The Cambridge Theorem (5 page)

“Certainly not. The college recognizes the privacy of its members—junior and senior—to a very fine degree. If Mr. Bowles was in some kind of difficulty, it would have been up to him to initiate a discussion of the matter with his tutor.

“I had heard nothing which might suggest Mr. Bowles might be about to make an attempt on his life again. But it does seem to bear out my concerns that he was inappropriate material for a fellowship.”

You bastard, thought Smailes. What if young Bowles didn't like this bloke Davies. Where did he go then? What role did the tutor play, anyway?

“Perhaps you could explain a little further to me the relationship between the student and the tutor. It might be helpful when I see Dr. Davies.”

Hawken assumed an attitude of amused tolerance. “Well, it's a bit old-fashioned, I suppose, but all the men at Cambridge have both a director of studies and a moral tutor. It's a very long tradition. The director of studies concerns himself with the academic affairs of the student, and the tutor—we've sort of dropped the moral bit over the years—is in charge of, well, moral welfare, shall we say. He meets with the student at regular intervals, reviews academic progress, but also goes over more general things, how things are going, whether there are any problems, things like that.”

“Is the relationship—er, optional?” asked Smailes.

“Certainly not,” retorted Hawken quickly. “Every man must meet with his tutor at least once a term. It's a requirement for graduation. Of course, for a graduate student, it's not mandatory, but in Bowles' case we thought it wise to insist he keep up the meetings.”

“So if anyone from the college knew if there was anything troubling Bowles, it would be Dr. Davies?” He found himself acting deliberately slow to aggravate this arrogant, callous man.

“Yes, yes that's correct,” said Hawken. “I have been thinking. Dr. Poole, a botany chap, is away at Harvard on sabbatical this term and you could use his rooms to conduct further inquiries, if you feel that is necessary. I suspect Dr. Davies is in his rooms. I could arrange for you to speak with him now, if you wish.”

Smailes assented, and walked over to the window overlooking the court as Hawken made phone calls. The scene was perfectly normal. Two young women locked in earnest conversation were moving hurriedly past a group of Japanese tourists, all wearing identical tan raincoats. A stout man with a walking stick was gesticulating at the large clock above the porter's lodge and haranguing them. Hawken joined him.

“Well then, that's all fixed. I'm sorry if I seem a little business-like about all this. But someone has to take the larger view.”

Smailes ignored the remark. “Those young women there—I noticed them outside Bowles' staircase too. Are there women students at this college?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” said Hawken, resuming his tone of wintry displeasure. “Three years ago. Couldn't hold out any longer, although God knows, I was in favor of doing so. Not that I object to female students, of course. Frightfully bright, some of them. But they have their own colleges, and I never saw any point in mixing things up. Bloody distracting for the men, if you ask me.”

“Would seem more natural to me,” said Smailes casually. “It's mixed out there in the world, too.”

“Well, indeed, Sergeant Smailes. But St. Margaret's is in the business of serious scholarship, and personally I have never felt that the presence of women enhanced that aim.”

“You mean men study better if they're celibate?” asked Smailes in disbelief.

“Damn it man, if any chap from this college wants a woman, he can bloody well go up to London and buy one, as we all did,” Hawken exploded.

Smailes gaped at him but could find no reply. There was an awkward silence as Hawken strode back across the room to pick up Smailes' coat.

“Just a couple of things, Dr. Hawken,” said Smailes, not knowing in quite what tone to proceed. “Did you see the note the young man left?”

“No, I did not.”

“It was in his typewriter. It said ‘They came back.' Do you know what he meant?”

“No I'm afraid I do not. As I have told you, I did not know this young man very well,” said Hawken.

He took his coat from Hawken's outstretched hand. There was no longer any ceremony in Hawken's manner.

“I will show you Dr. Poole's rooms. Dr. Davies is on his way over.”

“One last thing. Will you try and determine if anyone saw Bowles last night? We always try and find out as much as we can for the report to the coroner, and for the family.”

