Colorful Crime Boss Inspires Le Carre's 'Traitor' For his 22nd novel, celebrated author and former intelligence officer John le Carre found inspiration in a real Russian criminal. Our Kind Of Traitor details the shady activities of a crime lord named Dima operating in Moscow's underworld of dirty money.
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Colorful Crime Boss Inspires Le Carre's 'Traitor'

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Colorful Crime Boss Inspires Le Carre's 'Traitor'

Colorful Crime Boss Inspires Le Carre's 'Traitor'

Colorful Crime Boss Inspires Le Carre's 'Traitor'

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  • <iframe src="" width="100%" height="290" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" title="NPR embedded audio player">
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John le Carre, a former British intelligence officer, is the author of many best-selling espionage thrillers including The Spy Who Came In From The Cold; Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and The Constant Gardener. Le Carre is a pseudonym -- his real name is David Cornwell. Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP hide caption

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Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP

John le Carre, a former British intelligence officer, is the author of many best-selling espionage thrillers including The Spy Who Came In From The Cold; Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and The Constant Gardener. Le Carre is a pseudonym -- his real name is David Cornwell.

Kirsty Wigglesworth/AP

Wars and conflicts come and go, but the world of espionage lives on -- and provides author John le Carre with ample material. The intelligence officer turned novelist has been spinning masterful spy stories since the 1960s -- including The Spy Who Came In From The Cold and Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy -- and has just released his 22nd novel.

Le Carre -- whose real name is David Cornwell -- is a writer of fiction, so readers may be surprised to find out exactly how much of his latest book, Our Kind Of Traitor, is based in truth.

The book tells the tale of a Russian oligarch named Dima and the effort to help him defect and move to Britain. Le Carre based the book's shadowy main character on a renowned Russian criminal -- actually named Dima. The novel's international money-laundering conspiracies aren't just fiction either. It's "completely out of hand," le Carre tells NPR's Robert Siegel. "We're not talking about the dirty work of criminals -- we're talking about the complicity of big banks."

Le Carre first visited the Soviet Union right before the Berlin Wall fell in 1989 and returned shortly thereafter in 1991. "It really was the Wild East," he says. "I don't think it's much less wild now -- in the ordinary terms of running a democracy. ... It continues to fascinate me, and it continues, I think, to fascinate us all -- and alarm us, slightly."

Our Kind Of Traitor
Our Kind Of Traitor: A Novel
By John le Carre
Hardcover, 320 pages
Viking Adult
List Price: $27.95

Read An Excerpt

A Tale Of Two Dimas

Le Carre met the real-life Dima while doing research in Moscow in 1991. "I asked former members of the KGB to put me in touch with a top criminal," he recalls.

They met up at 2:00 a.m. at Dima's own Moscow nightclub, which was heavily guarded by former special forces officers -- all with grenades strapped to their belts.

Finally, le Carre says, Dima came in "with his bodyguards and pretty girls ... he looked ridiculously like Kojak used to look in those days."

The encounter did not go particularly well. "He asked me what I wanted to know," le Carre recalls. "And I didn't really know what I wanted to know, so I kind of made it up as I went along."

In the interview, le Carre compared Dima to the Morgans and the Rockefellers -- pivotal figures in American history who "got their hands very dirty" when they first started making money, but who ultimately gave back to "the country they'd ripped off" by funding hospitals, monuments and museums. He then asked if a time would come when Dima, like so many wealthy men before him, would do the same.

"He gave me a long, long, voluble Russian reply, and I thought I was really getting an intelligent answer," le Carre says, laughing. "But when it was boiled down, what he was saying, according to my interpreter, was that I should go to hell."

In retrospect, le Carre says that he used the wrong American parallel for Dima's ascent to power. The Moscow crime lord -- and the spy novel anti-hero modeled after him -- had a tortured history and followed the traditional path to a becoming mafia leader: He survived a humiliating childhood and shot his mother's lover at the age of 14. He was found guilty and sent to the camps in Siberia, where prisoners endured subzero temperatures and formed their own basic system of laws and punishment -- leaving Dima with a confused but enduring sense of morality.

The Dima character in the novel shares this history, but le Carre insists that the man and the character are not one and the same; his knowledge of the real Dima is based on an encounter nearly two decades old.

