The Cambridge Theorem (20 page)

“Very good. Which exit do I take now? The third left? You and Petra are comfortable out here? And the baby?”

“We like the apartment, yes. That's all. This has taken me a long time,” Popov said suddenly, seeking acknowledgement. “It might be significant.”

“Might be, yes,” said Orlovsky, ignoring his nephew's entreaty. “And the three of you, are you coming to the dacha at the weekend? That will be nice.”

In truth, it was he, not this unpleasant young man, who was risking the firing squad if he persisted with the plan he had nurtured all summer. The cryptonym was little to go on, but if he were able to cross-reference Veleshin's recent travel vouchers with files from that particular
referentura
, he might find recruitment details, and if not an identity, enough clues to fill in an outline. The next step would then be the most delicate, how to plant a kernel of fact without it appearing disinformation, and how to cover his tracks to ensure that such a treasonous act were not traced back to him. But he could not consider it treason, when the reputation of his directorate was at stake. And if it eliminated rivals as a side effect, so be it. Enough of insults.

T
HERE WAS A QUIET
elegance to the Victorian terrace of Park Parade, whose bay windows looked out across small, tidy gardens, a narrow causeway and wrought iron railings to Jesus Green, Victoria Avenue and Midsummer Common beyond. Such central Cambridge properties had doubled in value in recent years, and were owned mostly by University professors who had occupied them for decades. Few students could afford the rents in these gentrified neighborhoods.

Smailes grabbed the old-fashioned bell pull at Gorham-Leach's door and heard a weak trickle of sound from the hallway as he eased the knob against its spring. The door was opened by an elderly woman in a housecoat, who invited him in by name. From the back of the house he could hear the whistle of a kettle.

Gorham-Leach's housekeeper did not introduce herself and gestured simply to the first door on the right.

“Sir Martin's in his study,” she said, and turned quickly back towards the kitchen. Smailes knocked lightly with a knuckle on the door, which stood ajar.

“Do come in,” he heard Gorham-Leach respond.

Martin Gorham-Leach was seated in a modern leather revolving chair behind a desk set back in the bay and facing into the room, and was almost completely hidden by a wall of books piled in front of him. As Smailes looked around the large study, it seemed less a place of work than an exhibit in a museum, a vast and eccentric reliquary of knowledge. The reason was the number of books, which were strewn throughout the room in almost comical excess. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves, which were all haphazardly full. Books stood in piles on the window sills, the mantel shelf, and in piles on the floor next to an ugly electric fire. Gorham-Leach himself seemed trapped at his desk by the stacks of books that surrounded his chair, and the only other chairs in the room, a pair of ancient green wingbacks that faced the hearth, were at least a foot deep in a jumble of books and magazines. The air in the room was acrid with the aroma of decaying paper. Between Gorham-Leach and the wall on his right stood a battered-looking manual typewriter on a metal table, which seemed to have the only horizontal surface with any virgin space. Gorham-Leach got to his feet and made a vague circular gesture in the air.

“Ah, Detective Sergeant Smailes, so kind of you to be punctual. Do move some of those books aside and have a seat.”

Smailes, unsure whether this was physically possible, hesitated.

“I'm sorry to be so cramped,” G-L added sheepishly. “You see the study is the one place Mrs. Gilbert is not allowed, and I do tend to neglect things. To the left of the fire I think there's room. Let me help.”

Gorham-Leach maneuvered around the books at his feet and began to clear off both armchairs. Smailes helped him make two awkward piles next to the hearth, smiling as he did so. He saw titles on philosophy, political science and mathematics. All the books Gorham-Leach owned seemed to be hardbacks. The elderly physicist grinned back at him guiltily.

“It's my only vice, you see. I buy far too many, more than I can ever read. But I've never been able to resist buying books, I'm afraid, and I'm incapable of throwing any away. Please be seated,” he said after the two chairs were finally cleared. At that moment Mrs. Gilbert the housekeeper entered with a tea tray equipped with folding legs, which she erected precariously on the hearth rug in front of Gorham-Leach. She retreated with a loud sniff, as if to emphasize her disavowal of this particular environment. Gorham-Leach smiled at the policeman as she left, and began pouring tea.