“Certainly. I will ask Mr. Beecroft to see to it right away.” He led the detective out of the room.

The old spy shifted his weight again on the hard chair and felt nervously for the carbon copy of his memo in his inside pocket. It was unnecessary, since he knew its contents by heart, but he wanted to be prepared if a particular word or phrasing were queried. He had met the chairman many times during the fourteen years of his tenure, but not usually alone, and not usually in the famous third floor office of the Lubianka. He was aching for a cigarette, but forced his attention elsewhere, to survey the conference room that formed an outer office of the chairman's suite. At intervals along the green baize of the huge table were small crystal goblets, each containing a sheaf of perfectly sharpened pencils. On the wall opposite the windows was the large, mandatory portrait of Lenin. Above the double walnut doors by which he had entered was a modern, rectangular clock, also of walnut. The time was almost ten twenty. The only other persons in the room were the uniformed guard at attention by the double doors and the rodent-faced assistant seated impassively at the small desk just outside the door to the private office.

He touched the memo with his fingertips and cleared his throat. He was proud of it. He had always had a mature ease with written expression, and had begun and ended his career in the West as a journalist. He had taken considerable pains to learn the nuance of Russian prose, and could now write better in his adopted language than many native officers. He had long dispensed with translators, and now employed only Rufa to review his grammar and syntax. He looked at the handsome panelled door to the chairman's private office and smiled. When the chairman had taken charge in the late sixties, the only means of entry to his inner sanctum was through a
shkaf
, a contraption that resembled an antique wardrobe. The entrant stepped into the
shkaf
and total darkness, then an assistant activated the mechanism that opened the panel into the inner office. His first order as KGB chairman had been to have the
shkaf
demolished, and replaced with an ordinary door. It had been a symbolic beginning, for in the ensuing years the KGB had been transformed from a backward troupe of louts and criminals into an elite corps that now attracted the most talented of Moscow's graduates. For all the puzzling contradictions of his character, the chairman was a man of vision, a vision which might yet work a profound transformation on Soviet society.

The assistant responded to a barely audible buzz on his handset and rose to open the panelled door. The ugly little man turned and silently gestured for the old spy to enter.

His nervousness left him as he strode quickly to accept the proferred handshake from the second most powerful man in the Soviet Union. The tall, stooped figure in a dark business suit smiled slightly as he stood behind the huge desk and indicated a chair with a courteous hand. The men sat down in silence, and the chairman resumed his contemplation of the memorandum in front of him. The Englishman crossed his legs and looked around the room.

The office was a reflection of the enigma of the man himself. The only adornments were the large portrait of Feliks Dzerzhinsky above the marble mantel, and a beautiful wooden statue of Don Quixote on his desk. Side by side, the images of the fearsome founder of the Cheka, Lenin's secret police, and the hopelessly pure
chevalier
, the emblem of humanity's unquenchable idealism. Is this how the chairman saw himself, a fabulous knight tilting against endless brutish realities of the police state? He was compounded of contradictions; daring and conservative, enlightened and pitiless, a man who wrote poetry to his friends and family and imprisoned dissidents in psychiatric hospitals. The silver hair and black-rimmed glasses made him seem kindly and professorial, but his reputation for cruelty made him universally feared. He stopped reading and looked up.

“You present an eloquent case, comrade colonel,” he said, making fastidious distinction between the spy's status, which was general, and his rank, which was colonel.

“I serve the Soviet Union,” the old spy replied, and both men smiled. It was the standard declamation, usually barked at attention when receiving a decoration or promotion. The old spy pronounced the formula in his quiet, self-deprecating way, and the chairman nodded in appreciation.

“Indeed, most well. But I fear in this case your suggestion seems unorthodox.” The chairman's bland expression did not change.

The old spy maintained an even and unassertive tone. “To use Department Five cannot work at this stage. Cambridge is a closed society. Our response must be suitable for such an environment. All we are talking about is a surveillance operation.”

“And if enforcement is needed?”

“There has been some training.”