"The last I heard of Dima in real life ... he was trying to explain to the Moscow police why he had a couple of businessmen chained together in his cellar," le Carre says. "He's disappeared from my life. But he kind of hung around as a character to be written about and developed one day."

'The Current Dismay Of The Young'

The novel's other main character, Englishman Peregrine "Perry" Makepiece, is a naive, earnest intellectual, who grew up in the working class. He has become a brilliant young professor at Oxford, but, at age 30, he feels disturbed and disenchanted. Le Carre says that Perry represents "the current dismay of the young, liberal intellectual of Europe -- or for that matter, of the United States."

It is an "amazing, transitional time" in both the U.S. and in Russia, le Carre explains. "All of us, in a way, have to find new attitudes to materialism. We have to discover the limitations of capitalism." The West seems like it's "floating," he says -- unable to settle on a collective ideology. "Most unhappily, we've appointed an external enemy in the form of Islam -- in broad-brush terms."

Le Carre says his character, Perry, finds himself struggling with a whole "ecology" of daunting, global issues.

'I Write Better Than I Speak'

These days, it's hard for le Carre to squeeze his work in between promotional engagements and interviews.

"I have a great deal to write," says the 79-year-old author, who in September told an interviewer that he would not do any more British television appearances.

"I find myself uncomfortable these days performing in public," le Carre explains. "I decided that I was old enough and secure enough in myself to not want that anymore. ... I simply want to devote myself to writing full time and just keep my head down. I think I write better than I speak."

So British TV appearances are off the table ... but what about American radio? Will this be le Carre's last NPR interview?

"No ... we can keep the door open," le Carre tells Siegel with a laugh. "I hope so very much."

Excerpt: 'Our Kind Of Traitor'

Our Kind Of Traitor
Our Kind of Traitor: A Novel
By John le Carré
Hardcover, 320 pages
Viking Adult
List Price: $27.95

At seven o'clock of a Caribbean morning, on the island of Antigua, one Peregrine Makepiece, otherwise known as Perry, an all-round amateur athlete of distinction and until recently tutor in English literature at a distinguished Oxford college, played three sets of tennis against a muscular, stiff-backed, bald, brown-eyed Russian man of dignified bearing in his middle fifties called Dima. How this match came about was quickly the subject of intense examination by British agents professionally disposed against the workings of chance. Yet the events leading up to it were on Perry's side blameless.

The dawning of his thirtieth birthday three months previously had triggered a life-change in him that had been building up for a year or more without his being aware of it. Seated head in hands at eight o'clock in the morning in his modest Oxford rooms, after a seven-mile run that had done nothing to ease his sense of calamity, he had searched his soul to know just what the first third of his natural life had achieved, apart from providing him with an excuse for not engaging in the world beyond the city's dreaming spires.



To any outward eye, his was the ultimate academic success story. The State-educated son of secondary-school teachers arrives in Oxford from London University laden with academic honours and takes up a three-year post awarded him by an ancient, rich, achievement-driven college. His first name, traditionally the property of the English upper classes, derives from a rabble-rousing Methodist prelate of the nineteenth century named Arthur Peregrine of Huddersfield.

In the term time, when he isn't teaching, he distinguishes himself as a cross-country runner and sportsman. On his spare evenings he helps out in a local youth club. In vacations he conquers difficult peaks and Most Serious climbs. Yet when his college offers him a permanent Fellowship—or to his present soured way of thinking, imprisonment for life—he baulks.

Again: why?

Last term he had delivered a series of lectures on George Orwell under the title 'A Stifled Britain?' and his rhetoric had alarmed him. Would Orwell have believed it possible that the same overfed voices which had haunted him in the 1930s, the same crippling incompetence, addiction to foreign wars and assumptions of entitlement, were happily in place in 2009?

Receiving no response from the blank student faces staring up at him, he had supplied it for himself: no, Orwell would emphatically not have believed it. Or if he had, he would have taken to the streets. He would have smashed some serious glass.


It was a topic he had thrashed out mercilessly with Gail, his longstanding girlfriend, as they lay in her bed after a birthday supper at the flat in Primrose Hill that she had part-inherited from her otherwise penniless father.

