'Does Gaddis have any f.u.c.king concept concept of what will happen to him if the Russians find out who he is? Does he know what's at stake? Didn't you make it plain to him after you landed at Gatwick? What did you of what will happen to him if the Russians find out who he is? Does he know what's at stake? Didn't you make it plain to him after you landed at Gatwick? What did you talk talk about? House prices? Gastro pubs? Were you planning, Tanya, at any f.u.c.king stage, to do your job properly?' about? House prices? Gastro pubs? Were you planning, Tanya, at any f.u.c.king stage, to do your job properly?'

She had been dismissed from Brennan's office with a parting shot which had enraged her.

'Here's what you'll do. Go back to CHESAPEAKE. Consider POLARBEAR closed for business. If you can't cope with a simple problem like Sam Gaddis, I'll have to take care of it myself.'

With Acocella in the lift, Brennan had immediately contacted the British Emba.s.sy in Canberra and instructed Christopher Brooke, the thirty-five-year-old Head of Station in Australia, to catch the next flight to New Zealand where he was to have 'a quiet word with one of our former employees'. SIS activities out of Wellington had been wound down as part of a cost-cutting exercise, which meant that Brooke faced a seven-hour trip to Christchurch via Sydney, a further forty-five-minute flight from Christchurch to Dunedin, followed by a three-hour drive, in a rented Toyota Corolla, from Dunedin to Alexandra, which was in the heart of the South Island. Accounting for delays and transfers, the journey from the moment he left his house in Canberra, to the moment he arrived in Alexandra took just under fourteen hours and cost Brooke an explosive argument with his pregnant wife, who had been looking forward to a long-awaited five-day break on the Gold Coast. Brooke had fallen asleep more or less as soon as he had reached his hotel room, waking at dawn on Wednesday to discover that n.o.body had ever heard of Robert Wilkinson, nor of the property at Drybread.

'We know most of the people round here, luv,' said the manageress of the Dunstan House. 'Drybread used to be a gold mine. n.o.body's lived out there for years.'

'You sure you've got the right place, mate?' asked a petrol pump attendant at a garage on the edge of Alexandra.

Brooke drove all morning. He saw three people in three hours, none of whom were able to give him directions. He scanned road maps but could not access the Internet in order to download images from Google Earth which might have provided him with a route to Drybread. He was pa.s.sing through some of the most dramatic scenery he had ever witnessed, yet for the most part his Hertz Toyota was filled with the sound of a worn-out, irritated British spook swearing at the injustice of being posted to the a.r.s.e end of the intelligence world and blaspheming venomously at the prospect of spending three days searching for a retired Cold War spy who, if the locals were to be believed, had never set foot in New Zealand.

Finally, Brooke drove back to Alexandra, went to the Public Library and found a reference to 'Drybread' in a historical guide to Central Otago, dated 1947. Wilkinson's home had once been a gold-mining settlement and subsequently a farm. From the description in the guide, it was situated at the end of 'Drybread Road' in a gully at the base of the Dunstan Range, forty-five kilometres north-west of Alexandra.

He set out from the library. He pa.s.sed through a dry, barren landscape identified on the map as the Maniototo Plain stopping for petrol and some food in Omakau, a settlement which boasted little more than a pub and a local store. At about four o'clock, he turned from the S85 highway on to an unsealed, single-track road flanked by rivers and streams which turned a deep, sky-matching blue in the late afternoon sun. Every few hundred metres he was obliged to stop and to open farm gates, the road becoming more rugged with every pa.s.sing kilometre. He was concerned that the Toyota would puncture at any moment, leaving him stranded in the centre of a vast, underpopulated plain which would soon be cloaked in darkness. Just after six, however, approximately ten kilometres inland from the main road, he at last saw a battered sign for 'Drybread' and turned on to a narrow, potholed trail which ran across a cultivated plain towards a screen of jagged hills. The property was a small, two-storey homestead half a mile along the trail, nestled within a rectangle of willow trees. As he steered through the gate, Brooke spotted a figure in a prehistoric Barbour chopping wood on the eastern side of the property. It was beginning to spot with rain. He switched off the engine, stepped on to the drive and was about to raise a hand in greeting when he saw Robert Wilkinson walking towards him brandishing a cold-eyed stare and a double-barrelled shotgun.

