to her, then die in peace.

And blow another hundred scurrying away.

A second manuscript. Stirring it up even from the grave.

His mistress, Eileen Pearce.

She'd be the only one he could trust it with.

And she's dead.

One squeak, one twitch.

You know something, Helen Pierce?

A couple of dozen places in the human body where a bullet I know them all.

What do you want?

You know what I want, Helen. Just two scraps of information.

Now look. I don't know what you want.

I've no time for messing, Helen. No time at all. Now look.

Where's your father at this moment? Come on, now, tell me.

And where's his papers hidden? Because they're not here.

We've searched the place. Now, where are they?

Come on, Helen.

Now, look.

Where is Thomas Dyke?

You can and you will.

Oh, my God, you leave him alone. He's an old man. He's ill.

He... Quiet!

Oh, he's... We're at the back, so he's waiting for me to sting him.

Do you hear that, Kalinari? Yes.

Hurry it up, will you?

I want to know how he got out of here. Have you got the manuscript with him?

I don't know anything about anybody's Christmas, and God, I don't. Oh, God.

Cover the back!

Oh, Leary's around here somewhere. He's got the girl.

Darby's at the back. How about the Italian?

He's out of it for the time being.

Now, easy, lads, easy. You don't have nothing to lose. You'll get about 100 yards.

You're in the middle of London.

100 yards, you say?

We'll have to see, won't we? It's all over, chum.

Oh, not by a long choke, it isn't.

Come on!

Now, keep your distance or I'll blow her head off, all right? Lewis!

Darby's out the back somewhere.

Okay. Come on.

Come on.

Hello, Tom.

Sorensen.

Nice of you to remember.

I think of you, too.

Every time there's a bloody chill in the air.

You know the routine?

Get in.

Taking the pills, comrade.

Liverpool for the cup.

Da.

Beautiful.

Beautiful, isn't it?

The whole operation turned from a viable proposition

into an utter shambles in the space of a few hours.

What sort of story do you think I'm going to concoct for the police?

How do I keep this out of the damn newspapers, eh?

I thought a full clampdown... Thought?

What bloody thought? You've never had a decent thought between you.

Half the street saw Leary dragging Helen Pierce away.

Well, we've got Kalanari. As long as we've got him,

the shrinks will get something out of him. When he went through that window door,

the glass made a fair job in his throat.

He won't be doing any talking for months if he happens to live.

If it hadn't been for Yashinkov's hatchet, man.

I mean, we didn't expect... Then you should have done.

Yashinkov had to protect the banker.

For all we know, Yashinkov probably set up the whole thing.

He would be somewhere on the sidelines, had to be. Well,

we could have tailed O'Leary. And then what?

He's not going to blaze a trail for us.

Or did you expect him to lead you by the hand right up to the banker's front door?

And what about Darby? Where the devil is he now?

And his blasted manuscript? A shambles! It's a complete and utter shambles.

We're not the only ones who've lost Darby.

O'Leary's lost him, too.

All he can go after now is the manuscript.

The car they took Darby away in, did you get a line on it?

Yes, sir. It's registered owner is someone called Sorenson, Martin Sorenson,

retired civil servant. Sorenson?

Yes, sir, and I got his address. He lives in Fulham. Grey mousy wee man?

Yes.

You know him, sir?

Yes, I know him.

More of your dust, Bodie.

Martin Sorensen's an ex-SIS man, one of Brigadier Staden's old mob.

One of the many agents Tom Darby put the finger on when he defected.

The KGB rounding him up gave him hell.

We exchanged him at the Berlin Wall 15 years ago.

He was in hospital for 18 months afterwards.

You can imagine how he feels about Thomas Darby.

I entered the service when I was 19.

I've been a serving officer of the KGB all my adult life.

But you carry no wounds, Tarby.

You recognize our driver?

No, I don't suppose so. She looked very different when you were her controller.

Long blonde hair.

Slim. Lovely.

But now she aches.

Just like me.

Who is she?

Just another name.

Just another victim. Picked her up in East Germany. She was at a safe house,

she and two others, when they came for her.

A house you had organized.

Oh, my God.

Elsa. Elsa Coram. That's right.

The other two were executed in Canberra.

She spent two years in the Dresden Interrogation Center.

She never talks about what they did to her.

We're an exclusive little club, those of us who survive.

We always think of you as our founder.

We might never hear of Thomas Darby again, never.

Sorensen could bury him deeper than a coal mine.

Not even Yashinkov and an army of Ivans or O'Leary

and a battalion of hitmen would ever find him,

and that would be awkward.

