by Tony Cape
“Derek, I don’t give a shit about that stuff,” she said pointedly.
“Tell me some more. How did you meet him? What did he look like? What were you doing in Jerusalem anyway? A pilgrimage?”
Smailes had felt himself relax and was on the edge of sleep, but he wanted to extend this intimacy, because it reassured him. He wanted her to reveal herself emotionally, the way she did so readily physically.
“Not really. My family’s not religious at all. It’s more a tribal thing, a roots thing. We have some relatives in Tel Aviv. It was my second visit. I spent a year on a kibbutz, after school, after I graduated. It was great.”
“You a commie?” Smailes asked. It was a silly remark, but she took it graciously.
“Hardly, but I really respect the kibbutzim. Those people work really hard. I didn’t like the rest of Israel. It’s basically a U.S. puppet state, sort of like Florida with bunkers and anti-aircraft batteries. I hate those hysterical Zionists that run the place. Fleshy, heartless old men, they’re disgusting.”
“Did you visit the Arab states?”
“Are you kidding? With my name and looks?”
“I guess you have a point,” said Smailes, as he began to fall asleep.
The Bowles inquest was the pantomime that Smailes expected, in which everyone played their part as rehearsed. He was glad Lauren kept her pledge to stay away, because even he found the proceedings a little distasteful. The life and death of Simon Bowles was duly sanitized and recorded, a tiresome legal ritual that no one relished, except Oscar Baddeley, the coroner. Baddeley had the affected gravity and precision of the minor official, and Smailes could almost mouth the words that the coroner pronounced as he went through his inflexible routine.
The first witness called was always Maurice Jones, the postmortem surgeon from Addenbrookes, and Baddeley’s technique was to confer as much information as possible for the record in rhetorical questions, to which the witness simply assented. This contributed to the coroner’s air of unflawed efficiency, which was what was desired.
“You are Dr. Maurice Jones, consultant morbid anatomist at Addenbrooke’s Hospital, Cambridge?” asked Baddeley.
“I am,” said Jones obediently.
“And on the morning of Wednesday, March 24th, 1982 did you examine the body of a young man, identified to you as Mr. Simon Bowles of St. Margaret’s College, Cambridge?”
“I did,” responded Jones.
“Please tell us what you found.”
Smailes knew the next line because Jones always described his cadavers as well-nourished, unless they had actually died of starvation. The fact that Bowles weighed little over nine stone would be immaterial to him.
“I found the body of a well-nourished young gentleman,” said Jones, and proceeded to read from his post-mortem report that Smailes had seen weeks before. He noted the absence of major diseases and abnormalities on the body, and the absence of any contusions or injury in any region except the neck. He described the modest blood alcohol reading, and the absence of any other foreign substance he had tested for. He gave the approximate time of death and described the nature of the neck injury as a rupture of the spinal column between the first and second vertebrae, commensurate with an injury caused by hanging. Contusions in the area of the neck supported this judgment.
Baddeley went through a few other questions designed to eliminate other possible causes of death, and then excused Jones, who left to return to his morgue. Obviously a doctor’s time was more valuable than a policeman’s.
Derek Smailes was the third witness called, after the hesitant testimony of Police Constable Roger Dickley established how the body had first been found. Baddeley had decided to spare Bunty Allen the discomfort of testifying, which was probably wise. Since hearsay evidence was allowed in a coroner’s court, unlike a judicial court, Dickley had been permitted to describe his conversations with both Mrs. Allen and Paul Beecroft. He described how they had closed up the room and waited for CID to arrive. He did not tell Baddeley about omitting to call the coroner’s office, which Baddeley had no doubt realized and decided to overlook. Just as he had been persuaded to overlook the whole question of Mr. Alan Fenwick, Smailes thought to himself as he sat down in the witness chair next to Baddeley’s table. Opposite him sat the court recorder, crouched over her stenotype machine. Looking out, he could see Alice Wentworth, the sole representative of Bowles’ family, seated impassively in the first row. Next to her was Giles Allerton, who kept a scowl on his face throughout the whole proceeding. An uncomfortable-looking Ivor Davies appeared to be the sole official of the college present, although to his surprise Smailes made out the striking figure of Tiffany Pollock, Hawken’s secretary, seated in the back. Dr. Julius Kramer was there, wearing a shabby blue suit, looking as unkempt as before. There were two or three students in the room that Smailes did not recognize, and a couple of young journalists reprsenting the Evening News and one of the weeklies at the press table. Smailes doubted this story would make the front page, or even a page lead. He turned to face Baddeley who went through Smailes’ rank and the circumstances of his arrival at St. Margaret’s on that same morning. Smailes assented to Baddeley’s descriptions firmly and professionally.