'Who the f.u.c.k are you?'

Brooke had his hands in the air within a split second.

'Friendly! Friendly!' he shouted, a hangover from three eventful years with the Service in Basra. 'I'm with the Office. I've come from Canberra to talk to you.'

'Who sent you?' Wilkinson was holding at a distance of fifty metres, shouldering the gun and keeping it levelled at Brooke's solar plexus.

'Sir John Brennan. It's about ATTILA. I have a message to convey to you.'

Wilkinson lowered the gun, broke the chamber and hooked it over his wrist.

'Convey it,' he said.

Brooke looked around. He had been warned that Wilkinson had 'turned a bit native', but had, at the very least, been expecting a cup of tea.

'Out here?'

'Out here,' Wilkinson replied.

'All right then.' He reached into the back seat of the Toyota, retrieved a North Face parka, zipped it up against the deteriorating weather and closed the door. 'Sir John is concerned that you may be establishing a relationship with a British academic named Sam Gaddis.'

'Establishing a relationship? What the f.u.c.k does that mean?' Wilkinson knew, instantly, that SIS had bugged Gaddis's call. Years of carefully cultivated anonymity had been obliterated in an instant by a reckless academic in a London phone box.

'Doctor Gaddis has discovered the truth about ATTILA. We believe that he knows you were running Edward Crane in East Germany in the 1980s. The Service is worried that you may be pa.s.sing information to Gaddis of a sensitive nature, in breach of your commitment to the Official Secrets Act.'

Wilkinson took a step forward. He was in his early sixties, stocky and imposing. His face, particularly in the fading light of a chill spring evening, had a quality of ruthlessness which had scared braver men than Christopher Brooke.

'What's your name, young man?'

'My name is Christopher. I'm Head of Station in Canberra.'

'And you've come all the way from Australia to tell me this, have you, Chris?'

Brooke thought of his pregnant wife, of the Qantas cabin sprayed for insects, of freeze-dried in-flight meals and the interminable roads of Central Otago. He said: 'That is correct.'

'And don't they teach you to keep civilized hours at Fort Monkton any more? What do you mean by showing up here at dusk? You could have been anybody anybody.'

Brooke had been informed that Wilkinson was 'paranoid up to the eyeb.a.l.l.s about Russian a.s.sa.s.sins' and a.s.sumed that he would now regain some of his composure, safe in the knowledge that his surprise visitor had not been sent by the FSB.

'I apologize for startling you,' he said, extending a hand. 'n.o.body 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 anomalies in the final years of Mr Crane's career which would have ma.s.sive 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 a.s.sent. '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.' in the final years of Mr Crane's career which would have ma.s.sive 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 a.s.sent. '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 a.s.sure you that I had absolutely no intention of discussing my career with him. I would a.s.sume 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 the mud. 'Please tell Sir John he was just "John" when I knew him, but he was always keen on going places tell Sir Sir John that I will do whatever the h.e.l.l I like in my retirement. If that includes talking to out-of-their-depth academics in London, so be it. You see, I remember how things ended. I remember a bomb under my car. I remember experiencing the distinct feeling that the Service would have preferred it if Bob Wilkinson had been blown up by Sergei Platov and thrown into the skies above Fulham.' Brooke was wiping rainwater out of his eyes. 'You look confused, Christopher.' John that I will do whatever the h.e.l.l I like in my retirement. If that includes talking to out-of-their-depth academics in London, so be it. You see, I remember how things ended. I remember a bomb under my car. I remember experiencing the distinct feeling that the Service would have preferred it if Bob Wilkinson had been blown up by Sergei Platov and thrown into the skies above Fulham.' Brooke was wiping rainwater out of his eyes. 'You look confused, Christopher.'

