The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [55]
‘You’re missing something out.’
‘What’s that?’
Gaddis took his jacket off and secured it over the back of his chair.
‘Why didn’t Crane tell White about AGINCOURT?’
‘Who’s to say that he didn’t?’
Neame’s reply was lazy; there was a hole in the logic.
‘Because if he did, then AGINCOURT’s identity would have been revealed and we would now know all about him. But you’ve told me that Crane talent-spotted somebody who went on to become a senior figure in the Labour Party in the 1960s and 70s. Who was he? Harold Wilson?’
‘That would be a sensation,’ Neame replied, as if the idea had never occurred to him.
Gaddis laughed at his sheer nerve. ‘A Soviet defector called Anatoly Golitsin named Wilson as a KGB agent in 1963. Did you know that?’
Neame nodded. It was the first time that Gaddis had seen him looking unsure of himself.
‘Wilson’s first name was James,’ Gaddis continued. ‘He was born in Yorkshire. According to Spycatcher, MI5 were convinced he was a spy.’
‘Then go ahead and run the story.’ Neame’s hands were in the air, eyes exaggeratedly wide at the prospect.
‘Oh, come on. You know what I need from you, Tom. Does Eddie name Wilson or doesn’t he?’
‘I have told you, I have no idea. Everything I’ve related to you is based on a single conversation which took place over ten years ago and on a document which Eddie asked me to destroy. My specific area of expertise is ATTILA. All I know for certain is that Edward Crane was used by MI5 and MI6 in a variety of different ways between 1951 and the late 1980s, spreading disinformation to Moscow, that sort of thing. He found out what the Soviets wanted to know, gave London an idea of the enemy’s knowledge gaps. Everything flowed from there.’
‘Everything flowed from there,’ Gaddis repeated wither-ingly. He was tired of evasions, tired of false leads. He was certain that AGINCOURT was a red herring and that Neame was just stringing him along for his own personal amusement. The story was too old; the conspiracy theory about Wilson had been flogged to death in the 1980s. He put that theory to Neame now, because it felt as though his pride was at stake.
‘Here’s what I think, Tom. I reckon AGINCOURT was Harold Wilson and there’s nothing new on him in Eddie’s memoirs. I reckon Wilson danced with the Russians at Oxford but never took his clothes off. In other words, you brought him up just to make your own story look more convincing and didn’t think I’d bother checking it out. On that basis, less than half of what you’ve told me is probably true. Was Crane the sixth man? Was Crane a double agent? Was Thomas Neame his best friend or does Thomas Neame just like playing games with nosey historians to make his lunchtimes more exciting?’
Neame was staring at him, his face absolutely motionless. Gaddis suddenly saw the man as he would have looked at thirty, at forty, eyes blazing with indignation. It may have been the first time in a generation that anybody had summoned the nerve to question Neame’s integrity.
‘You don’t trust me,’ he said. It was more of a statement than a question.
‘I don’t trust you,’ Gaddis replied plainly.
There was a prolonged silence. It was strange, but Gaddis felt a sense of relief. He had cleared the air, he had spoken his mind. If Neame now stood up from the table, shook his hand and walked off into the sunset, he would not be unduly disappointed. It was impossible to write a book of this kind based on the testimony of an unreliable witness; far better to bring things to an end rather than risk his reputation on a story with so many loose ends.
‘Mea culpa,’ Neame announced suddenly. His expression had changed to one of benevolent contrition and he was holding two shaking hands above the table as an indication of his seriousness. Gaddis could see deep lines scarred into the palms. ‘You