The Cambridge Theorem (50 page)

“Indeed, it did seem likely Bowles was murdered, although hardly incontrovertible. I didn't really work it out until you did, until after we'd heard Gorham-Leach's rather ingenious story. Then it seemed clear that the girl had seen what you discovered, that Bowles had in fact worked the whole thing out. And I must concede, I was prepared to let her get away, Mr. Smailes. That was the sole reason for my fussiness, you see, messing about with microphones and the like. And I assure you, the Superintendent knew only that we had Gorham-Leach. We've had his telephone wired for months—his confession is all on tape, as you suspect.”

Standiforth's explanation had begun to placate Smailes, but there was one crucial aspect that he still needed to clarify.

“Obvious reasons, Roger. You said you couldn't tell George the full scope of your Cambridge operations for obvious reasons. What were they, please?” he asked.

“Really, Mr. Smailes. If I had told the Chief Superintendent about the girl, then it would have been clear she was involved in both Bowles' death and the disappearance of Allerton. I knew he was already a little uneasy about the inquest business, and I could not expect that he would allow me to let a double murderer escape. At least, not without an enormous fuss. Please don't believe that of him. But I had to let her go, you see, to preserve the viability of our work for the past year. I don't regret it, only that my plan went so badly wrong. I didn't want you endangered, detective sergeant—I already had other plans for you. It was almost a calamity, as you know, except in one crucial aspect it was a complete success. Our friends from Leningrad will escape with the right story—that Gorham-Leach was blown by the two of you, as you so aptly put it, and not any earlier. So you see, I really am indebted to you. And yes, I had to protect myself from your divulging your knowledge to any inappropriate sources, I concede. Peter watched you as best he could in Cormond, but it turns out you could be trusted. Now, I have some questions…”

At this point Dearnley could no longer contain himself. His color had returned to normal, and he interrupted with a cold venom. “You bastard. That's the last time I co-operate with any of you. I don't care what happens. You play me for a idiot, you risk my men, you throw the law down the toilet. You…” Words failed him and he leant back in his chair with a gesture of disgust. A distended vein in his temple was throbbing.

Standiforth gave a nervous smile. “You see, Detective Smailes. Obvious reasons. Now, I have a question for you. Can you still be trusted, I need to know?”

“Roger, you have a bloody nerve talking about trust,” Smailes said with difficulty.

There was a long pause, and then Dearnley, with icy control, added, “I agree, Derek. A right bloody nerve.”

The silence extended as Smailes sought for a reply. He looked hard at Standiforth. “This is a tough one for me, Roger. I can see you do unpleasant and dangerous work, it's probably necessary, and maybe the fewer that know, the better your chances. But the way you've manipulated everyone throughout this whole business is downright criminal. You would have told me nothing more, right, unless I'd guessed it?”

“Absolutely. I would have told neither of you any more,” said Standiforth, stone-faced. “It's a bigger view, that's all, Mr. Smailes. You are a brave and intelligent man. I'm asking you to understand.” There was a distinct appeal in Standiforth's eyes and a sudden vulnerability in his voice. Fine drops of sweat stood on his top lip.

“George?”

“It's not my business to give you advice, Derek. I owe you an apology. It's up to you,” he said.

“It's a joke to ask whether I can believe you, Roger. But frankly, I just want to forget the whole business. It makes me sick. I've got nothing more to say. Period.”

Standiforth relaxed visibly and could barely contain his relief. He reached for a handkerchief and wiped his face and mouth.

“I wasn't sure, but I thought I could count on you. Which brings up another topic I want to broach with you. Your resignation actually gives me some encouragement. Frankly, Mr. Smailes, I have been most impressed by your abilities. You are a simply superb investigator. I want to offer you a job. It so happens that protection of our diplomatic missions has recently become one of our major responsibilities, and we particularly need to strengthen our security at the U.N. Mission in New York. Bloody place has become a Third World country club, an espionage free-for-all. I can offer you the number two job with our office there. Of course, there would be training here in England first. Please think about it. No doubt, you have the typical view of our service, that it's manned by overprivileged and incompetent people who all went to the same schools. Well, perhaps that used to be the case, but times have changed. You wouldn't be the first recruit from a provincial police force. Of course, it's civil service pay, but there's a special living allowance for New York, which is quite necessary, I understand.” Standiforth's figure was approximately double Smailes' current salary.

“Please take time to consider my offer. I'm interested to know your initial response, however.”

“You're buying me off.”

“Not at all. We desperately need men like you in our ranks, Mr. Smailes. Had you decided not to cooperate with our appeal for discretion, then of course, there would be no offer. But my decision to recruit you was made long before this meeting. The Superintendent knew it was one reason I wanted to see you today, although he was reluctant to see you leave CID.”

Smailes looked across at Dearnley, who gave a grudging nod.

“It is you who would be doing us the favor, not the reverse.”

“I appreciate the thought. But I don't think so.”

“Why not? You acknowledge that our work is necessary. I can quite appreciate your anger, but please say you'll take a few days to think about it.”

“It's not that. I don't think I've got the stomach for it.”

“Detective Sergeant Smailes, you were exposed to more in one weekend than most officers experience in an entire career. Don't you realize that? And you dealt with it quite brilliantly. Not to mention your uncanny understanding of what transpired here. I'll be here until Wednesday afternoon. Will you call the Cambridge Arms and let me know your decision? I'll also be available to discuss the position further, if you wish. Whatever your decision, I am immensely grateful for your contribution to this operation, for your courage and maturity. And as I said when you first came in, I too owe you a sincere apology. You are a credit to your country, Sergeant Smailes.” Standiforth rose and shook his hand, which Smailes grasped weakly, suddenly embarrassed.