The chairman relaxed his gaze and scanned the memorandum again. The old spy felt a trace of concern that he was perceived as merely squeamish, his gentleman's objection to
mokrei dela
, to wet affairs, being well known.

“Some. But our comrades are most proud of their accomplishments at the Sorge Institute. They do not still wear baggy suits and speak English like Cossacks.”

The old spy felt discomfitted by the accusation, but stroked his cheek and said nothing.

“Do you know what will be said at First? They will say that our British comrade grows sentimental with his years, that he thinks of his university days and his judgement becomes clouded.”

“Why would they know?”

“They will know,” said the chairman quietly.

Again the old spy chose to say nothing, knowing that the chairman's decision was made, and that this interview was merely a formality, a warning that if the mission were approved and failed it would be tagged deliberately to him.

“I have given the question much thought, and I believe I am right. Conrad's identity must be protected at all costs.”

“Except from our
gebist
?” asked the chairman, using the slang term for agent, and invoking the inevitable question of consequences.

“If the danger passes, our gebist should be amply rewarded. Would we not do the same for our Sorge Institute comrades?” The rejoinder had no effect on the chairman's expression, and he knew he could take the matter no further. But he felt if the chairman acceded, he would be acknowledging an implicit condition. Again silence spread out between them and the chairman flicked to the second page of the report.

“It is agreed. We will make this our initial response. I will instruct Veleshin to make arrangements. Do you wish to be involved with briefing?”

Suddenly flushed with surprise and embarassment, the old spy's lifelong stammer, long quiescent, returned. “I th…think not. The t…travel, at my age. Perhaps a word with C…Comrade Veleshin.”

“Of course.” Unexpectedly, a warm smile lit up the impassive Slavic face. “A brilliant analysis, comrade colonel, as I have come to expect from you.”

“Thank you, Comrade Andropov,” he said, still embarassed, but luxuriating in the unaccustomed praise.

“Come, no need for such formality.”

“Thank you, Yuri Vladimirovich.”

“Thank you, Igor Andreyevich.” Both men exploded in laughter at the use of the preposterous alias that the KGB had given him all those years ago when he had first arrived, an alcoholic and nervous wreck, from Beirut.

“Thank you, Kim. Thank you, Comrade Philby.”

He rose and returned the chairman's hearty handshake. With the chairman one could never be sure, but Kim Philby felt they understood each other.

P
OOLE'S ROOMS
were two courts away from the main court, overlooking the River Cam and the Cambridge Backs. The detective sergeant looked down at the sluggish green water flowing between the brick banks. The boat yards would not open until Easter, the following week, and the river was empty of life except for a lone duck. He could just decipher a slogan that had been painted on the bricks in foot-high white letters, long faded. “VIETNAM HOT DAMN” it said, in ugly capitals. He looked further across the expanse of lawn which swept across to Queens Road and down towards Kings College.

Derek Smailes watched the tranquil scene and felt the centuries-old antipathy of the town towards the gown. He loathed the University, the arrogance and patronage that Nigel Hawken personified. The acres of lawn and pasture along the river had once been the center of a busy market town, before the University arrived and had commandeered everything. Now its ivory towers squatted like a gothic lizard along the river and on the center of the town, usurping the best land and commercial property, dictating terms to the elected officials of the council. It was Cambridge's largest employer but paid its workers poorly and instilled in them a fawning subservience that infuriated Smailes. The porters' uniforms were a mockery of his own service. Even when they had helped the college authorities in some tight spots, during the student riots of the early seventies, Cambridge police were always made to feel as if they were a distasteful last resort, representatives of the barbarism of the outside world. The tension between the town and the University had erupted into open violence on numerous occasions in history, although not during his time on the force. The most he had ever seen were isolated cases of grad-bashing, when the local skinheads broke a few teeth on Saturday nights. Like many Cambridge policemen, he secretly sympathized with the local toughs. Who was this kid Bowles anyway? Some neurotic, overprivileged brat with too many brains and too little sense. He would be glad to conclude this investigation and get back into the real world.