'You've lost me,' he replied. 'I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.'

'No,' said Wilkinson. 'I expect you don't.' Another gust of wind came buffeting across the plain. 'But Sir Sir John Brennan knows exactly what I'm talking about. Be sure to tell him that I understand the definition of loyalty. He never looked out for me, so why should I look out for him? If this Gaddis wants chapter and verse on ATTILA, perhaps I'll give it to him. It's time the whole story came out anyway. Christ, the British government would probably John Brennan knows exactly what I'm talking about. Be sure to tell him that I understand the definition of loyalty. He never looked out for me, so why should I look out for him? If this Gaddis wants chapter and verse on ATTILA, perhaps I'll give it to him. It's time the whole story came out anyway. Christ, the British government would probably benefit benefit if it did. Wouldn't you like to see the back of that maniac?' if it did. Wouldn't you like to see the back of that maniac?'

'Which maniac?'

'Platov,' Wilkinson replied witheringly, as if Brooke had laid out his ignorance for the world to see. 'They really haven't put you in the picture at all, have they? You really have no idea what the h.e.l.l is going on.'

Chapter 35.

Late on Thursday afternoon, Sam Gaddis was squeezing through a pavement crush of students outside the School of Eastern European and Slavonic Studies when he spotted Tanya Acocella on the opposite side of Taviton Street. She was wearing a beige raincoat, leather boots and a beret which brought out the stark white bones of her face. He thought that she looked tired, but felt the irritating pang of attraction nonetheless; he had to remind himself to look annoyed as he crossed the street to speak to her.

'I don't suppose this is a coincidence.'

'No,' she said. 'Walk with me?'

She was taking a risk, being seen with him. Brennan could have eyes all over UCL. A simple surveillance photograph of the two of them together, fed back to Vauxhall Cross, would reveal that she had ignored the Chief's order to abandon contact with POLARBEAR.

'I wondered how you were getting along,' she asked.

Gaddis took the question at face value and said that he had been 'fine, absolutely fine' since the shootings in Berlin.

'We've managed to come to an arrangement with the German authorities. They've put a squeeze on coverage of the incident in the media. The police won't be looking for a second gunman. The man who killed Meisner, the man you shot, was a Russian named Nicolai Doronin. MI5 had been observing him for several months. The Germans know that he has links to the FSB, but they're not expecting to pursue a complaint against Moscow. Doronin will make a full recovery and he'll be turfed out of Berlin. He'll know that if he tries to finger any of his colleagues in connection with the conspiracy, there'll be repercussions for his family in London.'

'What a lovely story,' said Gaddis, taking out a cigarette. Tanya asked for one and he lit it for her as a student came up behind them, asked Gaddis a question about an essay deadline and then walked off towards Endsleigh Gardens.

'The Berlin solution is the best you're going to get,' Tanya said, pointedly expecting some measure of thanks for the horse-trading SIS had done on Gaddis's behalf.

'I understand that,' he said. 'Believe me, I'm extremely grateful.'

They walked in silence. She was wondering how best to say what she had come to say.

'You are being careful, aren't you, Sam?'

'Careful in what way?'

'You understand the terms of our arrangement? You can't go looking for Crane. You can't go seeking vengeance for what happened to Meisner and Charlotte.'

She thought of Brennan lashing out at her in his office and wondered why she was being so considerate of Gaddis's feelings. A pigeon settled on the pavement ahead of them, hopped into the path of a taxi turning into the road and flew off.

'If you leave the country, the minute your pa.s.sport is presented anywhere in the EU, they'll know where to find you.'

Gaddis stopped and turned. 'What do you mean "they"?'

'I've been removed from the operation. Pastures new. Brennan has a new team working on you.'

He was confused. Did she want his sympathy?

'Why have they taken you off the case?'

