Control takes charge

Thoughts on Karla's Choice by Nick Harkaway

Do you not quite know what’s going on?

Does it make you want to book a cheap city break in Europe?

Does it make you want to be a spy?

All three?

Then it’s a John Le Carré novel.

Or is it?

Much as the famous George Smiley might cross an East German border under a covert identity, this latest installment from the Circus takes Le Carré’s authorship ruse to a new level.

We knew Smiley was really Le Carré. And we knew Le Carré was really David Cornwell. But now David Cornwell is in fact Nick Harkaway.

But wait.

Check that passport again.

Nick Harkaway is Nicholas Cornwell. And Nicholas Cornwell is the son of David Cornwell. So now Nicholas Cornwell is Nick Harkaway is John Le Carré, who is and always was George Smiley.

Of course, before you’ve even considered the meta de plume madness going on here, Smiley himself has already retrieved several agents from the cold and is back in old Blighty sheepishly following his wife Ann to socialite events where he doesn’t feel comfortable.

This is all to say, do you judge this novel as the son imitating the father?

Or judge it as a novel in its own right?

Are we watching a covers band in the Walkabout on a Friday night? Or are we watching an exciting new band paying homage to the old at an all-dayer in the Brudenell?

Are Geese just The Strokes with heavy bits and song arrangement by Nick Cave, or are they a new band altogether?

Are they both?

Is Nick Harkaway John Le Carré?

Does it matter?

Who am I?

Who are you?

When I was moving my books recently, as I was boxing them up and unpacking them into their new home, I was surprised by two things.

The first was how many authors’ surnames begin with M. It seemed disproportionate, and completely fucked with the spacing I’d planned in the library.

Second, I was surprised by just how many John Le Carré novels I have.

I think I have all of them, many in hardback.

I was surprised because I consider myself a pretentious, literary dickhead, and if you’d asked me to guess which author’s books I have the most of, I’d have gone for Kundera, or possibly Roth, most likely Auster. (Did I say male literary dickhead? I should have done.)

Though I do have a shit tonne of their books, a visual scan of the shelves would more overwhelmingly suggest Le Carré was one of my favourite authors.

Was.

Or is?

After all, the person at the head of the Circus is known not by their name, but by a codename: Control.

And on the evidence of Karla’s Choice—which I enjoyed not least because it met all three of the qualifiers I mentioned at the start—Control is still very much in the driving seat.

Maybe Le Carré is still alive too.

And if so, I’d be happy to keep adding books like this to my collection.

My recommendation: Take yourself to Budapest, or Paris, or maybe even Sofia. Find a cafe with outdoor seating and a waiter who looks as if they want you to die. Order a coffee. Ask for two sachets of sugar and place them on the table next to your coffee in a very deliberate manner. Do not open them. Instead, catch the waiter’s eye and then immediately look away. At this point, you’ll be ready to start reading the book.