Signing off

It's Christmas day. The turkey was dry. Cranberry sauce way too sweet. Not sure about you, but for me Christmas day is, more often than not, a disappointment. Not really. We don't celebrate Christmas. No turkey, no tree no cranberry sauce. Actually, just back from my first run since completing my 1,000km. The Heath is still completely covered in snow. Lovely.

Anyway, as promised, before I sign off on this blog, there is only one thing left to do - share with you my predictions for the New Year.

You see, after foreseeing the drop in the price of oil below $70 when all the "experts" said it was heading toward $210 per barrel and, more significantly, anticipating that Carla Bruni (aka Mrs Sarkozy) will take a lover in 2009, my annual forecasts have become a thing of legend. As accurate as those of Macbeth's witches. As thought provoking as Wittgenstein's Tractatus Philosophicus. As exciting as the launch of the latest vintage of Beaujolais. An event which many are waiting for from the moment the days start getting shorter.

So, after the hyperbolic, and by-no-means-truthful introduction, here goes: my predictions for 2011:

Economics & Business:

1) Irving Picard, entrusted to recoup the money Madoff burnt, will recover $5bn from HSBC and $15bn in total
2) Spanish government bonds will rise to 7%
3) BP will sell its US downstream business to protect its US drilling rights
4) Oracle will acquire a major hardware storage business
5) A Chinese website will become the world's 2nd largest social network site and IPO to raise $10bn
6) UK GDP will grow by 3.7%; US GDP will grow by 4.3%

Culture:

1) Social Network to win Best Picture at the Oscars; Leonardo De Caprio will win Best Actor
2) J.K. Rowling will announce a new Harry Potter book
3) Titian's The Madonna and Child with Saints Luke and Catherine of Alexandria will sell for $50m in auction - currently expected to raise $15m-$20m
4) Matthew Weiner will announce that the 5th series of Mad Men is the last, making it the last non-interactive major TV drama series

Sports:

1) The amounts FIFA members received as bribe to vote for Russia and Qatar for 2018 & 2022 respectively will be revealed - >$100,000 each
2) Arsenal will win the Premier League (no laughing please - it's not that they are so good but that the others are equally bad)
3) Real Madrid will win the Champions' Leauge; Jose Murinho will accept his medal with modesty and humility (ha ha ha) and Cristiano Ronaldo will stop looking at himself in the mirror (ho ho ho)
4) Chelsea will fire Carlo Ancelotti and will replace him with Guus Hiddink (not a long-shot by any measure)
5) Roger Federer will regain No. 1 spot (BTW Andy Murray will not win a Grand Slam)

Gossip:

1) Katie Holmes will leave husband Tom Cruise and expose him as gay
2) Gwyneth Paltrow will announce she is pregnant
3) Carla Bruni will admit to having an affair in 2009, thereby vindicating my forecast
4) David Beckham will admit to having a child out of wedlock

News & Politics:

1) The Coalition will last; David Cameron and Nick Clegg will announce they are in love
2) Vince Cable will resign from the government (more likely even than Ancelotti losing his job)
3) Israel & the Palestinians will announce (another) failed peace initiative
4) The US will capture Osama bin Laden or, at least, prove he is dead
5) Obama's approval ratings will top 50%; Sarah Palin will announce she is standing for President in 2012 (the latter admittedly obvious)
6) NATO will strike a deal with the Taliban

I will consider anything less than 20/25 a major failure.

Many thanks to all of you who found time to read this blog. I had a great time writing it. Hope you enjoyed the reading.

Signing off.

1,000km down. 0km to go.

Finally, after exactly 50 weeks, I set out for my final run toward the illusive target I set myself - 1,000km in 2010. Like Rubber Duck in Sam Peckinpah's Convoy I was joined half way through by Pig Pen aka UJ and toward the final stretch by Spider Mike aka MGF N. The convoy finally crossed the Mexican border where MGF T and MBH, standing in for Ali MacGraw, were waiting for us with ice cold fizzy to celebrate.

A great sense of achievement. No anti-climax. Couldn't have timed it better - the finale of the weekend! The X-Factor final has been over-shadowed [delusions of grandeur are part of the game].

And now, with the challenge met, I am almost ready to sign off - this is my penultimate blog-post. I will write another next week with my by-now-traditional forecasts for the coming year.

So, for now, adieu, adios, arrivederci, auf wiedersehen and au revoir.

My friend Carl used to say . . . .

My good friend Carl Philipp Gottlieb von Clausewitz used to say that attack is the best form of defence. He didn't really, although until a few minutes ago I was convinced he did. Shows you how much I know. He said a much more profound thing, that war is merely a political instrument, not a break from political relations. Not going to bore you with that though.

Actually, the concept of pre-emptive strike originated, in all likelihood, in America - it appears already in the writings of George Washington. In 1967 Israel executed it to perfection. Nasser, the Egyptian president, expelled the UN forces from the Sinai and blocked the Straits of Tiran which are, for Israel, a vital supply route. Israel acted decisively, thoroughly defeating its enemies/neighbours in less than a week. I guess that's why they call it the Six-Day-War? A very successful pre-emptive strike resulted in hubris, 43 years of occupation (and counting) and with it the complete loss of the moral high-ground.