'I don't like dons and I don't like being one myself. I don't like academia and if I never have to wear a bloody gown again, I'll feel a free man,' he had ranted at the gold-brown hair clustered comfortably on his shoulder.

And receiving no reply beyond a sympathetic purr:

'Hammering on about Byron, Keats and Wordsworth to a bunch of bored undergraduates whose highest ambition is to get a degree, get laid, and get rich? Done it. Been there. Fuck it.'

And raising the odds:

'About the only thing that would really keep me in this country is a bloody revolution.'

And Gail, a sparky young barrister on the rise, blessed with looks and a quick tongue—sometimes a little too quick for her own comfort as well as Perry's—assured him that no revolution would be complete without him.

Both were de facto orphans. If Perry's late parents had been the soul of high-minded Christian socialist abstinence, Gail's were the other thing. Her father, a sweetly useless actor, had died prematurely of alcohol, sixty cigarettes a day and a misplaced passion for his wayward wife. Her mother, an actress but less sweet, had vanished from the family home when Gail was thirteen, and was reputed to be living the simple life on the Costa Brava with a second cameraman.


Perry's initial reaction to his life-decision to shake the dust of academia from his feet—irrevocable, like all Perry's life-decisions—was to return to his grass roots. The only son of Dora and Alfred would put himself where their convictions had been. He would begin his teaching career all over again at the point where they had been forced to abandon theirs.

He would stop playing the intellectual high-flyer, sign up for an honest-to-God teacher-training course and, in their image, qualify as a secondary-school teacher in one of his country's most deprived areas.

He would teach set subjects, and any sport they cared to throw at him, to children who needed him as a lifeline to self-fulfilment rather than as a ticket to middle-class prosperity.

But Gail was not as alarmed by this prospect as perhaps he intended her to be. For all his determination to be at the hard centre of life, there remained other unreconciled versions of him, and Gail was on familiar terms with most of them:

Yes, there was Perry the self-punishing student at London University where they had first met, who in the mould of T. E. Lawrence had taken his bicycle to France in the vacations and ridden it until he keeled over with exhaustion.

And yes, there was Perry the alpine adventurer, the Perry who could run no race and play no game, from seven-a-side rugby to pass the parcel with her nephews and nieces at Christmas time, without a compulsive need to win.

But there was also Perry the closet sybarite who treated himself to unpredictable bursts of luxury before hurrying back to his garret. And this was the Perry who stood on the best tennis court at the best recession-hit resort in Antigua on that early May morning before the sun got too high to play, with the Russian Dima one side of the net and Perry the other, and Gail wearing a swimsuit and a broad-brimmed floppy hat and a silky cover-up that covered very little, sitting amid an unlikely assembly of dead-eyed spectators, some dressed in black, who appeared to have sworn a collective oath not to smile, not to speak, and not to express any interest in the match they were being compelled to watch.


It was a lucky chance, in Gail's opinion, that the Caribbean adventure had been planned in advance of Perry's impulsive life-decision. Its inception dated back to darkest November when his father had fallen victim to the same cancer that had carried off his mother two years earlier, leaving Perry in a state of modest affluence. Not holding with inherited wealth, and being in two minds as to whether he should give all he had to the poor, Perry dithered. But after a campaign of attrition mounted by Gail, they had settled for a once-in-a-lifetime bargain tennis holiday in the sun.

And no holiday could have been better planned, as it turned out, for by the time they had embarked on it, even bigger decisions were staring them in the face:

What should Perry do with his life, and should they do it together?

Should Gail give up the Bar and step blindly into the azure yonder with him, or should she continue to pursue her meteoric career in London?

Or might it be time to admit that her career was no more meteoric than most young barristers' careers, and should she therefore get herself pregnant, which was what Perry was forever urging her to do?

And if Gail, either out of impishness or self-defence, had a habit of turning large questions into little ones, there remained no doubt that the two of them were separately and together at life's crossroads with some pretty heavy thinking to do, and that a holiday in Antigua looked like providing the ideal setting in which to do it.


Their flight was delayed, with the result that they didn't check into their hotel till after midnight. Ambrose, the resort's ubiquitous major-domo, showed them to their cabin. They rose late and by the time they had breakfasted on their balcony the sun was too hot for tennis. They swam on a three-quarters-empty beach, had a solitary lunch by the pool, made languorous love in the afternoon, and at six in the evening presented themselves at the pro's shop, rested, happy, and eager for a game.

