classical pavilion on the western perimeter of the Stadtpark, and the sky was obligingly blue for the series of photographs which a moustachioed Austrian began to take as the guests filed inside for the ceremony. Gaddis remained outdoors until, at five to three, he spotted Phil and Annie coming towards him with Kath in tow, each of them wearing a pair of thick-rimmed hangover sunglasses.
‘I was waiting for you,’ he said, kissing Annie and then Kath on the cheek. ‘What time did you get to bed?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Annie mumbled.
They sat together in a row, on cushioned, hard-backed chairs at the centre of a gilt-ceilinged reception hall in the heart of the Kursalon. There were perhaps two hundred guests in attendance. Gaddis could only wonder how many of them were former colleagues of Wilkinson’s from SIS, or surveil-lance officers with orders to prevent Gaddis making contact with ATTILA’s final handler. At exactly five-past three, a string quartet struck up the opening bars of ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ and Matthias Drechsel, a short man with a lumbering, agricultural gait, turned to acknowledge the arrival of his bride with an unexpected look of terror in his eyes. Catherine Wilkinson had appeared at the back of the aisle on the arm of her father, Robert. Gaddis craned to get a better look. As a sigh of appreciation rippled through the congregation, he was perhaps the only person in the room whose gaze was not fixed on the beaming bride. Wilkinson was as physically robust as his future son-in-law, but considerably more visually arresting; in his steady, humourless eyes, Gaddis sensed the unyielding determination of a career spy who would suffer no fools. He recalled the quick rage with which Wilkinson had dismissed him on the telephone — You bloody idiot. I will thank you not to contact me here again — and knew that it would take all of his charm and persuasiveness to convince him to talk.
The ceremony lasted three-quarters of an hour, more than enough time for Gaddis to consider how best to make his approach. He knew, from a brief conversation with Annie, that dinner was planned for five o’clock. He had no seat at table, of course, which meant that there was, at best, only an hour left to him before Wilkinson would disappear indoors for at least five hours of speeches, Wiener schnitzel and disco dancing. Therefore, just after four o’clock, he made his way outside into the crisp sunshine of the park. Kath was at his side, resplendent in canary yellow, talking about ‘how spiritual the service was, even though, you know, they hadn’t gone for anything religious’. Meanwhile, the newly minted Mr and Mrs Matthias Drechsel were being photographed on the steps of the Kursalon, their occasional demonstrations of public affection met with whoops and cheers from the gaggle of family and friends gathered around them.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Kath, capturing a kiss on the camera of her mobile phone. ‘They look so in love, Sam. Don’t you think? Doesn’t Cath look beautiful?’
Robert Wilkinson was standing a few paces from the bride, studiously avoiding eye contact with a woman whom Gaddis took to be his ex-wife. Beside him, an emaciated geriatric of at least eighty, her face puffed with collagen and smothered in make-up, was attempting to engage him in conversation. Wilkinson looked bored. Kath took several more pictures, waved at somebody in the distance, then offered Gaddis a cigarette as she lit up under the shade of a chestnut tree.
‘Not for me,’ he said. ‘I’m just going inside for a moment. See you in a bit.’
He had decided that there was only one failsafe option open to him. He could not approach Wilkinson directly, at least not in person in the broad daylight of an October afternoon with his daughter getting married and the Secret Intelligence Service watching him from every orifice of the Stadtpark. Besides, there was every possibility that Wilkinson would simply call security and have Gaddis escorted from the premises. No, he would have to rely on a third party. He would have to get a message to him before the guests sat down for dinner.
To that end, he found a bathroom on the first floor of the Kursalon, locked himself inside a cubicle and took out the notebook and pen. He began to write. Dear Mr Wilkinson I was the man who telephoned you at your home in New Zealand ten days ago. I apologize both for my tactlessness on that occasion and for contacting you on this, of all days, but it is vital that I speak to you about Katya Levette. I believe that she was murdered by agents of the Russian FSB.
It was a wild claim, almost entirely without basis in fact, but Gaddis needed some way of grabbing Wilkinson’s attention. He continued, composing the words carefully: Since then, three individuals with links to Edward Crane have been murdered. A journalist named Charlotte Berg, a nurse, Calvin Somers, and a German doctor, Benedict Meisner. Somers and Meisner were present at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, in 1992, when Sir John Brennan (using the alias Douglas Henderson) faked Crane’s death and set him up with a new identity — Thomas Neame. I was given your name by Ludmilla Tretiak. As you know, her husband, Fyodor, was also murdered by the FSB because of his association with Crane. I have had detailed conversations with Edward himself and, with his blessing, plan to reveal the truth about ATTILA. I know, from speaking to Holly, that you had made a similar arrangement with Katya regarding your own memoirs, which she was unable to fulfil. All of the files that you gave to Mrs Levette are now in my possession. I will be at Kleines Cafe in Franziskanerplatz this evening from 10 p.m. and again tomorrow morning from 10 a.m. You may also reach me at the Goldene Spinne Hotel on Linke Bahngasse. I am registered under my own name. Again, I apologize for intruding on this important day for your family, and for failing to present myself in person, but you can understand that I am wary of who may or may not be watching. There was no other opportunity nor method of contacting you. Sincerely Dr Samuel Gaddis
He read the letter back three times, but was reluctant to cross anything out or to make changes to the text for fear of conveying the impression of an undisciplined mind. Instead, having added the telephone number of his hotel, he folded the note in half and, after brief consideration, wrote ‘Mr Dominic Ulvert’ on the front. Emerging from the bathroom, Gaddis saw one of the members of the string quartet coming out of the reception hall and decided that he would make as good a messenger as any.
‘Excuse me?’
‘Ja?’
‘Do you speak English?’
The musician was in his early twenties and carrying a violin in a black case. He was smothered in acne. In a thick Austrian accent he said that he spoke ‘some’ English and waited for Gaddis to respond, his head bobbing from side to side.
‘I wondered if you could do me a favour?’
‘Of course, sir. What, sir? Yes.’
‘Would you come with me?’
He took him to a window offering a view out on to the bridal party. The photographer was now arranging the guests into a family group. Wilkinson, still looking bored and out of place, was seated two chairs to the right of Matthias Drechsel.
‘Do you see the man with the pale cream waistcoat and the dark blue tie? He has grey hair, sitting in the front row on the left-hand side.’
It took a few moments to explain the phrase ‘pale cream’ and to ensure that the musician had correctly identified Wilkinson.
‘He is the father of the bride, ja?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’ Gaddis produced a smile of entreaty. ‘When they have finished the photographs, would you be kind enough to pass him this note? I have to rush off and I don’t want to disturb him. We haven’t seen one another for a long time and-’
The young man saved Gaddis the effort of amplifying his lie. ‘No problem,’ he replied, as if he performed similar tasks every day. ‘I do this for you.’
‘You’re very kind.’
Moments later, the musician was trotting down the steps of the Kursalon, violin case in hand, as the family photographs were drawing to an end. He approached Wilkinson immediately and engaged him briefly in conversation. Gaddis, who had followed him outside, returned to the chestnut tree where he found Kath talking to Dan.
‘Hello there, stranger,’ she said. ‘I thought we’d lost you.’
He turned to see the musician handing Wilkinson the note. Their encounter did not seem in any way unusual: he might even have been presenting an invoice to the father of the bride for the string quartet’s services. The musician then said something to Wilkinson and pointed up at the window of the Kursalon where Gaddis had been standing only moments earlier. Wilkinson, who had now seen the name on the front of the note, swept his gaze, in a barely disguised state of alarm, through three hundred and sixty degrees, searching for whoever had employed