“Please tell the court what you found when you inspected Mr. Bowles’ room,” said Baddeley, and Smailes took out his small notebook. He was quite glad that Lauren wasn’t there.
Derek Smailes went over the details of Simon Bowles’ room, including his removal of personal belongings from Bowles’ pockets and the discovery of the note in the typewriter. He described the arrival of the mortuary attendants, and the arrangements for scenes of crimes officers to examine the room. Baddeley then produced the large glossies taken of Bowles’ room and Klammer’s fingerprint report, and asked Smailes to identify them, which he did. He then described his discussions with Mrs. Allen, Hawken, and Bowles’ friends with whom the young man had spent the previous evening. He omitted his discussions with Davies, Gorham-Leach and Kramer, and any reference to his inspection of Bowles’ files. Baddeley asked Smailes about the reported state of mind of Simon Bowles on the evening of his death, and Smailes read from his notes that both Mr. Giles Allerton and Miss Lauren Greenwald had described Simon Bowles as aloof and preoccupied. Baddeley excused Smailes and to his surprise called Alice Wentworth to the stand.
Baddeley must have picked up on the last phone call between Alice Wentworth and her brother, because it was all he chose to ask her about. She described the strangeness of her brother’s mood, the cancellation of his plans to attend a family gathering on the Sunday before his death, his announcement of his plans to study instead and spend Monday in London. Smailes wondered if Baddeley was going to ask about the reasons for the London trip and was alarmed that the whole question of Simon Bowles’ research might come up. That would certainly rouse the two bored-looking reporters who were dutifully taking notes. It would make for a whole other angle on the story, Smailes knew. But Baddeley merely jotted some notes and excused Alice Wentworth, and Smailes could see what he was doing, steadily increasing the evidence that Bowles’ mood before his death was somehow disordered and abnormal. The last witness called was the psychiatrist Julius Kramer, who looked every bit as unsavory on the witness stand as he had weeks ago out at the hospital. His testimony, however, was clear and succinct, and he basically reiterated his belief than his former patient had become severely depressed again, but had succeeded in masking the fact from his family and friends. When asked about the significance of the suicide note, Kramer referred to the delusion from which Bowles had been suffering when first admitted to Myrtlefields Hospital two years before. He expressed the opinion that under extreme stress, it was possible that the frightening hallucination might have returned, although he, Kramer, personally doubted that that had occurred. Baddeley concluded by asking Kramer for statistics about how many depressed patients experience a second episode of major depression in their lives, and Kramer answered sixty per cent. With unnecessary baldnes
s Baddeley then asked whether suicide was a serious danger among depressed patients, and Kramer agreed that it was a concern, although not always a major one. Baddeley thanked Kramer and the psychiatrist stepped down.
Baddeley barely waited a minute before beginning his summing up. Its fluidity convinced Smailes that, as usual, it was pre-rehearsed, and that nothing unanticipated had emerged during the inquest, which was what Baddeley had intended. He heard Bowles described as a brilliant but unstable young man whose mood had seemed strange to family and friends immediately before his death. The circumstances in which the body was found, together with the post mortem examination, convinced him that Simon Bowles had taken his own life by hanging, while the balance of his mind was disturbed. He expressed conventional sympathies with the family, and pronounced the inquest closed. It was such a reasonable conclusion, Smailes wondered why he felt there were any questions unanswered.