Seen from a distance, the resort was no more than a cluster of white cottages scattered along a mile-wide horseshoe of proverbial talcum-powder sand. Two promontories of rock strewn with scrub forest marked its extremities. Between them ran a coral reef and a line of fluorescent buoys to ward off nosy motor yachts. And on hidden terraces wrested from the hillside lay the resort's championship-standard tennis courts. Meagre stone steps wound between flowering shrubs to the front door of the pro's shop. Once through it, you entered tennis heaven, which was why Perry and Gail had chosen the place.

There were five courts and one centre court. Competition balls were kept in green refrigerators. Competition silver cups in glass cases bore the names of champions of yesteryear and Mark, the overweight Australian pro, was one of them.

'So what sort of level are we looking at here, if I may inquire?' he asked with heavy gentility, taking in without comment the quality of Perry's battle-scarred racquets, his thick white socks and worn but serviceable tennis shoes, and Gail's neckline.

For two people past their first youth but still in the bloom of life, Perry and Gail made a strikingly attractive pair. Nature had provided Gail with long, shapely legs and arms, high, small breasts, a lissome body, English skin, fine gold hair and a smile to light the gloomiest corners of life. Perry had a different sort of Englishness, being lank and at first sight dislocated, with a long neck and prominent Adam's apple. His stride was ungainly, he seemed to topple and his ears protruded. At his State school he had been awarded the nickname of Giraffe, until those unwise enough to use it learned their lesson. But with manhood he had acquired—unconsciously, which only made it more impressive—a precarious but undoubted grace. He had a mop of brown curls, a wide, freckled forehead, and large, bespectacled eyes that gave out an air of angelic perplexity.

Not trusting Perry to blow his own trumpet, and protective of him as always, Gail took the pro's question upon herself.

'Perry plays qualifiers for Queen's and he got into the main draw once too, didn't you? You actually made it to the Masters. And that was after breaking his leg skiing and not playing for six months,' she added proudly.

'And you, madam, if I may make so bold?' Mark the obsequious pro inquired, with a little more spin on the 'madam' than Gail cared for.

'I'm his rabbit,' she replied coolly, to which Perry said, 'Sheer bollocks,' and the Australian sucked his teeth, shook his heavy head in disbelief and thumbed the messy pages of his ledger.

'Well, I've got one pair here might do you good people. They're a sight too classy for my other guests, I'll tell you that right now. Not that I've a vast selection of humanity to choose from, frankly. Maybe you four should give each other a whirl.'

Their opponents turned out to be an Indian honeymoon couple from Mumbai. The centre court was taken, but court 1 was free. Soon a handful of passers-by and players from other courts had drifted over to watch the four of them warm up: fluid strokes from the baseline casually returned, passing shots that nobody ran for, the unanswered smash from the net. Perry and Gail won the toss, Perry gave first serve to Gail who twice double-faulted and they lost the game. The Indian bride followed her. Play remained sedate.

It wasn't till Perry began serving that the quality of his play became apparent. His first serve had height and power, and when it went in, there wasn't much anyone could do about it. He served four in a row. The crowd grew, the players were young and good-looking, the ball boys discovered new heights of energy. Towards the end of the first set, Mark the pro casually turned out to take a look, stayed for three games, then with a thoughtful frown returned to his shop.

After a long second set, the score was one set each. The third and final set reached 4 – 3, with Perry and Gail having the edge. But if Gail was inclined to hold back, Perry was by now in full cry, and the match ended without the Indian couple winning another game.

The crowd drifted away. The four lingered to exchange compliments, fix a return and maybe catch a drink in the bar this evening? You bet. The Indians departed, leaving Perry and Gail to gather up their spare racquets and pullovers.

As they did so, the Australian pro returned to the court bringing with him a muscular, erect, huge-chested, completely bald man wearing a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex wristwatch and grey tracksuit bottoms kept up by a drawstring tied in a bow at his midriff.


