The Cambridge Theorem (43 page)

“I really doubt it,” said Smailes. He thought of Lauren, and felt a sudden wave of fear. He was shocked at how expansive Standiforth was being. He felt flattered, a little unnerved.

“By the way, do you still have it?” he asked.

“I'm sorry?”

“The ribbon. Do you still have it?”

Smailes thought of bluffing but the bulge in his jacket pocket was probably conspicuous. He handed it to Standiforth reluctantly. It was his last physical proof of Bowles' extraordinary discovery. Standiforth looked pensive and waved the ribbon cartridge at him.

“You know, Officer Smailes, when I first finished speaking with Chief Superintendent Dearnley last night, I was very angry with you. That you had not consulted higher authority much earlier in this investigation. I was planning to recommend an immediate suspension, in fact.” Smailes did not look at Dearnley. “But I realize how unlikely this case must have seemed, why you chose to go it alone. And I must commend you on your excellent work.”

Dearnley changed the subject. “Won't they have tried to spring their man after they came up empty at Derek's? I mean, at Sergeant Smailes'?”

“No. You see, they don't even know who he is. The KGB has never quite overcome its conspiratorial origins, and even its senior agents are told as little as possible. Conrad's identity has been such an unusually well kept secret all these years, my guess is that no agent has ever learned his name and position unless it was absolutely necessary. These two have been briefed on whom to watch, whom to eliminate if necessary. But since they bungled the burglary, my guess is they're probably waiting for further orders. They're probably not even part of his escape team. Besides, our chaps tell us he's only been out once, so far, to walk his dog. No phone calls.”

Standiforth gestured towards the bookcase on his right, where a small two-way radio was resting. Smailes was relieved that unseen hands had taken over. He wished someone were watching Lauren.

“Why didn't we pick him up last night?” asked Smailes.

“Well, officer, it was quite late when I finished speaking with the Chief Superintendent. Certain arrangements have had to be made. And our watchers were in place by five thirty. Nigel Hawken knew the name of a neighbor, fortunately.”

“Hawken?” said Smailes, stiffening.

“Yes, Mr. Smailes, I'll get the details from you later. I understand there are certain questions that need answers. No, if my theory is correct, our man doesn't even know he's blown.”

Standiforth reached inside his suit and produced a silver cigarette case. He offered it to Dearnley and to Smailes, who took a cigarette and accepted a light from a matching lighter. Standiforth flipped back the cap of the lighter and put it back in his pocket with a languid gesture.

“One more thing, officer. Do you carry a weapon?”

Again, the stupid patronage. Of course, he didn't carry a weapon. This was Cambridge, not the Bronx.

“No, but I'm an authorized shot. Take me five minutes to sign one out.”

“Is your card current, Derek?” asked George. Police regulations required two days of training every eight weeks to keep the authorization current. There had been an embarrassing incident last year when George Dearnley had gone to book out a weapon during the hostage siege at Fen Ditton, and had been sent away by the armorer because his card was expired.

“Yes, sir,” said Smailes, keeping his face straight.

“I really don't anticipate anything untoward,” said Standiforth, “but caution should prevail.”

Smailes stood up, but found his irritation at Standiforth's deception had gotten the better of him.

“Look, if you're with the Specials, why don't you use your own men to make the arrest. They've got an office down the hall. They can't both be out at Molesworth singing
We Shall Overcome
.”

Dearnley looked shocked but Standiforth smiled and then stood and extended his hand.

“Mr. Smailes, I do apologize. I really did not think you had such slow wits. I'm just plain Roger Standiforth with MI5. Secrecy becomes an obsession with us; it's almost a vice. I wasn't sure how much you already knew, and didn't want to complicate things.

“Of course, we have no powers of arrest, as I'm sure you know. Please get your weapon. We'll leave as soon as you're back.”

M
ARTIN GORHAM-LEACH
answered the door slowly and peered out at them, looking amiable but puzzled. It was a Saturday, and he was dressed informally in an old blue cardigan and slippers. The two policemen were standing behind Standiforth, their coats turned up against the heavy rain that had begun falling.

“My word, Roger, this is a surprise. And Detective Sergeant Smailes. Well, do step in. It has turned quite nasty suddenly.”

