The Cambridge Theorem

by Tony Cape

  “Are you all right, Sergeant?” asked George. “You look a bit shaken up. Did you stay with your mother?”

  “I stayed with Denise.” He had decided to leave all mention of Lauren Greenwald out of these proceedings.

  “This fellow Allerton’s missing.”

  “No kidding,” said Smailes. He wondered whether George had known last night, whether that was why he had insisted he not go to his flat. “Probably on a binge somewhere. He’s a lady’s man. Likes the horses.”

  “Doubtful. He missed some meeting with a tutor day before yesterday and no one’s seen him since. Family hasn’t heard from him.”

  “Could be he was picked up by the same zombies did my place last night,” he said offhandedly. Standiforth leaned forward slightly in his chair, and clasped his hands around his knee.

  “What do you mean?” asked George, a trace of alarm in his voice.

  “After I left Denise’s this morning I went home to change. The place had been taken apart. Maybe they were looking for the ribbon. They took the Cambridge files, that’s all.”

  “What Cambridge files?” asked Standiforth, in a voice that indicated he’d been to the right schools.

  “Bowles’ files on the links between Cambridge University and Soviet espionage. I lifted them from his room before his sister cleared out his things. At least, I lifted what was still there. I think our man must’ve got back in there, Wednesday night, to remove what he thought was most incriminating. A file on Bletchley Park, at least, maybe more.”

  George Dearnley looked winded and passed his hand in front of his face. He looked painfully at Standiforth and then said to Smailes, “How come I knew nothing of this?”

  “Couldn’t be sure, George. No physical inventory, see.”

  “It’s a little irregular, to go removing evidence like that, Sergeant,” said George.

  “I had the sister’s permission,” said Smailes. He turned to Standiforth. “Nothing much in there that wasn’t already in the record. Some original stuff on activities in the thirties that he had dug out of the library, here and at Oxford. Some interesting speculation.”

  “Such as?”

  “He was asking himself, ‘Who flagged the files from Bletchley?’ I guess he solved that one, didn’t he?”

  Standiforth said nothing. Smailes reached into his inside pocket. “Whoever they are, these clowns have been tooling around in a custom Rover, rented out from a local wide boy.” He produced the photocopy of Fowler’s paperwork. “Says they’re with the Ministry of Defense. I guess this is your department, Commander. Know any Stanley Hicks?”

  “Let me see that,” said Standiforth. He looked at the contract and made a little noise of disgust. “This is one of our friends’ sour little jokes. So that if they’re spotted and the car is traced, we might waste some time chasing our tails. No, the Ministry of Defense has no need to rent cars from garages in Ely, believe me. I hear a Post Office van was used also? That’s fairly simple to explain. Some comrade in the postal union, a vehicle booked in for repairs, loaned out for a few weeks. Believe me, officer, you were quite fortunate you were not at home. That was a KGB assassination team that visited your flat. In fact, they were more than that. They were a Sorge team, only the second group that has ever ventured onto British territory, to our knowledge.

  “We were alerted that they had come in through Prestwick two weeks ago, but we lost the trail. You see, we do know a little about the cover they use.”

  “Sorge team?” said Smailes, trying to sound interested.

  “The Sorge Institute is an elite facility outside Leningrad. Named for the Soviet Union’s most famous spy. The agents trained there are the most skilled and dangerous the Soviets can deploy, and therefore the least often used.” Standiforth pronounced the word “orfe-ten.”

  “Yes, I wondered when they came through that it might involve Conrad.”

  “Conrad?” interrupted Smailes. Dearnley’s face was impassive.

  “The cryptonym of a very high-ranking agent. We’ve known of his existence for many years. Except it seemed probable he was either dead or retired, by now. And all the evidence pointed to Whitehall. The consensus was that Cambridge was clean.

  “No doubt they were summoned because Conrad thought this man Bowles might get too close to his identity. They didn’t kill him, however. They would never have made such a simple mistake as leaving a typewriter ribbon. In fact, they must have realized the oversight, which led to the break-in at the sister’s. When they found they still did not have the original, they visited you. You were not home. Unfortunately this man Allerton was not so lucky. A friend of the dead man, I understand. Did he know anything?”

  “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 s
ent 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.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MARTIN 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 h
andkerchief, 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.”