SUMMARY: We are in a new arena of intrigue where the old rivalries of great nations have been supplanted by the ravages of individual greed. We are in a new world of espionage where the habits and rules forged by past generations of spies are put to more shocking use. We are inside the international cartel of illegal arms dealers and drug smugglers, now rising to unheard of power under the command of men whose ruthlessness is matched only by their limitless hunger for unlimited wealth. It is this world, in all its brilliant corruption, that John le Carre now opens up for us. His peerless gifts ― his mastery of storytelling and characterization ― have never been more stunningly employed. In The Night Manager, the hypnotic narrative is charge by a luminous understanding of the paradoxes implicit in our perceptions of evildoing and virtue.The Fledgling Spy, Who Come of Age, The Spy in His Prime, The Looking Glass War and The Russia House, by John le Carre, are also available from Random House AudioBooks.The Night Manager is available in hardcover from Alfred A. Knopf, Inc
This book is a work of imagination, and none of the chatacters or buisness companies mentioned has any counterpart in real life/
First published in Great Britain 1993
ISBN 0-340-59281-8
Graham Goodwin in memory
On a snow-swept January evening of 1991, Jonathan Pine, the English night manager of the Hotel Meister Palace in Zürich, forsook his office behind the reception desk and, in the grip of feelings he had not known before, took up his position in the lobby as a prelude to extending his hotel's welcome to a distinguished late arrival. The Gulf war had just begun. Throughout the day, news of the Allied bombings, discreetly relayed by the staff, had caused consternation on the Zürich stock exchange.
Hotel bookings, which in any January were low, had sunk to crisis levels. Once more in her long history Switzerland was under siege.
But the Meister Palace was equal to the challenge. Over all Zürich, "Meister," as the hotel was affectionately known to taxi drivers and habitués, presided physically and traditionally alone, a staid Edwardian aunt perched on her own hilltop, gazing down on the folly of hectic urban life. The more things changed in the valley, the more Meister stayed herself, unbending in her standards, a bastion of civilised style in a world intent on going to the devil.
Jonathan's point of vantage was a small recess between the hotel's two elegant showcases, both of them displaying ladies' fashions. Adèle of the Bahnhofstrasse was offering a sable stole over a female dummy whose only other protection was a gold bikini bottom and a pair of coral earrings, price on application to the concierge. The clamour against the use of animal furs these days is as vocal in Zürich as in other cities of the Western world, but the Meister Palace paid it not a blind bit of notice. The second showcase ― by Cesar, likewise of the Bahnhofstrasse ― preferred to cater for the Arab taste, with a tableau of lusciously embroidered gowns and diamante turbans and jewelled wrist-watches at sixty thousand francs a shot. Flanked by these wayside shrines to luxury, Jonathan was able to keep a crisp eye on the swing doors.
He was a compact man but tentative, with a smile of apologetic self-protection. Even his Englishness was a well-kept secret. He was nimble and in his prime of life. If you were a sailor you might have spotted him for another, recognised the deliberate economy of his movements, the caged placing of the feet, one hand always for the boat. He had trim curled hair and a pugilist's thick brow. The pallor of his eyes caught you by surprise. You expected more challenge from him, heavier shadows.
And this mildness of manner within a fighter's frame gave him a troubling intensity. You would never during your stay in the hotel confuse him with anybody else: not with Herr Strippli, the creamy-haired front-of-house manager, not with one of Herr Meister's superior young Germans, who strode through the place like gods on their way to stardom somewhere else. As a hotelier Jonathan was complete. You did not wonder who his parents were or whether he listened to music or kept a wife and children or a dog. His gaze as he watched the door was steady as a marksman's. He wore a carnation. At night he always did.
The snow, even for the time of year, was formidable. Fat billows swept across the lighted forecourt like white waves in a tempest. The chasseurs, alerted for a grand arrival, stared expectantly into the blizzard. Roper will never make it, Jonathan thought. Even if they let his plane take off it can never have landed in this weather. Herr Kaspar has got it wrong.
But Herr Kaspar, the head concierge, had never got anything wrong in his life. When Herr Kaspar breathed "Arrival imminent" over the internal speaker, only a congenital optimist could imagine that the client's plane had been diverted. Besides, why else would Herr Kaspar be presiding at this hour, except for a big spender? There was a time, Frau Loring had told Jonathan, when Herr Kaspar would maim for two francs and strangle for five. But old age is a different state. These days, only the richest pickings were able to lure Herr Kaspar from the pleasures of his evening television.