The three men followed the old scientist down the hall. Predictably, he turned into his study. The electric fire was turned on and Gorham-Leach went to stand in front of it, next to the old black Labrador that was asleep on the hearth rug. He looked at the three men quizzically.

“Well, I suppose the detective sergeant must have taken my advice after all. It's a sorry business, I agree, but something had to be done sooner or later. Roger, I could have said something earlier, I admit.”

Dearnley cleared his throat and spoke. “I'm Chief Superintendent George Dearnley of Cambridge police. Martin Gorham-Leach, you are under arrest for multiple offenses against the Official Secrets Act. You are also under arrest for the murder of Simon Bowles and the suspected murder of Giles Allerton. You have the right to remain silent. If you do not remain silent, what you say may be taken down and used in evidence. Do you understand your rights?”

“Roger? There must be some mistake. What on earth is he talking about? You know my security record. Simon Bowles murdered? And who is Giles Allerton? Really, is this a prank?”

Standiforth produced the typewriter ribbon from his pocket and held it in front of Gorham-Leach. There was both weariness and malice in his voice. “Technology changes, Max. You got too old to spy. This is the ribbon you forgot to remove from Bowles' typewriter. It contains a complete transcript of what he wrote the night he was killed. He discovered who you really are, didn't he, Mr. Gottlieb?”

Gorham-Leach took two steps towards the window and turned to look out at Standiforth's black Jaguar, and the sheets of rain that had begun to sweep across Jesus Green. He stood motionless for a long time. The minutes began to extend. Eventually, George Dearnley said, “Sir, if you'll come with us, we…”

“Superintendent,” Gorham-Leach interrupted angrily, “I have lived a life of flawless dissimulation, only to find myself discovered by a spotty maths student and Mr…” He turned to the three men, as if lost for a name. “…Smailes here. Permit me my moment of gall.” They resumed their wait. Then Gorham-Leach began to speak.

“It was a very simple plan, really. I suppose that is why it worked so well all these years. You see, I could hardly come back under my own name, could I? Given my background, no one would have believed my renunciation, would they?

“Max Gottlieb, Martin Gorham-Leach, it wasn't even such a big adjustment to make. There were plenty of people giving up their Jewish names for solid English names in the thirties, believe me.

“Of course, there was always the slight danger that the discrepancy in dates might be noticed. A three-year gap between undergraduate and graduate careers is a little unusual. Then there were the official court records of the deed poll somewhere. I must confess, I never thought that the fate of the original Martin Gorham-Leach would be unearthed. I met him once, you know, the year before he was killed in the Alps. Unspeakable young man. Always chasing young boys, or foxes, it seemed. Still, he had some loose interest in getting a science degree, so it provided the needed continuity when we finally got around to positive vetting. By that time, anyone who knew I had applied as Max Gottlieb, but come up as Martin Gorham-Leach was long since dead. As far as my colleagues were concerned, I came from an upper crust Surrey family. That I was actually born in the Baku oilfields and was a Soviet citizen would have sounded too far-fetched to be conceivable.

“You see, there were some who took the long view, even back then. After I led the Oxford party to Moscow and decided to stay, I was gradually convinced that it might be more beneficial to Soviet science if I returned to Cambridge. Incognito, of course. You see, the Cavendish was always the prize. There never could have been an atomic bomb without the Cavendish. Some saw that the defeat of Hitler would only be a preliminary in the much longer struggle against capitalism, and that scientific knowledge would be crucial to the survival of our revolution. History has proved us right, wouldn't you say?”

Here Gorham-Leach moved slowly across the room towards the three men. He suddenly looked stooped and frail. He steadied himself against the back of one of the wing chairs, tossed some magazines onto the floor, and sat down heavily. He resumed his monologue without looking up.

“You know, the two institutions are really remarkably hermetic. I would occasionally meet someone who had known me at Oxford as Max Gottlieb, and would have to convince them they were mistaken, I was Martin Gorham-Leach. From time to time someone would ask me if I was related to the Gorham-Leach who had been killed at Chamonix, and I would say we were distant cousins. But it happened very rarely, and only at first. You see, everyone knew that Max Gottlieb had returned to the motherland. I think there's still some journeyman, in the Academy of Sciences, using my cover. They give him an award every now and then, to keep the name alive.”