“Okay,” he said meekly.

Smailes had risen to leave, but Dearnley stopped him. “You're still welcome here, Derek, if you want to reconsider.” He looked at him searchingly, then added, “And Derek, there was no reception over that bloody remote.”

“I know it, George. Let me think about it.”

He tried to keep his face straight as he left the office, walked past Gloria and out to his car. But as he entered the parking garage he let out a whoop and punched the air. Of course, he knew they were buying him off. He also knew he had them, both of them. He could do anything he chose. New York!

He removed the ashtray from the dashboard and reached down across to the steering column and fished around for the alligator clip, which he released carefully with his thumb and forefinger. He retrieved the tiny transmitter slowly, tossed it in the air, caught it and put it in his pocket.

K
IM PHILBY STEADIED HIMSELF
against the corner of his desk and sat down heavily in the swivel chair. He was already well over his self-imposed allowance, but whisky was the only analgesic he trusted. He stared glassily at his rows of shelves, which comprised one of the largest private libraries in Moscow. Most of the books had been Guy's thoughtful bequest; God knows where he had got them all. Good old Burgess, dreamer and degenerate, had had the stoutest heart of them all.

He swivelled to face his desk and felt a sudden wave of nausea. The report on the two deaths lay in front of him, stark in the finality of its implications. The sketchy information from Veleshin about the first death had been confirmed by the report in
The Times
, although the laconic news item was undoubtedly a smokescreen thrown by London Centre. The terminal condition was an unquestioned fiction, a script for the melodrama of the exit. The obituary had added nothing. The predictable salutes in
The Times
' baleful understatement. Yet he had come so close.

Conrad's cover had undoubtedly been blown, which the intelligence of the second death only confirmed. It shook his faith in his old friend's infallibility. A graduate student and a provincial policeman, it seemed, had succeeded where a legion of professionals had been defied. It was cruelly ironic. The work, of course, was largely complete and the damage control would be nothing more than an exercise in rage and anguish. Would the Americans learn? For that matter, would the British Cabinet?

He wondered about the settlement of Conrad's estate. He had once personally supervised considerable disbursements into a numbered account in Zurich. Wasn't there a married son somewhere, in South America? He considered a recommendation for action, then smiled grimly at the futility of his authorship of any further initiatives.

That the report had arrived from Veleshin was an eloquent statement of the disposition of the case. Suslov the ideologue had died in January and in the power struggle that had ensued Andropov had prevailed. Now in May he was poised to vault over Chernenko into the second secretary's office at the Central Committee. Physically, the distance between the Lubianka and Old Square was five hundred yards; politically and psychologically they were a continent apart. The chairman could shed the darkness of his KGB association and present himself as a party loyalist and statesman as Brezhnev's health sank further. No doubt deals had been cut with the military leadership that would ensure the succession, and the extinction of Conrad's intelligence would not weigh against the scale of his career achievement. The report from Veleshin was the chairman's farewell, his reminder that since Painter's mission had been his construction, the blame would rest with him. Reorganization would be deferred, it seemed, since Fedorchuk, the crusher of Ukrainian dissent, had been summoned to succeed Andropov, leaving Gryslov and all the others at First treading water. That Veleshin's career would also be eclipsed was cold comfort, since when the succession finally came, there would be no acclaimed return from retirement, no historic appointment of the first non-Russian head of the First Chief Directorate. But he had come so close.

The Moscow spring had been cold and the radiator was pouring out its customary suffocating heat. He raised himself with difficulty to crack the casement further and caught the reflection of his face in the dark panes. As he stared at the pale features he found himself reviewing the emotions he felt at the news of the second death.

She had been young and untried, and perhaps he was guilty of nostalgia, the affliction of age, for a response with such obvious risks. But he had known risks in the field as a young man in Austria and Spain, and nothing, nothing had ever matched the exultant thrill of the experience. He had offered an opportunity, that was all which had failed. She would have died hereafter.

Remorse or grief? Contrition or pride? He eased himself slowly back into his chair and acknowledged that he was a stranger to all of these, except perhaps pride. He was after all the master spy of modern times, decorated and lauded, while Conrad had gone unsung to his grave, his secrets buried with him.

Above all, he felt a profound weariness. He was old now and tired, and knew he would not live to see the course of history fulfilled, a history that would vindicate him, that would vindicate them all.

He drained his whisky in a single gulp and reached again for the bottle.

Britain's Prime Minister closed the report from Sir Keith Bowman and placed it carefully on her rosewood desk. Martin Gorham-Leach's unfortunate death now made it unlikely that the Cambridge team could consolidate its discoveries before its work was overtaken by the Americans. It was a tremendous disappointment, having come so close, but hopefully British industry would still share some of the spoils. There were recommendations for further posthumous honors for Gorham-Leach, which she saw no reason to refuse. Men of such commitment were an example to all others in his profession who continued to emigrate abroad in such profusion.

She was less concerned about the loss of expected prestige. Since the unforeseen opportunity had arisen over the Falklands her popularity had soared. It seemed the Argentine generals were now getting cold feet and were ready to settle; at least, that was what her Defense Secretary in Washington had told her. She was not interested in a settlement. She would sink that battleship at the first opportunity. The British people wanted victory, and she would stop at nothing less. Then she would call an election, in which she would be unbeatable. She was already being called the most resolute national leader since Churchill. And, by golly, she'd show the world she was.