It isn't only an American-Israeli thing though, pre-emptive strike. As we've learnt a couple of weeks ago thanks to Wikileaks, the Saudi King thought it wasn't a bad idea either. King Abdullah didn't mince his words:"Cut off the head of the snake" he suggested to the Americans referring to Iran. I guess having someone else do your pre-emptive strikes for you is advantageous - you will not be the one your enemy will retaliate against. Clever.

Clever also is MGF S. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . we invited S&M and the kids for breakfast this morning. 10am we said. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . I went out for a run at 8:30am on a Saturday to ensure I was back and showered by the time they got here. I was. Not that I'd like to dwell on it but . . . they arrived, after much prodding I might add, at 11:40am. Exclamation marks galore.

Now, you'd expect S to be a bit sheepish, slightly apologetic or maybe even remorseful, wouldn't you? November Foxtrot Whiskey. Coming from the Washingtonian school of thought she stormed in, slapped a cake on the table and announced: "I baked you a cake, now don't ask me to apologise any more!" At least, unlike King A, she didn't send someone else to do it for her.

PS 990km down. Only 10km to go.

The misty Heath (5)

She stepped into the room without hesitancy. Without indecision. Without compunction. Tall and elegant on her high heals. Her long hair resting on her slender shoulders. Her cashmere scarf. She looked so different. Last time Smiley saw her she was confused and fragile. Now she was composed and in control. She carefully folded the corner of his blanket and sat at the edge of Smiley's bed, resting her hand gently on his thigh. It has been a long time since a young woman did that. He was a young man then. Her touch awakening in him feelings he thought he would never again experience. "How are you, Uncle Max?" she said. "Do you want another pillow?" Her smile was warm and caring. Her Swiss (not French) accent only adding to her allure. Tatiana.

He was at her mercy. How the tables have turned. She was here for revenge and this time she would be serving it cold. No more a stranger unloading a bullet to the back of the head. She was toying with him. Her kind words disguising the cruelty of her intentions. Just like his did in Bern.

And still, his pulse was slow, his breathing deep. No sweaty palms. No dry mouth. His mind not racing to find an escape. For more than 60 years Smiley has lived under a cloud of uncertainty. Always knowing the unexpected is around the corner. He no longer remembered whether he chose it or whether he merely found himself in it - a life in the shadows, outside the accepted moral framework. A life in which one is never safe, in which scores are never settled. A life of constant tension, sometimes heightened but mostly subdued. A life without calm. And yet now, facing his demise, Smiley felt he was being overcome with serenity.

He did not feel angry. He did not feel defeated. He had no more questions. He was right; it was personal. He did not lose at his own game, to an adversary. He lost because it was personal, because he could never anticipate the workings of the heart. Ask Ann. He could rest, his professional esteem intact.

More than serene; Smiley was grateful. Unknowingly Tatiana has given his departure a purpose. He couldn't have planned it better. His timely death would give her the relief she deserved. No longer used to humiliate her father. No longer carrying the burden of his downfall on her slender shoulders. By extracting her revenge on Smiley she has set them both free.

PS 980km down. Only 20km to go!

The misty Heath (4)

Smiley was at a loss. There was a limit to what he could unveil from his hospital bed; he needed Peter Guillam. Deduction can only take one so far. Catching the assailants will lead to the person who sent them; muscle must be met by muscle and when it comes to muscle there is no one better than Guillam.

He knew he needed Guillam. At the same time, he realised that he hasn't heard from Peter for years. Could it be that Peter did not know? Could he not have heard? Smiley would expect a visit. Peter is not a man of words. But he would have expected him to do something. He would have expected him to track the assassin down and bring back his head on a plate. Could it be? Could Guillam have anything to do with it? At least with Peter, he knew, what you see is what you get. Once he sees him he'd know.

Guillam arrived within an hour of receiving the PC's call. How old he looked. For Smiley Peter was always the youngster. He must be in his 60s by now. Muscle doesn't age well. Smiley was like a father to him. He took him off the streets. He trusted him. Helped him climb up the ranks. Someone from his background could never, should never, have reached his position in the Circus. He would do anything for Smiley. And Smiley knew it. Furthermore, Smiley knew that there was an inherent imbalance in this relationship. A lack of reciprocity. He may have been like a father to Guillam, but Peter was never a son to him. He trusted Peter because he knew he can control him. And, as he was contemplating whether that was still the case, it dawned on Smiley that this imbalance is inherent in all of his relationships. None more so than with Ann.

Guillam was there before, during Smiley's first weeks in hospital. When he was still drifting in and out of consciousness. He didn't leave a message. He never did. He only came back now since Smiley called for him. He swore to himself he would only return with the answer. He would only return when he caught the person behind this. For once, he thought, he could prove to Smiley he was more than just muscle. He failed.

