Neame did not respond, Brennan decided to take a risk. ‘So, are you helping him scratch around? Are you throwing light on Eddie’s past for some reason? I’m sorry, but it’s my duty to ask.’ He was surprised that he had landed the accusation so directly.
‘Don’t be bloody ridiculous. Every part of my body aches. I need help getting into the bath. If I walk down the corridor, a nurse has to hold my hand. I can barely remember my own name.’ The words sounded heartfelt, but when it came to Thomas Neame, Brennan didn’t know what to believe. ‘You know I’ve always taken a vow of silence about Eddie. If anybody came knocking on my door, I’d know what to do. And if this Gaddis chap, by some miracle, manages to associate me with him, believe me, I have ways and means of putting him off the scent.’
That, at least, was true. ‘Well, that’s good to hear.’
‘Was that all, Douglas?’
‘That was all.’
‘Good. Then I will thank you to leave me in peace.’
Brennan was, both by nature and by the definition of his chosen trade, a resourceful man, clear-sighted and unflappable. He would not allow the abruptness of Neame’s mood to unsettle him. Three floors below there was an open-plan office awash with thumb-twiddling spooks: fast-stream wünderkinds eagerly awaiting their first postings overseas, as well as older hands whose idealism had long ago been broken by one too many stints in the godforsaken outposts of a vanished empire. As he replaced the receiver, he realized that he would need an attractive woman. There was no way around this, no denying the implications of gender, no means of avoiding the ancient human truth that bachelor academics are as vulnerable to attractive women as they are to a pay rise. Brennan already knew that Gaddis was divorced. He also knew – from a cursory glance at his Internet and telephone traffic – that he had recently been seeing a woman named Holly Levette, who was almost half his age. Given a choice between spending an evening with a charming, intelligent man, and a charming, intelligent woman, Dr Samuel Gaddis was almost certainly going to opt for the latter.
One name sprang to mind immediately. Having spent two years as a graduate student at LSE prior to joining the Service, Tanya Acocella could speak the language of academia. She was fluent in Russian and had proved a vital, imaginative member of SIS Station in Tehran, playing a crucial role in the recent defection of a senior figure in the Iranian military. Since returning to London, Tanya had become engaged to her long-term boyfriend, much to the frustration of several fast-stream alpha males, and was scheduled to take a four-month sabbatical after her wedding in the summer. Matching her wits with an intellectual of Gaddis’s calibre would be just the sort of challenge she would relish.
He put a call down to her desk. Three minutes later, Acocella was in the mirrored lift to the fifth floor. It was a measure of her self-confidence that she felt no need to check her appearance in the panelled glass.
‘Tanya, do come in. Have a seat.’
They exchanged pleasantries for no more than a few seconds; an officer of Acocella’s pedigree did not need to be put at her ease.
‘I want you to put CHESAPEAKE to one side for a few weeks.’ CHESAPEAKE was an operation against a Russian diplomat in Washington whom SIS were sizing up for recruitment. Tanya was running the London end in conjunction with a junior colleague. ‘I’ve found something else to exercise your talents.’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
Brennan stood up and paced in the direction of a bookshelf. He was aware that staff members who came into his office were often on their best behaviour. It was one of the drawbacks of his position: an excess of polite rigidity. Still, he stopped short of offering her a drink. A little hierarchical posturing never hurt anybody.
‘Long ago,’ he began, ‘I learned that spying isn’t about strengths in human nature – ideological conviction, duty, loyalty to one’s country. Spying is about weaknesses – the lust for money, for status, for sex. This is the guilty secret of our secret trade.’
Tanya felt that she was expected to agree with this thesis, so she said: ‘Right’ and stared at Brennan’s tie. He had a reputation in the Office for pompous longueurs.
‘I’d like you to find out everything you can about a man named Samuel Gaddis. He’s a doctor of Russian History at UCL, Department of Slavonic and East European Studies. Get close to him, befriend him, earn his trust. Gaddis has been digging around in a Cold War secret that the Office is rather keen to suppress.’
‘What sort of secret?’
There were other questions she wanted to ask. How close? Befriend in what way? Is Doctor Gaddis married? But she knew the nature of such operations. She would not be asked, nor would she be expected to do anything that would compromise her relationship with her fiancé.
‘Long ago, the Service took into its employment a gentleman by the name of Edward Crane, who subsequently operated in various different guises.’ Brennan, now standing beside the bookshelf, drew a finger along the spine of a volume by Sir Winston Churchill. He did not attempt to keep an edge of the sensational from what he was about to say. ‘Crane was a graduate of Trinity College, Cambridge in the 1930s.’ He looked into Tanya’s eyes and waited for the penny to drop. ‘He was known to Messrs Blunt and Philby, Messrs Burgess and Maclean. He was an associate of John Cairncross. Do you follow?’
Tanya felt a lurch of shock which quickly warped into a feeling of profound satisfaction. How many people knew what she had just been told? The identity of the sixth man was the most carefully guarded secret of the Cold War.
‘Crane’s operational codename was ATTILA. He’s managed to remain anonymous, largely because we’ve managed to keep people off his scent and largely because there was no record of ATTILA’s activities in Mitrokhin.’ Tanya had a sense, even as Brennan was talking to her, that he was holding back a vital piece of information. ‘The finger was pointed at Victor Rothschild, the finger was pointed at Tom Driberg. Christ, at one point they even suspected Roger bloody Hollis. But nobody has ever identified Crane. Until now.’ Brennan pivoted away towards a broad, sunless window in the north corner of the office. ‘Doctor Gaddis is on the trail of a gentleman by the name of Thomas Neame, a ninety-one-year-old currently resident at a nursing home near Winchester. Neame, for reasons that I am not yet in a position to divulge, knows more or less all there is to know about Crane’s work for the Russians. I’ve put some basic information in this file.’ He passed a slim manila envelope to Acocella, which she secured in her lap. ‘It goes without saying that this is a sealed operation. You will report solely and directly to me. I have given you the name of an officer at GCHQ Cheltenham who will assist you with any communications information you may require.’ Both of them took a beat to absorb the euphemism. ‘I don’t have the manpower to spare on surveillance, so you’ll be operating alone unless there are exceptional circumstances. Any questions?’
Tanya was experienced enough to send that one back over the net. It was better to say: ‘I think perhaps I should read the file first, sir,’ so that Brennan could be assured of her professionalism.
‘Good.’ He seemed pleased. ‘Have a look at it, come up with a plan of attack.’
She stood up, the file under her arm. ‘There was just one thing, sir.’
Brennan was planning to open the door for her, but stopped mid-carpet. ‘Yes?’
‘What did you mean when you referred to status, to sex, to the lust for money? Are you implying that these are particular weaknesses in the Gaddis character?’
Brennan