Why Perry should have spotted the bow at his midriff first and the rest of the man afterwards is easily explained. He was in the act of changing his elderly but comfortable tennis shoes for a pair of beach shoes with rope soles, and when he heard his name called he was still bent double. Therefore he lifted his long head slowly, the way tall, angular men do, and registered first a pair of leather espadrilles on small, almost feminine feet set piratically apart, then a couple of stocky, tracksuited calves in grey; and, coming up, the drawstring bow that kept the trousers aloft, double-tied as such a bow should be, given its considerable area of responsibility.

And above the bow-line, a belly of finest crimson cotton blouse encasing a massive torso that seemed not to know its stomach from its chest, and rising to an Eastern-style collar that if fastened would have made a cut-down version of a clerical dog-collar, except that there was no way it could have accommodated the muscular neck inside it.

And above the collar, tipped to one side in appeal, eyebrows raised in invitation, the creaseless face of a fifty-something man with soulful brown eyes beaming a dolphin smile at him. The absence of creases did not suggest inexperience, rather the opposite. It was a face that to Perry the outdoor adventurer seemed cast for life: the face, he told Gail much later, of a formed man, another definition that he aspired to himself, but for all his manly striving did not feel he had yet attained.

'Perry, allow me to present my good friend and patron, Mr Dima from Russia,' said Mark, injecting a ring of ceremony into his unctuous voice. 'Dima thought you played a pretty nifty match out there, am I right, sir? As a fine connoisseur of the game of tennis, he's been watching you highly appreciatively, I think I may say, Dima.'

'Wanna game?' Dima inquired, without taking his brown, apologetic gaze off Perry, who by now was hovering awkwardly at his full height.

'Hi,' said Perry, a bit breathlessly, and shoved out a sweated hand. Dima's was the hand of an artisan turned to fat, tattooed with a small star or asterisk on the second knuckle of the thumb. 'And this is Gail Perkins, my partner in crime,' he added, feeling a need to slow the pace a bit.

But before Dima could respond, Mark had let out a snort of sycophantic protest. 'Crime, Perry?' he objected. 'Don't you believe this man, Gail! You did a dandy job out there, and that's straight. A couple of those backhand passing shots were up there with the gods, right, Dima? You said so yourself. We were watching from the shop. Closed circuit.'

'Mark says you play Queen's,' Dima said, the dolphin smile still directed at Perry, the voice thick and deep and guttural, and vaguely American.

'Well, that was a few years back now,' said Perry modestly, still buying time.

'Dima recently acquired Three Chimneys, right, Dima?' Mark said, as if this news somehow made the proposition of a game more compelling. 'Finest location this side of the island, right, Dima? Got great plans for it, we hear. And you two are in Captain Cook, I believe, one of the best cabins in the resort, in my opinion.'

They were.

'Well, there you go. You're neighbours, right, Dima? Three Chimneys is perched slap on the tip of the peninsula across the bay from you. The last major undeveloped property on the island but Dima's going to put that right, correct, sir? There's talk of a share issue with preference given to the inhabitants, which strikes me as a pretty decent idea. Meanwhile, you're indulging in a bit of rough-and-ready camping, I hear. Hosting a few like-minded friends and family. I admire that. We all do. For a person of your means, we call that true grit.'

'Wanna game?'

'Doubles?' Perry asked, extricating himself from the intensity of Dima's stare in order to peer dubiously at Gail.

But Mark, having achieved his bridgehead, pressed home his advantage:

'Thank you, Perry, no doubles for Dima, I'm afraid,' he interjected smartly. 'Our friend here plays singles only, correct, sir? You're a self-reliant man. You like to be responsible for your own errors, you told me once. Those were your very words to me not so long ago, and I've taken them to heart.'

Seeing that Perry was by now torn but also tempted, Gail rallied to his rescue:

'Don't worry about me, Perry. If you want to play a singles, go ahead, I'll be fine.'

'Perry, I do not believe you should be reluctant to take this gentleman on,' Mark insisted, ramming his case home. 'If I was a betting man, I'd be pushed which of you to favour, and that's a living fact.'

Was that a limp as Dima walked away? That slight dragging of the left foot? Or was it just the strain of carting that huge upper body around all day?

Excerpted from Our Kind of Traitor by John le Carre. Copyright 2010 by John le Carre. Excerpted by permission of Viking Adult, a division of the Penguin Group.

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