“Where are the mikes, Millie?” Smiley had returned to the drawing-room. They were in pairs, Millie murmured, bedded behind the wallpaper: two pairs to each room on the ground floor, one to each room upstairs. Each pair was connected with a separate recorder. He followed her up the steep stairs. The top floor was unfurnished save for an attic bedroom that contained a grey steel frame with eight tape machines, four up, four down. “And Jefferson knows all about this?” “Mr. Jefferson,” said Millie primly, “is run on a basis of trust.”