Chapter Sixteen
THE REGIONAL NEWS GAVE WAY to a game show and the stocky Russian stuffed a handful of pizza into his mouth and got off the end of the bed to turn down the volume on the television. He cocked his head to listen to a noise outside, chewing slowly, moving first to glance out through the drawn curtains, then to the door. There were two soft raps, a pause, followed by two more. He unlocked the door and went back to his perch at the end of the single bed, next to the flat pizza box.
“You’re very late,” he said to the television screen. He wiped away tomato sauce with a paper napkin, picked up another piece and then leant forward to turn the volume back up.
“Problems?”
The man who had entered the small hotel room dropped a heavy canvas duffle to the floor, then took off an English-style flat cap and began unbuttoning a gray rain-coat. Rain glistened on his shoulders. He was younger and taller than his colleague, with dark hair brushed straight back and high, thinning temples. He tossed the coat and hat onto the second bed.
“GRU bastards,” he said forcefully. “They are a worse enemy than any Western intelligence agency. The instructions were intentionally misleading. I will write a full report, tonight.”
“Don’t waste your energy,” said the older man. “I warned you it would be difficult. They do it deliberately, to let us know they are doing us a favor. I presume that in time if war, there would be no such games. You got everything?”
“Yes,” said the other grudgingly. “Once I found the chest—at the third attempt, I might add—I was quite impressed. Every piece individually wrapped and well-greased. It should last for years.” He began opening the duffle.
“Each site is supposed to last for thirty, I think, although the contents are replaced more often. What did you get?” he asked, beginning to show interest.
“Just two machine pistols and an automatic. It’s a Beretta, I couldn’t resist. Ammunition, of course. And two transmitters, in case of failure. I left the heavier stuff, the Kalashnikov’s, the Israeli semi-automatics…”
“Of course, of course. Let me see.” The older man took one of the wrapped pistols from the bag and began to carefully unfold its protective cloth.
“How did you disguise the site again?”
“I stuck red flags all around it,” said the taller man, offended.
“Just tell me.”
“The site is a wooded hill outside Norwich. Very isolated. You have to walk across two fields, but there are tall hedgerows and no one sees you from the road. I filled in the pit again and stamped the earth down. I used turf from a little way off, branches. The rest of the dirt I scattered around. You could go there tomorrow, not find it. Then I returned to the car.”
“The tools?”
“There’s a pick, a shovel and a one metre probe still in the boot. I’ll dispose of them tomorrow.”
The older man thought for a moment. “No. Leave them. They might be useful later.” Then he changed the subject. “Well, our comrades in military intelligence understand their work, I think you have to say, even if they like to make things difficult for us. How does it drive?”
“The car? It runs well, very fast. A little stiff through the gears. The other vehicle?”
“I called today. We get it tomorrow, a place called Leytonstone, east of London. Then we meet Painter, tomorrow night.”
“That should be interesting. What do you have to eat? I am half starved.”
“Help yourself,” said the older man, replacing the pistol and turning again to the television, which gave out a sudden roar as a contestant advanced to the next round. “I couldn’t wait, so I went and bought something.”
“Pizza? Pizza? We get to go abroad for the first time in two years, we have unlimited expenses, and you buy pizza?”
“What can I do? You are late with the car, this shit-hole is miles from anywhere, I am on foot. Go out and get something else, if you like.”
The taller man stepped over the bag of weapons and wireless equipment at his feet and took a position opposite his friend on the end of his bed. He tugged a slice of pizza free and raised it vertically until the strands of cheese snapped. “You have beer or vodka?”
“In the bathroom. Ah look, this is sickening. This man, he gets everyone excited about these toast makers and televisions he gives away to this idiot. It is not even a Japanese brand.”
His friend was walking to the bathroom. “The fish-and-chips is better than pizza, you should know, Alexei,” he said, his mouth full. “Or the pork pie. The pork pie is especially good.”
