Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

Checkland’s office was on the first floor of the house, near the Map Room. A pretty Wren, very young, very well spoken, was keeping the door. She smiled warmly at Lindsay: ‘Colonel Checkland is expecting you, sir. Would you wait just a minute?’

She slipped out from behind her desk, knocked gently and opened Checkland’s door. Lindsay caught a glimpse of him at his desk before the door closed behind her. She reappeared a moment later, swinging her navy-blue hips, the room full of her perfume: ‘The Colonel will see you now.’

Checkland was not alone. Henderson was standing by the fireplace. Lindsay stepped smartly into the room and stood to attention before the head bent over the desk. The door clicked behind him. Checkland carried on writing.

‘Sit down, Lindsay.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Lindsay followed the steady course of his pen across the sheet of headed paper. He held it like a weapon. There were few personal touches in the room; some photographs of ships — presumably ones Checkland had served in — and the King, charts, the usual Service furniture and cream paint. He turned to look at Henderson who was gazing out of the window to the hill Lindsay had just climbed with Mohr, his face set hard, itching for a fight.

‘Did you get my message this morning?’ Checkland’s head was still bent over his letter.

‘Sir?’

Checkland looked up at him and very deliberately put down his pen.

‘Don’t play the idiot. James has spoken to Chief Wren Sherlock.’

Checkland’s face was a little red but his voice was calm and measured. He had a certain easy authority and had been a fine interrogator in his day. The Germans had caught him spying before the Great War — bobbing about in the Baltic with pen and notebook. He knew what it was to be a prisoner.

‘You were to find one of us at once.’

‘I was going to find you, sir…’

‘But not before you’d interrogated Mohr again.’

‘No, sir.’ There was no point in lying. ‘I was hoping to speak to him yesterday but he was at the Admiralty…’

‘You know of course that I’ve spoken to Samuels. You were under strict orders not to question Mohr, not to question any of the prisoners about codes but that’s what you’ve done.’

‘Did Lieutenant Samuels tell you what he’s dragged from the wireless operators?’ Lindsay’s voice was quiet and controlled too. It was one of the first things Checkland taught newcomers to his Section: never lose your temper because anger will cloud your judgement. ‘We’ve proof that our codes have been broken.’

Henderson snorted sceptically. ‘Proof, what proof?’

Checkland half raised a hand to silence him. ‘Samuels did tell us they spoke English and that they were brought together for the 112 ’s patrol to Freetown. That isn’t proof our codes have been broken. Which code is broken, which cipher — one or all of them?’

Lindsay shook his head. ‘That’s what I was trying to wring from Mohr, sir.’

‘Did you succeed?’

‘No.’

Checkland gave a long, exasperated sigh. ‘You have no proof but by questioning Mohr about codes you may have done a great deal of harm…’

‘How much proof do you need, sir?’ said Lindsay. ‘They were…’

But Checkland cut across him sharply: ‘What do you know of disguised indicators? Do you know anything about the sub-tractor system or onetime pads, reciphering tables and typex machines?’

Lindsay flushed a little. It was true, he knew very little about the mechanics of code making and breaking: ‘I just know that…’

‘You think you know that the Germans are into one or more of our codes. Yes, you’ve said.’

Checkland paused to consider his next words, then said with careful emphasis: ‘You know, there are people who understand these things and they have better sources than us. You have put some of those sources at risk. You were instructed not to question the prisoners about codes and ciphers. You broke a direct order. You are a lieutenant in one small section of Naval Intelligence and yet you think you know better than the Director of the Division, his Staff, and me. It’s a pity, Lindsay, you were a promising interrogator but with a little too much to prove…’

For once all the interrogators were in the office, swapping stories and smoking. Lieutenant Dick Graham was holding up a prophylactic the guards had taken from one of the prisoners. Lindsay tried to avoid catching his eye. He failed.

‘You’ve come at the perfect time, Douglas. Tell me, what should I do with this? The girls won’t give me a sensible answer.’

Lieutenant Graham’s little audience giggled appreciatively.

‘Would you like it?’

More laughter. Graham was a history don in Civvy Street, a greying thirty-six with pince-nez spectacles, a slight lisp and a taste for the bizarre. He was indulging it now, swinging the French letter like the pendulum of a clock.

‘You’re a member of the master race, of course, but I’m sure it will fit.’

It took Lindsay most of the afternoon to two-finger-type a presentable copy of his report. Two flimsy sheets. He sat back in his chair and stared at the lines above the ribbon:

To conclude: the U-112 was on a special mission to African waters under the command of one of Admiral Dönitz’s most trusted officers. The mission required highly trained English-speaking wireless operators. Evidence and SR transcripts taken during the interrogation of other U-boat crews suggests the enemy is obtaining intelligence from wireless traffic. Kapitän zur See Mohr may have been using this intelligence to co-ordinate attacks on convoys in and out of Freetown. One or more of our codes has been broken.

Short and thin. But there were those little signs that meant so much to an experienced eye that never made it into a report. He wondered if he should have included a few:

…the prisoner Brand kept touching his lip…

…Kapitän zur See Mohr lost his composure when codes were mentioned and refused to make eye contact…

All this was evidence too but it counted for nothing because the Section’s work was not respected in the Division. You had to have friends to put your case. He would send Winn a copy and Fleming too.

‘How was it?’ Charlie Samuels was standing beside his desk: ‘You’ve been hammering that typewriter without mercy.’

Lindsay glanced beyond him into the body of the room: even Dick Graham was busy.

‘I’m preparing my defence,’ said Lindsay quietly.

‘I thought you might be. Checkland wants to see me again,’ Samuels looked at his watch, ‘in ten minutes.’

His eyes were roving restlessly in every direction but Lindsay’s, and he was nibbling a thumbnail like an anxious schoolboy summoned to his headmaster’s study.

‘Rest easy, Charlie, it’s my fault, he knows that,’ said Lindsay.

‘Yes, well…’ He sounded uncertain.

‘Here.’ Lindsay pulled the sheet from the typewriter and offered it to him: ‘Read it, it might help.’

Samuels smiled weakly and shook his head: ‘Not on your Nelly. Surrender followed by an abject apology. Section 11 suits me very well. I hate the sea, and I have family to look after in London.’

‘You’ve never mentioned them.’

‘You’ve never asked.’

It was true. Lindsay felt a little ashamed.

‘Time up,’ said Samuels. ‘Wish me luck.’

Lindsay was still at his desk an hour later, his thoughts flitting from Mohr to Winn to Mary to Mohr. Rich golden light was streaming low through the south-facing windows, casting twisted shadows across the floor as the trees swayed in the gentlest of evening breezes. The office was empty but for the duty Wrens. The other interrogators were sipping pink gins in the mess. The late courier had taken Lindsay’s report to the Admiralty and by now Checkland would have his copy too. He wanted to ring Mary but she would be at her desk in Room 41. Better to ring later and from the privacy of his home.