The Trinity Six - Charles Cumming [98]
‘I apologize for startling you,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Nobody in the local community had heard of you. I had great difficulty locating your address. It’s only fractionally less remote round here than the Sea of Tranquility.’
Wilkinson produced a grunt of indifference. ‘Is that your idea of a joke? Is that how you soften people up nowadays? A little galactic irony? A little lunar wit?’
Brooke could see that it was a lost cause. He put the extended hand back in the pocket of his parka and decided to abandon any pretence at camaraderie. He wanted nothing more than to be driving back to Dunedin, getting a good night’s sleep and catching a flight home to Canberra. He wanted to be away from this gun-wielding maniac. He wanted to be filing a report for Brennan, drinking a bottle of Pinot Noir and eating Thai green curry with his wife. But he had a job to do.
‘Here’s the situation,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I just get it off my chest, because it’s fairly obvious that this isn’t going to be a civilized conversation? I wasn’t expecting a home-cooked meal, Mr Wilkinson. I wasn’t expecting a bed for the night. But if you want to do this out here, then we’ll do it out here.’ Right on cue, a wind came gusting across the plain, rattling the leaves of the willow trees. ‘As I understand it, Gaddis is threatening to blow the lid off two of the most closely guarded secrets of the Cold War, secrets that my colleagues – yourself included – have done a very good job of covering up for the past sixty years. The Chief has asked me to remind you that there are – to use his word – anomalies in the final years of Mr Crane’s career which would have massive repercussions on our relationship with Moscow if they came to light. Now I don’t happen to know what those anomalies are. But, I am reliably informed that you do.’ He saw Wilkinson’s face lift in the failing light and heard a short sniff, which he took to be a gesture of assent. ‘Sir John has always been deeply concerned that retired intelligence officers should not feel the need to sell their life stories to the highest bidder.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘I think you understand what I mean. The Service is aware that you disclosed sensitive information to a Mrs Katya Levette at various stages of your career, as a means both of leaking politically damaging stories to the British press and as a channel for your own autobiographical recollections.’
‘You want to be careful with that smooth tongue of yours,’ Wilkinson said, shifting the gun into his right hand. ‘It could get you into trouble.’
The rain was falling heavily now and Brooke pulled up the hood of his jacket.
‘Is it not the case that you and Mrs Levette discussed the possibility of ghosting your memoirs?’
Wilkinson had heard enough. He moved against the rain until he was face-to-face with Brooke, studying him rather as a crocodile might size up a snack for lunch.
‘Let me tell you something. I woke up three days ago and made myself a cup of tea. The telephone rang and I answered it. This Doctor Gaddis was on the other end of the line. He was calling me from London, from a phone box, asking questions about Eddie Crane. I’d never heard of him. You see, I didn’t realize that ATTILA was suddenly public knowledge. I also had no idea how an opportunistic British academic had managed to track me down. Let me assure you that I had absolutely no intention of discussing my career with him. I would assume that our private conversation was scooped up as a favour to the old country by local liaison. Is that the case?’
‘I have no idea what role, if any, the GCSB has played in all this.’
‘No?’ Wilkinson watched the rain sluicing down Brooke’s face. ‘I bet you don’t. You’re only Head of Station in Canberra, after all.’
He raised a hand when Brooke attempted to respond.
‘Wait. I haven’t finished.’ He was angry now, livid at the invasion of his privacy and infuriated that his relationship with Katya was once again being dragged through