The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [147]
‘Will she get the tape?’ he asked.
‘She will get the tape.’
Chapter 55
‘Any chance of explaining to me what’s going on?’
Holly was trailing Gaddis as they walked up the stairs to her apartment. Two steps below the third-floor landing he suddenly pulled her towards him and moved his head against hers so that he could whisper into her ear without risk of being overheard.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. She was trying to wrestle free of him but he held her body tight against his own. ‘Don’t say anything. Don’t talk when we get into the flat. Go across the room, draw all the curtains like it’s a normal evening and switch on the radio. Put it on as loudly as possible without pissing off your neighbours. The disk I found in your basement is a recording of Sergei Platov attempting to defect to the West in 1988. It was filmed by Bob Wilkinson. Bob is dead. He was assassinated in Vienna. Your apartment may be under observation by MI6 and the Russian FSB. I am so sorry. Do not say anything when I let go of you.’
She pushed away from him, her eyes flooded by tears. ‘Bob?’ she mouthed and he suddenly saw an older woman’s face in Holly’s, the face of her mother, the face of Katya Levette. He pressed a finger against his mouth, shaking his head, imploring her not to speak. He looked across the landing at the door of her flat. He nodded to her, encouraging her to take out her keys and to open the door. Holly did so and crossed the room, switching on the radio as Gaddis had asked and drawing the curtains. Gaddis double-locked the door behind them, went to the television and saw the DVD player on the ground. There was a newspaper discarded on the sofa. He took a pen out of his jacket pocket and wrote on a corner of the front page: Do you have any blank DVDs?
Holly’s head was tilted to one side, as if evaluating Gaddis anew. He realized, sooner or later, that they would have to speak, so he whispered to her, not knowing who was listening or what, if anything, they could hear.
‘The disks you use to make your showreels,’ he said. ‘I need to make copies of this disk.’
She nodded. ‘Sure. I have loads.’
Her eyes were heavy and he said: ‘Don’t worry,’ reaching out and holding her hand. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Holly said, and pulled her arm away.
Gaddis took the disk out of the plastic folder and inserted it into the DVD. Within a few seconds, he saw what he had dreamed of seeing. Sitting on a wooden chair in a well-lit German suburban living room was the young Sergei Platov. It was unmistakably the same man: Gaddis had seen dozens of photographs of the Russian president in his youth while researching Tsars. Platov was wearing a white shirt, a striped tie and his full lips glowed under the unforgiving glare of a bright overhead light. His carefully combed hair was parted on the left-hand side and he appeared calm and relaxed. There was a small glass of water in front of him. Gaddis heard a voice on the tape.
‘So, let’s start talking. Could you identify yourself, please?’
It was Wilkinson. The accent was unmistakable. As if to confirm this, Holly, who was looking over Gaddis’s shoulder at the screen, said: ‘That’s Bob’s voice’ and put her hand on the nape of Gaddis’s neck.
Platov began speaking in Russian. ‘My name is Sergei Spiridonovich Platov. I am a major in the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti. I live at Radeberger Strasse with my wife and daughter. I am one of eight KGB officers based in Dresden under the control of Colonel Anatoly Lubkov. I work on political intelligence and counter-intelligence.’
‘What is your official cover?’ Wilkinson asked. He had not appeared on camera and Gaddis suspected that he would not do so. Platov took a sip of water.
‘I am Deputy Director of the Society of German–Soviet Friendship. My