The Trinity Six (13 page)

Chapter 19

‘So Crane was never the sixth Cambridge spy?’

Gaddis could feel the whole book crumbling around him, weeks of false leads culminating in a final dead end at a mock-Tudor pub in Hampshire.

‘Come again?’

‘You spent our last meeting telling me that Crane was recruited at Trinity by Arnold Deutsch, that he was a close friend of Guy Burgess, that he ran a ring of NKVD spies out of Oxford in the late 1930s. You’re now telling me that he was a double agent for MI6. Which was he?’

‘Both.’

Gaddis put his elbows on the table, his head in his hands and stared across at Neame, on the edge of losing his temper. He was going to have to think of another way of paying Min’s school fees, another way of paying the tax. He would have to write a book about oligarchs, pitch a bloody documentary about Abramovich to the BBC. Neame’s testimony was about as reliable as Peter Wright’s.

‘What do you mean “both”, Tom?’

It was the first time that Gaddis had raised his voice against him. Neame placed his walking stick against the wall and finished his pint with a gingerly sip. The bowl of soup had at last been carried away by the landlady.

‘After the war, Eddie suffered a crisis of conscience.’ Neame was speaking slowly, crisply, but without a hint of ill-feeling; it was as if he understood Gaddis’s frustration and wanted him to feel reassured. ‘He bitterly regretted his association with the Soviets. With the exception of some of the ULTRA intelligence, he felt that he should not have passed Allied information to Moscow. He could see the direction that Stalin had taken and didn’t like it. So, as soon as Guy and Donald had disappeared in ’51, he turned himself in.’

Gaddis felt a faint pulse of hope, life coming back to a dead circuit.

‘Eddie had a close friend in MI5, a man by the name of Dick White. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. Director B, counter-espionage. Went on to become Director-General of the Security Service, then Chief of the SIS. He was the golden boy of the post-war generation in British intelligence and therefore precisely the right man for Eddie to approach with his plan.’

A window cleaner had appeared at the far side of the lounge, working on the exterior of the pub. He was in his late twenties and had a pair of iPod headphones plugged into repeatedly pierced ears. Neame saw him and gestured to the landlady, who approached him with the deference of a lady-in-waiting attending to the needs of an ailing monarch.

‘Yes, love. What can I do for you?’

She put a hand on Neame’s shoulder and Gaddis was afforded a glimpse of his life at the nursing home: the humiliation of being treated as a child by carers flushed with good intentions.

‘Your window cleaner,’ Neame asked. ‘Is he local by any chance?’

The landlady looked back across the room as the man swiped a set of French doors with a chamois leather.

‘Who? Danny?’

‘Danny, yes. Has he worked for you before?’

Gaddis could see what Neame was doing. He wanted to check the window cleaner’s credentials. Was he
bona fide
or MI5 surveillance?

‘Yes, love. Lives just down the road. Been looking after us for years. You need someone to clean your windows?’

Neame smiled gratefully. ‘Well, if you can recommend him, that would be enormously kind.’ It was an utterly convincing performance. ‘Could you fetch his number?’

‘Of course, love.’

And the landlady walked off, leaving Neame assured that their table was not being bugged.

‘As I was saying,’ he continued. There was no acknowledgement of the exchange which had just taken place: not a sideways glance, not even a knowing smile. ‘White was an old friend of Eddie’s from the war. Eddie went to him and told him what he had done. It was a private conversation which took place at the Reform Club. It constituted a full confession.’

‘Full to what extent?’

‘Everything he had ever done. Every name, every agent, every Soviet controller. He gave them Wynn, he gave them Maly, he gave them Cairncross.’

‘I thought Cairncross confessed in ’51?’

‘That’s what the history books would have you believe. He did, but only after Eddie exposed him.’

‘And Blunt? Philby?’

‘Sadly not. Because ATTILA had been ring-fenced by the NKVD at Trinity, in isolation from the Ring of Five, Eddie had no idea that Kim was working for Moscow. He thought Anthony was an art scholar, for God’s sake. We all did. He only knew for certain about Guy, and of course it was too late to alert London to Burgess and Maclean. They were already drinking vodka in Derjinsky Square. No, Eddie’s real area of expertise was Oxford.’

‘So he gave White the names in the ring? He gave them the Floud brothers, Jennifer Hart? That’s why it was rounded up?’

‘Speculation,’ Neame muttered, taking a stern gaze back to the window cleaner. Gaddis heard the squeak of cloth on glass. ‘But he named Leo Long, Victor Rothschild, James Klugmann and Michael Straight as possible trouble-makers. Some names were cleared, others were not. By then, Straight was back in the United States living the life of a responsible citizen. Ten years later, he was to make a similar confession of his own to the American government which led to the exposure of Blunt.’

‘And White went for this? He didn’t just want to string him up?’