Execution?

Well, Sorensen's not going to be playing tiddlywinks with him, is he?

So for the moment, we concentrate on finding

O'Leary and Helen Pierce. Where do we begin?

The office of Arthur Pulford's solicitor.

He's the only other connection between Darby and Helen's dead mother, Eileen Pearce.

They were both clients of Pulford's,

so it's logical to assume that Pulford is handling Eileen Pearce's estate.

It's possible that he would have all her papers and documents,

including anything Darby may have left with her for safekeeping.

The daughter probably knows all about Pulford.

Sooner or later, O'Leary would get his name and address out of her.

I'm fond of a bet, Helen.

I like a wager when the odds are right.

And I'll bet there's a fortune in that box.

And I'm not in currency, you understand, but it's worth a devil of a lot to someone.

Let's have a look in here.

Bless your dear, dead mother, Helen.

She's not let us down, eh?

You know, it's a great gift, being able to write.

Maybe he hasn't arrived yet. That's what we said last time. Yeah.

You know it's going to be tight in there, don't you?

Like a spinster's girdle, mate.

Ooh, ooh, ooh.

O'Leary?

Both dead, sir.

That's Helen Pearce. She's pretty shaken.

You've got a knack for stating the obvious, Woody.

Yeah, well, if you read through that, you should find the name of your banker.

No need for that. He'll not be far away. Eh?

He'll want to get his hands on this as quickly as possible.

He wouldn't risk O'Leary having to carry it halfway around London.

Miss Pearce.

I don't know.

Where's my father?

Not for sure. I can make a guess, but that's all it would be.

He's very ill.

He's dying.

Yes, I know that.

Look, all he wanted was... And I know exactly what he wanted.

But we'll get to all that soon enough.

He's paid for all he's done.

There's something I must know, Miss Pearce,

that's desperately important, believe me.

Did he make a phone call after he found the manuscript?

What?

Did O'Leary make a phone call?

Yes.

Did he mention the person's name he was calling?

Well, did you hear anything he said?

I can't remember.

Try, try hard, please.

He said... He said he'd got it.

Yes.

And whoever it was he was talking to should come and get it. He'd meet him outside.

I... I can't remember any more.

That's enough.

Is it?

The banker is no more than a stone's throw away,

waiting for O'Leary to deliver that manuscript into his hands.

We're looking for a big expensive car with a VIP sitting in it.

The Right Honourable Paul Cantwell, I believe.

I have a message for you from Lyam O'Leary.

I'm afraid he can't make it.

Neither can Pietro Calinari otherwise detain.

Don't worry, though, the manuscript is safe.

I've got it.

All right, you know where to take him.

I'm sorry I can't come with you, sir.

I have to go and look for Thomas Darby.

We didn't kill him, Cowley.

His heart.

You would have killed him.

I don't know.

I suppose we intended to.

He was such a pathetic wreck.

And it all happened a long time ago, eh?

Ask Sorensen here, or Elsa Korn, or any of the others.

I'll have him taken away.

Thank you.

No need for me to ask for your silence.

None at all.

Was there a manuscript, Carly?

Yes.

Where is it?

Where do you think?

No use asking if I could read it, I suppose.

None at all.

Makes you a very powerful man, Carly.

Guardian of a thousand secrets.

Aye.

And don't you forget it, Brigadier.

Hello, comrade.

Hello, Tovarich.

A lot has happened since we last met.

It would seem so.

There's the body of a dead man in this box.

Colonel Thomas Darby, perhaps?

Yes.

There's no record of his visit to London.

Good.

If you can get him back unseen to Moscow, it can be arranged.

The news of Comrade Colonel Thomas Darby's death

will be released sometime next week by Pravda.

I imagine so.

I think you will find that he died the next Monday.

I look forward to reading his obituary.

Were there any papers or documents?

None.

I understand. I hope so, Grigor.

Is there any more business?

Yes, I'm delivering someone to your embassy tomorrow morning,

a passenger for the next available Aeroflot flight to Moscow.

Who is that?

Comrade the Right Honourable Paul Cantwell.

He is never to return to the United Kingdom.

Very well.

He's not very keen on going,

but I'm sure you'll make him feel comfortable and at home.

I understand the food at Lublenka has improved considerably in the last few years.

You should come over sometime, tovarich, and try it.

Oh, I doubt if I'll get the opportunity, Grigor.

Pity.

Will that be all?

That's all.

Hi.

Next time we ram your bloody car.

Up the Moscow dynamos.

Until the next time, tovarich.

Dust. It's right up my uter.