"I got the shooter" Guillam said. "He was a nobody. Not a professional. Not part of the game. Just a man who saw you during your walks in the Heath. He was offered money and a lot of it. A man trying to make a quick pay cheque. He fell to his knees the moment I confronted him. Crying. Begging for mercy. The only thing he had to say was: "she gave me £5,000 and I thought: how hard would it be to shoot a man in his late 80s?" He didn't know her name and didn't see her properly. The only thing he remembered was that she had a French accent. I let him go."

"She?" Said Smiley. "French accent" he muttered.

To be continued . . . .

PS 970km down. 30km to go.

The misty Heath (3)

So who could it be? If only Connie was alive, he could seek her advice. It could only be one of the old guard, and yet they are all either too old or dead. Still, it can only be one of them. Animosity doesn't always diminish with age. If anything, if they wanted revenge they were running out of time. Only one of the two; his closest ally - Toby Esterhase - and his fiercest enemy - Karla.

Smiley always knew that which he would never admit to - Esterhase wasn't an ally. They were on the same side but he would never consider Toby and ally. Being an ally implies equality. Smiley always considered himself superior. Esterhase was the muscle. Smiley was the brain. The former being subservient to the latter. Executing orders. Getting his hands dirty. Worse, and Smiley felt unease having to admit this even to himself, Esterhase was never 'one of us'. Yes, he was risking his life for Britain on a daily basis. Still, he was a foreigner. A Hungarian. One of those countries that lacked any real identity. Lacking spine. It was never overtly mentioned, but Esterhase always felt it. And Smiley knew Esterhase must have resented it. Resented him, Smiley, for at once never fully trusting him yet taking him for granted. This was Toby's one chance to turn the tables. No longer subservient. At the death the Muscle has triumphed over the Brain. Literally and without any subtlety. The Esterhase way.

Or could it be Karla? They're lives interlinked. In a way they grew up together, through the ranks, on opposite sides. They were connected. They only met a few times, but there was a level of intimacy between them that was not according to protocol. Smiley was running through those moments in his mind.

Delhi. In an interrogation cell. Karla captured in a prisoner's uniform. And still, he had all the power. Smiley trying to cajole him into talking. Into giving anything away. Sweating. And Karla just sitting there. Silent. Smoking. Then he did the unimaginable: when Smiley offered him a light, Karla slowly, knowingly, took the lighter and, looking defiantly at Smiley, put it in his pocket.

Bern. In a secluded mental health clinic. Smiley visiting Tatiana - Karla's daughter. Gentle and considerate, Smiley taking the role of a loving uncle. Every show of tenderness mirroring the cruelty of using this fragile young women to lure Karla into defection. His defection being Smiley's biggest triumph.

And it is this triumphant feeling that Smiley was now regretting. He never stopped to think that his triumph was Karla's downfall. It did not bring them together. Did not align them on the same side. Karla did not betray his beliefs. He did not disown his ideology. He defected despite them, putting his obligations as a father ahead of his obligations to his country. Only now did Smiley realise that he never stopped to think how Karla must have felt. How he must still be feeling. And it is this realisation that brought Smiley to discount Karla as a suspect. Karla would have wanted Smiley to feel as torn as he did. A bullet to the back of the head brings an end to doubt and guilt. It brings an end to suffering, not cause them.

To be continued . . . .

PS 960km down. 40km to go.

The misty Heath - continued

The ground was cold. Freezing cold. He was breathing heavily but could not move. Suddenly, he heard the sound of steps and felt the warmth of breath over his face. Then the thick, sticky tongue of a panting dog. A Cocker Spaniel. He was drifting in and out of consciousness. Still, Smiley was alive. The bullet missed the spine and went out out of his left cheek bone.

3 months later and Smiley was sitting in his room in the Royal Free Hospital. An armed PC at the door and Ann by his side. She was always there when it mattered most. His large thick, heavy glasses hanging from the end of his nose. The left lens black, to hide the scar that was all that's left of his eye. His mind was racing trying to explain what happened. The cold war was over. And, even back then, no one would ever order this sort of operation. No one would target the man at the top. Especially not 10 years into his retirement. This could not have been an operation. This was not part of the East vs West battle. This was personal.

Nonetheless, Smiley could not afford to be emotional. Whilst he was raging inside, his animal instincts urging him to track down the assailant and avenge him with his bare hands, he knew his attacker was merely a pawn in a bigger game. Two questions rang constantly through his head: "who?" and "why".

Smiley was running through the list of those who might be behind the attack. It was long. Very long. It's an awkward prism through which to view one's life. One which makes it difficult to feel proud of yourself. What does one have to do to have so many people not only wishing you were dead but actually willing to ensure that you are?

Smiley looked up and noticed the PC standing next to him. He must have been standing there for a while. He had a brown envelope in his hand. It had only one word written on it. One name. Max. Smiley took the envelope with haste, his fingers fumbling to tear it open. Only a handful of people ever new Smiley's alias. In it was a case of a 9mm cartridge. No one could ever mistake its origin - the Pistolet Makarova. The list of suspects has just been cut short. Very short.

To be continued . . . .

PS 950km down. 50km to go.