The Trinity Six

Chapter 33

Inevitably, international directory enquiries had no listing in New Zealand for a Robert Wilkinson so Gaddis had to ask Holly for a favour. Did her mother keep an address book? Would it be possible to track down a number for Bob? Holly asked him why he was so keen to speak to Wilkinson, but Gaddis was deliberately vague about the details.

‘He was in Berlin during an important phase of the Cold War. It’s for the MI6 book. I want to try to set up a meeting.’

The following evening, Holly had called from Tite Street with the details. There was no way of preventing her from reading out Wilkinson’s number over an open line, so Gaddis had written it down and immediately walked outside to a phone box a quarter of a mile away on South Africa Road. If GCHQ had been eavesdropping on Holly’s call, he reckoned it would still take them several hours to establish a bug on Wilkinson’s phone in New Zealand.

It was eight o’clock in the evening in London, eight o’clock in the morning in New Zealand. He rolled four pound coins into the payphone and tapped in the number.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Robert Wilkinson?’

‘Speaking. Who is this?’

The line was very clear. Gaddis was surprised by the class-lessness of Wilkinson’s accent: he had grown up with the idea that all senior MI6 personnel sounded like members of the Royal Family.

‘My name is Sam Gaddis. I’m a lecturer in Russian History at UCL. I’ve also just completed a biography of Sergei Platov. Does my name mean anything to you?’

‘It means nothing to me whatsoever.’

Silence. Gaddis could sense that he had another Thomas Neame on his hands.

‘Is it a good time to talk?’

‘As good as any.’

‘It’s just that I wanted to speak to you about Katya Levette.’ That got his attention. Gaddis heard a sharp, near-anxious intake of breath, the arrogance going out of him, then half a word — ‘Kat-’

‘I understand that you were good friends.’

‘Yes. Who told you this?’

‘Holly is a friend of mine.’

‘Good God. Holly. How is she?’

Wilkinson was opening up. Gaddis took out a pen and a scrap of paper and tried to pin them on the phone casing with his elbow. ‘She’s very well. She wanted me to send you her love.’

‘How kind of her.’ There was a brief interruption on the line, perhaps a technical fault, perhaps the sound of Wilkinson finding a quieter and more comfortable place in his house from which to speak. ‘Who did you say you were again? Who am I speaking to?’

‘My name is Sam Gaddis. I’m an academic, a writer. I’m calling you from London.’

‘Of course. And you’re working with Katya on a story?’

He obviously didn’t know about Katya. Wilkinson hadn’t been told that Levette was dead. Gaddis was going to have to break it to him.

‘You hadn’t heard, sir?’ He was surprised that he called him that, but had felt a sense of deference in the moment. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t know that I would be the one to tell you. I just assumed that you already knew. Katya has died, Mr Wilkinson. I’m very sorry. Six months ago.’

‘Dear me, that’s terrible news.’ The reply was instant and stoic; Gaddis felt that he could picture the resilience in Wilkinson’s face. He had just lost the great love of his life, but he was not going to display his grief to a stranger. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘How is Holly coping?’

‘So, so,’ said Gaddis. ‘She’s all right.’

Wilkinson asked how Katya had died and Gaddis told him that she had suffered from liver failure, a euphemism which the older man immediately understood.

‘Yes. I was afraid that would take her in the end. The bloody drink was a lifelong struggle for her. I’ll write to Holly with my condolences. Is she still at the flat in Tite Street?’

‘She is. And I’m sure she’d appreciate that.’

‘In fact, Catherine is getting married later this month. I might see if Holly can come along to the wedding. It would be wonderful to meet her again.’

Gaddis knew, from conversations with Holly, that Catherine was Wilkinson’s daughter, but he felt that he should feign ignorance.

‘Catherine?’

‘My youngest. Marrying an Austrian in Vienna. I’ll be coming over for the wedding. We must try to entice Holly along.’

‘I’ll certainly mention that.’

Gaddis looked at the read-out and saw that he was down to fifty pence of credit. He put four further pounds into the slot and coughed to conceal the noise of the coins chugging into the phone.

It did no good.

‘Are you speaking to me from a phone box?’ Wilkinson asked.

Even if Gaddis had wanted to lie, it would have been impossible to do so: a souped-up Volkswagen Golf had pulled up on the street beside him. The driver leaned on his horn repeatedly in an effort to gain the attention of someone in a nearby housing estate. It must have sounded to Wilkinson as though Gaddis was calling from the middle of the M4.

‘The phone at my house is out of order,’ he said, accidentally knocking the pen and the scrap of paper on to the floor of the booth. As he bent down to retrieve them, stretching the receiver to his ear, he said: ‘I was just very keen to ring you as soon as possible.’

‘About what, Doctor Gaddis?’

‘I’ve come into possession of some documents that I think you gave to Katya.’

A pause. Wilkinson was weighing up his options. ‘I see.’

‘Holly gave them to me. A mutual friend thought that I might be interested in the material.’

‘And are you?’

Some of the obstructiveness which had characterized Wilkinson’s tone in the early part of the conversation had returned.

‘I haven’t really had a proper chance to go through it all yet. I’ve been busy working on something else. I wondered if you knew what Katya was planning to do with the documents?’

‘I’m afraid I really wouldn’t know.’

It sounded like a lie but Gaddis had not expected a straight answer. Wilkinson was guilty of passing potentially sensitive intelligence information to a journalist. He had no means of knowing whether Gaddis was a bona fide historian or an agent provocateur hired by SIS to elicit a confession.

‘Perhaps we could meet in Vienna to discuss this?’ Gaddis suggested, a wild idea which was out of his mouth before he had thought through its implications.

‘Perhaps,’ Wilkinson replied, with a complete lack of conviction. Time was running out. If Gaddis wasn’t careful, the conversation would soon be brought to an abrupt end.

‘There was just one person in particular that I’m keen to talk to you about,’ he said.

‘Yes? And who’s that?’

‘Sergei Platov.’

Wilkinson produced a grunt of indifference. ‘But you told me that you’ve already written his biography. Why would you want to start all over again?’

‘It’s a different angle this time.’ Gaddis was wondering how best to play his trump card. ‘I’m interested in Platov’s relationship with three former intelligence officers from the Soviet era.’

‘Intelligence officers-’

‘Fyodor Tretiak was a high-ranking KGB resident in Dresden. Edward Crane was a British double agent for more than fifty years. The man who ran him from Berlin in the mid-1980s used the pseudonym Dominic Ulvert.’

Wilkinson’s shock came down the long-distance line as a whispered expletive.

‘You bloody idiot. Is this line secure?’

‘I think so-’

‘I will thank you not to contact me here again.’