'Long story.' Gaddis felt that she might have been about to explain, but instead Tanya merely reiterated her earlier warning. 'It doesn't matter who's running you now. The terms of the arrangement are the same. Don't go looking for Crane. Do you understand?'

Gaddis tried his best to convince her. 'I have told you,' he replied. 'I understand understand, Tanya.'

She didn't like to see him lying; it didn't suit him.

'It's just that Robert Wilkinson may not be in New Zealand for ever,' she said. 'We wondered whether you might already know that. We wanted to be absolutely certain that you wouldn't make any attempt to see him if, for example, he came to Vienna.'

Gaddis could only laugh, but it was a hollow sound, a breathless, near-silent surrender to the omnipotence of SIS. They had eyes and ears everywhere; they were listening to everything he said, even to a phone box on the edge of a housing estate in South Africa Road.

'Wilkinson doesn't want to have anything to do with me,' he said. He dropped his half-smoked cigarette on to the ground and snuffed it out with his shoe. 'Crane has disappeared. Even if I wanted to finish the book, I don't have any more leads. It's over.'

'We both know that's not quite true.' He marvelled at her ability to convince him that she was still on his side. Perhaps it was the outfit: she looked so elegant, so off-duty, every inch the beautiful, available, seductive Josephine Warner.

'You're right,' he said. 'I could go to Vienna. I could gate-crash Catherine's wedding. I could grab Bob Wilkinson over a smoked salmon canape and ask him to tell me all about Dresden, just as a favour to an academic that he doesn't know and doesn't even particularly like. Do you really think that's what I'm planning to do?'

'I think you're capable of anything.'

Gaddis reached out and held her. 'You need to trust me,' he said. Her arms were gym-exercised, taut and wiry. 'Check your surveillance records. I'm going to be in Barcelona for the rest of the month. I've arranged to spend a fortnight with Min.'

'You have?'

Tanya was no longer privy to the POLARBEAR product; it was infuriating not to know even this simple piece of information.

'I have,' he said. 'So if Des feels like following me, tell him to pack his swimming trunks. My daughter and I will be spending a lot of time at the beach.'

Chapter 36.

It was a half-truth, at best, but Gaddis reasoned that he owed Tanya Acocella a lie or two. Barcelona was just his way of getting even.

He had spent the morning out at Colindale, on the outskirts of north-west London, going through back issues of The Times The Times. He could have searched for what he was looking for online, but what was the point of risking the Internet when there were hard copies going back as far as the eye could see? The issue he found was dated 6 January. Gaddis laid a private bet with himself that Catherine Wilkinson had accepted her fiance's proposal on New Year's Eve, shortly before the corks had flown on the midnight champagne.

MR M.T.M. DRECHSEL AND MISS C.L. WILKINSONThe engagement is announced between Matthias, elder son of Mr Rudolph Drechsel and Mrs Elfriede Drechsel, of Vienna, Austria, and Catherine, younger daughter of Mr Robert Wilkinson and of Mrs Mary Edwards, of Edinburgh, Scotland.

That gave him the surname for the wedding party, which was the first step of his plan.

The second step was to ascertain the date of the wedding and to find the hotel in Vienna where the bulk of the guests would be staying. To that end, Gaddis printed out a list of all of the four- and five-star hotels in Vienna and called them, one by one, from two phone boxes at Colindale station, making the same request.

'h.e.l.lo. I'd like to book a room for the weekend of the DrechselWilkinson wedding. I've been advised that you are offering a special rate for guests of the couple.'

The first fourteen hotels had 'no record at all of a wedding booked under that name', but the fifteenth the SAS Radisson on Schubertring knew all about it and asked Gaddis for his surname.

'It's Peters,' he said. 'P-E-T-E-R-S. Peters.'

'Yes, Mr Peters. And when would you like to arrive?'

Gaddis now moved to the next phase of his strategy. He needed a precise date for the wedding, so he said: 'Could you tell me if any of the other guests are arriving on the Thursday evening? Would that be too early, do you think?'

'Thursday the twenty-third, sir? Let me see.'