“I'd be lost without her, I swear. But she will never forgive me for not allowing her to clean and straighten up this room. She is always offended when I receive visitors here. It's quite touching really.”

He handed Smailes a tea cup, his face clouding. “So where shall we begin?” he asked.

“Well, Sir Martin, I'd like to know anything you could tell me about Simon Bowles, that could help us explain his suicide. For the coroner, you understand. I've been told you were supervising…”

“Do call me G-L,” interrupted the professor. “Everyone does.”

“I understand you were supervising his academic work.”

“Yes, that's true, that's true. Not entirely my field, but one which still interests me considerably.”

“And what was that?” asked Smailes guardedly.

“The properties of the transfinite ordinals,” responded G-L. “It's pure maths really, whereas I have been much more involved in applied maths and physics in my own career. But this young man had such a reputation, I thought it might be stimulating to work with him.”

“So the relationship was your own suggestion?”

“Yes indeed. It may have had some influence on the fellowship committee, I think, but that's not why I offered. There has really been very little original work in the field since Bertrand, so I thought it was high time.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Bertrand Russell's work in the thirties. The second edition of the
Principia
.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Smailes. “I think perhaps Simon Bowles had a poster of Mr. Russell in his room.”

“Well, that would make sense. I think Bertrand was his personal model, and you know, Simon reminded me of him more than a little.” It seemed natural that Gorham-Leach should have been an intimate of the most famous British mathematician and philosopher of the century.

“What do you mean?” asked the detective, sipping tea. He rested the cup on the arm of his chair and studied the scientist's features. Gorham-Leach was about seventy, he figured, but was aging with dignity, and held himself erect in his chair as he spoke. He seemed to Smailes the antithesis of Hawken; courteous, modest and amiable. The strong nose and brow gave him the appearance of a large bird.

“Well, Simon had this unusual combination of a powerful logical mind, a very strong technique, and an intuitive faculty that all the greatest mathematicians have shared. You know, the ability to set aside the conventional approaches to a problem, a kind of daring. He really did show remarkable promise.”

Smailes thought of the deductive powers Bowles had shown in his Kennedy research, the admiration he had felt towards the young man as an investigator.

“Did you meet with him often?”

“No, not often. Every two or three months, we would review his progress. I couldn't really offer him more, I have been so busy myself of late.”

“You're with the Cambridge Research Institute, I understand, sir,” said Smailes.

Gorham-Leach seemed surprised, a little annoyed. “Who told you that, if I may ask?”

“Dr. Hawken, when I asked for information about you.”

There was irritation in G-L's voice. “My word, that man really can be impossible at times. Excuse me, officer, I'm not criticizing you, but the very existence of CRI is supposed to be confidential. Hawken of all people should know that.”

“Why so?”

“Well, let me see.” Gorham-Leach set his tea-cup down carefully on the arm of his chair and stared at it for a moment. “I'm afraid I can't talk about it. I'm not allowed to. If I say that this is because of the Official Secrets Act, I think you may understand.” He looked at Smailes steadily for a moment, as if for confirmation.

“Did the news of Simon Bowles' suicide surprise you?”

“It most certainly did. I had no idea, no inkling. I knew there had been some, well, difficulties in his past, but I had no suspicion that there was anything the matter with him recently.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“Just ten days ago, a week past Wednesday. I checked my diary this morning before you arrived.”

“And how was that meeting?”

“A little unsatisfactory, I must confess. Simon seemed to have done very little work so far this year, and I'm afraid I remonstrated with him a little. We expect our fellows to earn their doctorates, you know.”

“Did he tell you why he had been neglecting his work?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Simon Bowles confide in you at all? Did he tell you about the research projects he undertook outside his academic work?”

