Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘You can read it later,’ said Samuels, ‘but for God’s sake look after it. The most interesting stuff is on page four.’ He leant forward to find the page and pointed to a paragraph near the bottom:

The enemy seems to have been able to keep track of British naval mobilisation at the beginning of the war and of our patrols in the North Atlantic and Home Waters. A copy of the Administrative Code may also have been captured when Norway fell in May 1940…

‘Charlie.’ Lindsay’s voice shook a little with excitement: ‘The Germans broke one of our codes at the beginning of the war…’

‘Perhaps two,’ said Samuels.

‘And the Admiralty knows. Then why…’

Samuels laughed and grabbed Lindsay’s arm as if restraining a difficult patient: ‘Steady, you need to read it. Our codes may have been broken. It seems the Germans salvaged some secret material from one of our submarines and captured more in Norway too. Anyway, they were changed as a precaution. We scrapped the Administrative and Auxiliary Codes last summer and brought in a new one, the Naval Code…’

‘The Germans could have broken that too, Charlie.’

‘It’s history,’ said Samuels, ‘Read it. They changed the codes.’

‘Do you think someone’s deliberately trying to stop us? Trying to hide the truth?’

Samuels pulled a face: ‘Honestly, Douglas, you’re turning this into the plot of a penny dreadful.’ He paused, then said with quiet deliberation: ‘You know, there’s a much simpler explanation.’

Lindsay turned sharply to look at him: ‘All right, what do you…’

But someone in heavy military boots was approaching along the passage. Samuels raised his hand in warning.

‘We should go,’ he whispered, and he slipped through the half-open door. He must have surprised the owner of the boots because a frightened voice squealed: ‘For Christ’s sake,’ and a second later, ‘Oh sorry, sir’.

It was one of the guards, a red-headed corporal with a guilty expression on his face. They could rest easy. He was seeking a secret corner of his own for ‘a crafty fag’.

‘All right, Corporal,’ said Samuels sharply and he brushed past him and began walking briskly back along the corridor. Lindsay followed a few feet behind. Neither of them spoke until they reached the top of the basement stairs, then, after checking that they were alone, Samuels pointed to the file in Lindsay’s hand: ‘History, Douglas, all right. Don’t get my friend into trouble.’

‘You said there was another, simpler explanation?’

Samuels thought for a moment, then shrugged: ‘It was nothing. Forget it. Goodbye.’ And he held out his hand. ‘Perhaps we can keep in touch,’ and there was something wistful in his voice.

‘Yes,’ said Lindsay as they shook hands, ‘we must.’

The number 9 London bus was crowded and reeked of sweat and cheap perfume. Mary walked the last two stops. For once, she had made an effort to please and changed into a green summer dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to great advantage.

Lindsay was waiting beneath a stone elephant at the corner of the Albert Memorial and had just lit a cigarette. When he saw her approaching, he put it out with his foot and dropped down the steps to meet her and wrap her in his arms. They stood for a minute in silence as concert folk drifted and chatted around them. Then Lindsay pushed her gently away and holding both her hands, looked her up and down: ‘You’re looking lovely.’

Mary was struck by the tired shadows about his eyes and she squeezed his hands and moved closer: ‘I’m sorry, Douglas.’

‘Don’t be.’

‘Have you spoken to Fleming?’

‘No. Did he mention my report?’

Mary shook her head. Lindsay frowned and said after a moment’s thought: ‘I’ve learnt something more today.’

She tensed a little.

‘No, all right,’ he said quickly, ‘I won’t talk about it now.’

For a few seconds there was an awkward silence, then he pulled a scrap of cardboard from his pocket: ‘Your brother sent me this. It’s from Helmut Lange.’

She turned the piece of cigarette packet over to read the message, scribbled in a small neat hand.

Thank you for helping me. Please thank lovely lady. Sorry .

‘He remembers “lovely lady”,’ said Lindsay with a broad smile, ‘It must have worried your brother.’

‘Why does he want to thank us?’

‘I think he regards me as his rescuer. As for you, he’s struggling with the old certainties — Fatherland and Führer — and you reminded him there are other choices.’

‘I only met him for a few hours.’

Lindsay squeezed her arm playfully. ‘And in those few hours… perhaps it was your eyes.’

Mary pulled a face at him. ‘And the “Sorry”?’

‘Ah, well in the end it didn’t work.’

‘Work?’

‘He hasn’t the courage to follow his conscience.’

‘Did you want him to?’

‘He might have been useful.’

‘I thought you liked him.’

‘I do.’

Lindsay began to propel Mary gently by the elbow towards the Royal Albert Hall.

‘What are we going to hear?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

They bought a programme in the foyer: Elgar and Beethoven — the Fifth Symphony — Rachmaninov and Wagner. The hall was almost full already and a little too warm. The audience seemed younger, less grand than before the war, and judging by the faces and uniforms more international. They took their seats in the stalls and Lindsay reached across for her hand: ‘I’m surprised about the Wagner, Hitler’s so devoted to him.’

‘Keep the war out of the concert hall,’ said Mary with a smile.

But it was advice she failed miserably to follow. No matter how hard she tried, her thoughts broke free of the music, drifting from the hall to the war. She felt a little guilty, as if she was letting the orchestra down. Lindsay was shifting awkwardly in his seat beside her, clearly struggling to concentrate too. She felt sure his thoughts were full of interrogations and codes and the new piece of information he was bursting to share with her. Perhaps it was naïve but she hoped he would forget the whole thing. It was an obsession, dangerous for both of them.

Lindsay dropped Mary’s hand. The Albert Hall was bursting with applause.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ he shouted across at her.

‘Oh yes, especially the Wagner. What about you?’

‘Oh yes, the Wagner.’

The chattering, cheerful audience swept them from the concert hall and on to the pavement. Most people were walking west towards Kensington High Street and the Underground, the sky in front of them yellow and orange, strewed with deep grey cloud. Blackout was at a little after eleven.

‘We could have some supper,’ said Lindsay.

‘Where? No, it’s all right, I don’t feel very hungry.’

He turned her shoulders so she was facing him: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Fine, honestly.’

‘Would you like to come back to my flat? I can make us something to eat.’

Mary hesitated. Fleming had said: ‘Careful.’ She wanted to be with Lindsay but perhaps it was better to wait until the dust he had kicked up had settled a little.

‘Please.’

‘I think…’

‘Please.’

‘Yes, all right,’ she heard herself say.

Lindsay took her hand and led her from the concert crowd in search of a taxicab. They found one parked outside the American Ambassador’s house in Princes Gate. It was a short journey round Hyde Park Corner into Piccadilly, the city drawing down its blinds, retreating into darkness. Mary stared silently out of the window, frustrated and surprised by her own weakness. The cab passed the sad shell of Wren’s modest masterpiece, St James’s Church, turned right into the Haymarket, then on into St James’s Square, where it pulled up outside a tall smoky-black brick house in the south-east corner.