Smailes had been right about the news value of the Bowles inquest. The Evening News that day was preoccupied with page after page of news of the British task force which had set sail for the Falklands, and the furious diplomatic efforts to avert war. The report on the inquest had merited a few paragraphs on page six under the weak headline “Dead Student Was Brilliant But Unstable—Coroner.” Smailes was relieved that nothing had emerged about Bowles’ research, because the absence of any splash meant he could continue to test those waters discreetly, if he chose. Although it was nowhere stated explicitly in his files, Smailes had become convinced that Simon Bowles had been seeking to identify a British spy of the same importance as the four Cambridge compatriots who had been unmasked to date. That would square with Iain Mack’s theory of a ring of five spies who had burrowed into the Establishment and had been the crowning accomplishment of the Kremlin’s courtship of British intellectuals in the thirties. It might also explain the ellipsis of Bowles’ Gang of Four… file heading, if the “gang” were generally accepted to comprise five. Smailes felt somewhat frustrated that Bowles’ file did not discuss the careers of these men after after they left Cambridge, and in his curiosity turned to other sources.
In one of the Bowles research texts, Smailes found a compelling section that recounted in detail the activities of the four men who had done so much damage to Western interests throughout their careers. It was an improbable tale. The most unlikely was Guy Burgess, flamboyant homosexual and drunkard, who would often boast of his work for the Comintern at the wild parties he threw at his West End flat. Meanwhile he had pursued an erratic career in the BBC and Whitehall before his defection with Maclean in 1951. The feckless and neurotic Maclean had risen steadily through the diplomatic service until he held a senior position in the British Embassy in Washington after the war. He returned to take a position in London in 1950, by which time an error by a Soviet cipher clerk had alerted the CIA to a high-ranking spy inside the British diplomatic mission. By the time British intelligence had conclusively identified Maclean as the mole, serious damage had been done. As a member of the Committee for Joint Atomic Development in Washington, Maclean had access to high-grade scientific intelligence that helped accelerate Soviet development of the atom bomb in the late forties. When Philby learned of the impending interrogation of Maclean, he despatched Burgess, who was staying at his house in Washington, to orchestrate his escape. Burgess effectively blew Philby’s cover and career when, against orders, he accompanied Maclean all the way to Moscow. Blunt, it ap
peared, had refused to defect when encouraged to do so by his Soviet masters after suspicion had settled on both him and Philby after the disappearance of Burgess and Maclean. He had left active intelligence work at the end of the war, and now relished his eminent position as head of the Courtauld Institute of Art and Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures. He was also in a happy, stable relationship with a former guardsman who shared his flat above the Institute. All told he survived eleven interrogations before he was definitively unmasked in 1964 and forced to confess. When the story was finally told in 1979 he was stripped of his knighthood, his official duties and his Trinity fellowship in the furor that ensued. He was not punished in any other way and asserted to the end that he had not betrayed his conscience.
The most successful and damaging of the Cambridge spies, however, was Philby. He had succeeded brilliantly in disguising an overtly communist past (he had even travelled to Vienna in 1934 to join the communist guerrillas fighting the fascist Chancellor Dollfuss) and adopted the mantle of a neoconservative in London before the war. He travelled to Spain as a freelance journalist during its civil war, from where he wrote pro-Franco despatches. Then, under Burgess’ aegis, he was able to join the burgeoning intelligence community at the beginning of the war, eventually finding himself head of the Iberian section of the Secret Service, or MI6, by 1941. His crowning accomplishment, of course, was to inveigle himself into the position of head of the newly-established section nine, the Soviet counterintelligence unit, in 1944. Thus Philby was able to effectively neutralize any measures contemplated against Russia or its satellites in the closing stages of the war, and was strongly suspected of betraying the Bletchley intelligence to his employers. In the Cold War that began immediately after Germany’s surrender, Philby’s treachery defeated a number of counter-revolutionary moves attempted by Western intelligence, including a joint MI6/CIA-backed invasion of Albania. He had duped his colleagues so successfully that he began to be groomed as a future Director-General of MI6, first as station chief in Turkey and then as the prestigious liaison officer with the FBI and CIA in Washington. And despite the suspicion that fell on him following Burgess’ disappearance, he was able to defy his interrogators and even achieve partial rehabilitation as a field agent in Beirut, where he worked under journalistic cover for four years. He finally defected in 1963 when incontrovertible evidence of his treachery was provided by the high-ranking Soviet defector Anatoli Golitsin and confirmed by a former Party member in London.