Smailes looked over at Dearnley and reached for his notebook. He was concerned that Gorham-Leach was singing so loud, and that nothing was being recorded. Dearnley shook his head discreetly, and Smailes wondered if somehow they had been able to wire the place, that somewhere recording tape was turning.

“I wondered actually, Roger. When Winston and I went out this morning, the young girl with the pram, I'd never seen her before. Of course, I'd sent for help, they could have been ours, I didn't know. But I still thought it was improbably that young Bowles' detective work would be duplicated. Simple mistake about the ribbon, really. I've always used the manual type myself, you see. Didn't think.”

Gorham-Leach turned to look at Smailes. There was a look of slight amusement in his eyes.

“So he had asked himself about the files from Bletchley, who flagged them, eh? You know, it wasn't that difficult to discern, really. No great mathematical precepts involved. Simple arithmetic should have convinced anyone that Kim couldn't have done it alone, processed all those raw intercepts with the speed that was needed for the Eastern front. But no one seemed to stop and think about the sheer volume of the Bletchley material by the end of the war. It was being delivered to SIS daily by handcart. But Simon Bowles obviously did, perhaps because he had the kind of mind that thought instinctively along physical, mathematical lines. I went back, of course, the next night, to look for his original file, after I reflected how his deductions must have proceeded.

“I signed off on everything as it was translated, you see. A simple numerical dating system was all that Kim needed. We always worked quite well together, he and I.”

Here there was a sustained pause as Gorham-Leach was seized by a coughing fit. He eventually produced a large white handkerchief, wiped his face and mouth, and resumed slowly.

“I must admit you surprised me, detective sergeant, with the question about the Blenheim Hunt. No one had asked me that for years. Were you trying to catch me out?”

Smailes did not reply.

“Then, of course, the Cambridge Research Institute was founded. A great stroke of luck, since the Cavendish was always a little high-minded about military work. We became the research and development lab for the Ministry of Defense. Whatever was developed in the private sector would come to us for testing and approval. Oh yes, there's been quite a bit over the years. The diesel engine for the Centurion tank, the swing-wing fighter, the jump jet. British military science has always been the pioneer of the Western alliance. So I think I've been able to keep our development costs down considerably over the years. In fact, I would claim that I am more responsible than any man alive for the current military parity of the Soviet Union. When you think about it, you'll probably agree, Roger.”

Gorham-Leach beamed at Standiforth, who was staring at him impassively.

“But the achievements of the past are pale compared with our current work. You see, that fool in the White House has been listening to his German scientists again. We all got a few of the fascists at the end of the war, but I think the United States got the most foolhardy. Oh, it's not public yet, but I've no doubt it will be in the next year or so. He will put on his make-up, go on television and declare that space-based weapons can render nuclear arsenals obsolete. A questionable assertion, I think, when you consider the simplicity of the countermeasures, but the physics are at least plausible, we have found. An orbiting laser could destroy an ICBM before re-entry, conceivably. Oh, there will be plenty of bally-hoo about the militarization of space, and the arms race will escalate further, which is the whole point. You see, the point is not deployment. The point is that the bullet-heads in the Pentagon want us to cripple ourselves in the research and development phase. They still believe that sufficient material deprivation will lead the Soviet people to revolt against their Government. It really is quite galling. Gentlemen, do you know what percentage of a popular vote the Party would win if free elections were held next week? Around ninety percent. Do you know how many citizens would vote to close the gulag, free the dissidents? Maybe twenty percent. You see, the Soviet people have never known anything but authoritarian government. They see this obscene squabble of life in the West and want no part of it. No part of it. And the military and political leaders in the West have never understood the capacity of the Soviet people for suffering and endurance. Mr. Smailes, do you know how many people died in the siege of Leningrad? One million people. More than all the casualties of the all the Allies, civilian and military, combined. Do you know how many were lost in the whole Patriotic War? Twenty million. And yet these men in the Pentagon, who grow fat driving around in carts chasing a little white ball, think that lack of butter or meat or leather shoes will cause the Soviet people to rise up against their leaders. It's despicable.”