Here again Gorham-Leach paused to examine his tea cup before continuing. “Yes, he did to a certain extent. In fact, he even tried to get me to cooperate, to give him my opinions.”

“About the recruitment of Soviet agents at Cambridge University in the thirties?”

“I thought you might know. Yes, it seemed to me that Simon had grown quite preoccupied with the question. Really quite an inappropriate way for a research fellow to spend his time and the college's funds, as I told him.”

“What else did you tell him, sir?”

“There was very little I could tell him, even if I wanted to. I think you may appreciate, officer, that I have been involved in sensitive government work practically my whole career. When I arrived in Cambridge in 1937, this place was a hotbed of socialism. Our most celebrated traitors had already gone down, for the most part, but there was still plenty of activity. I have always found the intrusion of politics into the academic world repellent, and have never understood the attraction of the utopian rantings of that boil-ridden Jew. I'm afraid I was a rather vocal opponent of my communist colleagues during that time. Believe me, if I thought there were still anyone with allegiance to the Soviets in any prominent position in our society, I would have told the authorities long ago. I myself submit to regular positive vetting every few years or so, and quite rightly so. But I was not in a position to tell Simon any of these opinions.”

“Why not?”

“Because to do so might draw me into discussions that I am simply prohibited from conducting. Simon knew from my record that I was at Cambridge towards the end of that period, and wanted to know my general opinion about whether I felt all those who were recruited had been exposed. He even tried to ask me about specific names. I'm afraid I may have been indiscreet anyway, despite my caution.”

“Really? With respect to what?”

Gorham-Leach looked distinctly uncomfortable. Eventually he said quietly, “Nigel Hawken.”

“Hawken?”

“Let me try and explain to you, detective sergeant. I saw Simon Bowles as a protege. Oh, I tried to disguise from him any personal feelings, but otherwise I would never have agreed to take him on as a supervisee. I think I can say without immodesty that my time is quite valuable. This young man showed spectacular gifts which could have been invaluable to his country in any number of ways. So I was irritated and annoyed that he spent so much time chasing ghosts. I know they are ghosts, believe me. And so does Nigel Hawken.”

Smailes said nothing. He became aware of the hum of the electric fire, the distant sound of a vacuum cleaner. Gorham-Leach perched quietly in his chair, his head slightly cocked, choosing his words carefully.

“Simon asked me a couple of months ago if it was true that Hawken was still an intelligence officer. It really wasn't such a startling deduction, believe me, since Hawken's listing in
Who's Who
simply lists “attached to War Office” from forty-one to sixty-four. To anyone who studies the British Establishment, such an entry is like a flag indicating the individual has been with the security services. Simon had been analyzing the careers of dozens of people who had been here in the thirties, but that was the only name he asked me about directly. And I'm afraid I told him to ask Hawken himself. Well, I think Simon took it as a confirmation, because I know he subsequently went to try and interview him. I should have simply refused to discuss the question, but I wanted Simon to stop this fruitless quest. And I thought Hawken might actually be able to stop him, or give him information that would stop him. I wanted to see Simon get through his doctoral work and get into the applied fields where his skills could really be put to use. Mr. Smailes, I cannot tell you how tragic it is that a talent like Simon Bowles showed is lost to us. His death is a terrible waste.”

Smailes tried not to appear taken aback by this extraordinary news. “Dr. Hawken is an intelligence officer?” he asked mildly.

“I think I have said enough, officer. But I regret having inferred any such thing to Simon. I can imagine Hawken's wrath if he were confronted by such an inquiry. It was foolish of me to think that I would be doing anything except whetting Simon's appetite. At our last meeting he wanted to tell me of his meeting with Hawken, but I refused to entertain the subject. I felt I had already done enough damage.”

Smailes' brain was racing through the implications of this disclosure. Hadn't Hawken claimed hardly to know Bowles, to have had no personal dealings with him in years? He kept his tone even in his next question.