Warriors

CHAPTER 39

Professor Sir Lucian Hobdale, Nobel laureate, was a fixture at Cambridge. He was a university senior lecturer in machine learning and an advanced research Fellow and director of studies. The windows of his tumble-jumble of a corner office at Trinity College overlooked the ice-filled river Cam flowing stolidly, always reassuring somehow.

Hobdale had that leonine cast of character so frequently aspired to by not a few aging professors who affect to have no such aspirations. Thick white hair, somewhat watery gin-blue eyes, and a strongly sculpted face and jawline. Beautiful skin. His tweed suit had seen better days decades ago. But he managed to outweigh his tatty wardrobe with wit, brilliance, and a decidedly patrician air.

“Chief Inspector Congreve,” Hobdale said, swiveling round in his chair, “How marvelous to see my illustrious colleague again. I must tell you, I was thrilled with the results of our last… mission… together. The Singularity Affair, as it’s now known around here. Splendid show, that. We jolly well sent that Persian madman packing, did we not? What was his name?”

Congreve smiled. “Darius Saffari. Indeed we did, sir. And we’ve Alex Hawke here to thank for a good bit of that. You remember Alex Hawke, of course?”

Hobdale’s great head swiveled.

“Lord Hawke. Of course. An honor as always.”

Hawke strode forward with his hand extended and said, “Professor Hobdale, how kind of you to see us on such short notice.”

“Not at all, not at all. I’ve already fired up the quantum supercomputer at the U.K. Machine Intelligence Research Center in Leeds in light of your visit. Something to do with facial reconstruction and recognition this time. That poor chap found in the Sidney Master’s Garden, missing most of his face and all his fingers and teeth, according to rumor. Ghastly, just ghastly.”

Ambrose finished firing up his pipe and said, “No human being should ever be made to suffer like that, Sir Lucian. It pains me to say this, but Lord Hawke and I fear a rather fiendish type, politically motivated, is on the loose in Cambridge. A ghoul of the old-school Chinese Te-Wu persuasion. He must be stopped.”

“We’ll certainly do our best to identify the victim, Chief Inspector, I can assure you. Do sit down, both of you. I’d offer tea, but I sense you’d prefer to get down to cases. My assistant informs me you’ve brought morgue photos of the victim, yes?”

Congreve nodded and pulled a manila envelope from his tatty leather briefcase.”Here they are,” Congreve said, handing the older man the folder. “Prepare yourself, sir.”

“I’ve been doing precisely that for sixty-some years, Chief Inspector.”

Hobdale, who’d dabbled in forensic anthropology, thus waved the notion away and slit the envelope, spilling the eight-by-ten glossies across his cluttered desktop. He picked up the nearest one, studied it a moment, and then reached for his antique glass. He hovered over each section of the mutilated face, peering through the magnifier, tsk-tsking cheerily at the unmitigated horror he’d been presented with.

“Chinese torture,” he said, putting down the glass. “Fifteenth century.”

“Yes,” Congreve said, arranging his corpus in the comfortable armchair. “Most definitely Chinese handiwork.”

“Lingchi? That would appear to be the method.”

“My first thought as well, Professor Hobdale. But no, no knives were used during torture. The victim was suspended in a razor-sharp mesh bag called the Shining Basket that slowly collapsed and constricted under his weight. Almost every square inch of facial epidermis was removed, as you can see. Meaning he was suspended facedown. We’re hoping the quantum computer can build on the bone structure and rebuild it. Is there any hope of that, Sir Lucian?”

“Indeed there is, indeed there is, sir. Take a look at this.”

Hobdale clicked on his computer, and a geometric modeling of George Washington’s face appeared.

“It’s a program called PRISM,” the professor said, “developed in concert with Arizona State University. We brought together forensic anthropologists, digital artists, and computer scientists to effect the 3-D digital reconstruction of Washington’s face that you see here. Remarkable, isn’t it? This is exactly what the man looked like at nineteen years old! A century prior to the invention of photography! Give us the proper tools and we can literally bring the dead back to life.”

“Extraordinary,” Hawke said, peering at the eerily lifelike image on the screen.

“Would that you could,” Congreve mused, puffing seriously. “Would that you could.”

“You’re afraid the victim may have been a colleague, I take it?”

“Yes, Professor Watanabe. He’s still missing.”

“Oh, Lord. I had the pleasure of attending one of his lectures on the Rape of Nanking. Brilliant man.”

“Yes, he was. Watanabe-san was a friend, really. Changed the course of my entire life. He was—”

Congreve looked away, stricken.

“If this victim proves to be your friend, I shall help you find out who did this, Chief Inspector. Upon my word, I shall.”

Hawke put out his hand and said, “You’ll let us know as soon as you have something, Professor?”

“I shall, indeed, Lord Hawke. I bid you both good day, gentlemen. You’ll hear from me soon, I assure you. We shall get right on it. Our methods are foolproof.”

They both shook his hand and left, crossing the square and the river to Magdalene College, where their car was waiting to take them back to London.

“It’s Watanabe, isn’t it?” Congreve said, his head down, slogging through the snow.

“Yeah,” Hawke said. “I’m afraid so, Constable.”