‘A number of factors were in play, Sam. White was very fond of Eddie and could understand why he had fallen for Communism. A lot of us did. It was a heady time. In many ways, the decision to aid Mother Russia was a noble one, taken in good faith. Dick was also able to distinguish between the different personalities involved. Donald, for example, had a very deep and profound hatred of America. Later, White would come to recognize that Kim was a sociopath. Anthony, it transpired, was also utterly self-serving. Now you wouldn’t necessarily have said that about Guy or Cairncross. Along with Eddie, they were the ones who were steadfastly ideological, who spied out of conviction rather than from some misguided sense of their own importance. White also knew that Edward Crane was a brilliant intelligence officer. Furthermore, the country couldn’t afford another spy scandal. Had Eddie been exposed following the defection of Burgess and Maclean, there is every possibility that the government would have fallen. So it was in everyone’s best interests to keep ATTILA under wraps and, yes, this was a golden opportunity to strike back at Moscow. Never underestimate the extent to which SIS and the Russians loathe one another. It’s a blood feud.’

‘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’re right,’ he said. ‘I went too far, old chap. I shouldn’t have been so heavy on AGINCOURT. I confess that I became intrigued by the references in Eddie’s memoirs. He did indeed tap Wilson up at Oxford, but states categorically that he was never a Soviet agent. I just wanted the whole thing double-checked by an expert. Wilson has since been investigated until the cows come home and nobody has ever been able to lay a finger on him.’ Gaddis said nothing. He was enjoying the sight of Neame coming clean. ‘I also wanted to test your limits. I wanted to see how much you would swallow. If I had managed to convince you that Wilson was a Soviet asset without your obtaining any corroborating evidence, who knows what others might have been able to persuade you of, further along the road? I need a man I can
rely
on, Sam. I need a man who isn’t going to get excited at the first mention of the NKVD. What I have told you is just the beginning. In a sense, you have passed a test. I congratulate you.’

Gaddis was dumbfounded. He summoned a look which he hoped would be suitably contemptuous and closed up the space between them.

‘Look, this isn’t a game, Tom. I’m not doing this for laughs. I don’t want to waste my time fucking about with sat-navs and window cleaners and encrypted emails just to polish your ego. I’m here because I’m convinced that Edward Crane was the sixth Cambridge spy and that you’re the key to finding him. But I won’t stay here a minute longer if I think I’m being manipulated. I won’t risk my reputation on an old man who thinks it’s funny to have academics chasing their tails. So you either convince me that these so-called memoirs exist, prove to me that Edward Crane was the sixth man, or call up Peter and ask him to drive you home. Because our business is done.’

‘Oh, I very much doubt that,’ Neame replied, with a sting of malice, and Gaddis heard the voice of a man who had lived his life outwitting others, who had always been one step ahead of the pack. He stared into the old man’s fixed blue eyes and suddenly, like a bone-deep shudder, felt that Thomas Neame and Edward Crane were the same man. Was this
possible
? He reeled at the thought of it, heat flooding his neck. The idea had caught him completely off guard and he tried to compose himself by remaining steadfast in the face of Neame’s reply.

‘Try me,’ he said.

Neame grabbed a shallow breath and the pain which had repeatedly jagged across his shoulders in the cathedral suddenly did so again. He winced as he brought a hand up on to his shoulder, clutching the thick tweed of his jacket and rubbing the bone. Gaddis instinctively stood up out of his seat and leaned forward, placing a hand on Neame’s arm. Who was he touching? Neame or Edward Crane?

‘Are you all right?’

Neame was looking down at the table, weighing up his options. Gaddis felt that he could read his thoughts.
Should I continue with this man, or find another outlet for my story?
But suddenly he spoke.

‘Dick White ordered a full internal vetting of Eddie that was specifically designed to clear him of any suspicious links to Communism.’

Neame had clearly convinced himself that the only way to persuade Gaddis of his legitimacy was to keep talking.

‘It helped that Eddie had never joined the Party,’ he said. ‘His year at Oxford was also carefully recalibrated. Furthermore, there was nothing in the files about his friendship with Burgess at Trinity.’

Gaddis felt that he had no choice but to play along.

‘But it was still a miracle that he managed to survive undetected for so long – on
both
sides of the Iron Curtain. The Yanks must have smelled a rat. And surely any number of Soviet defectors down the years would have known about ATTILA. Golitsin, for starters.’

Neame enjoyed that one.

‘Of
course
they did. But it didn’t
matter
. Golitsin told the Americans about Crane and the Yanks came to us – flustered, to say the least. We put them in the picture about ATTILA’s double-life and Eddie’s name was then erased from the Golitsin transcripts. Exactly the same procedure when Gordievsky came over. “Oh, you know about Crane? Keep it hush-hush.” It was straightforward.’