Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

The little carriage clock on the chimneypiece struck two. He got wearily to his feet, took off his jacket and draped it over the couch. It slipped down the back on to the envelope he had been given at Five’s little shop. It was addressed to Room 39 and stamped MOST SECRET. Lindsay picked it up, rubbing the rough paper between his fingers. Then, on an impulse, he reached over to the desk for a paperknife and slit it open with ruthless precision. There were two sheets of foolscap inside. The first was a cover page with a circulation list that included DNI — the Director of Naval Intelligence. Subject: ‘A Breach of Security in the Division’. He turned to the second page.

1. The following extracts are from a letter sent by a German prisoner at Number One Officer’s Camp. The prisoner, Captain Mohr, is well known in his own country and has achieved some notoriety in this. In the early months of the war he sent a signal to the First Lord of the Admiralty with the position of survivors from a ship his U-boat had sunk. He is the most senior Kriegsmarine officer in our hands and a possible source of important intelligence.

2. The letter was sent on 12 thJuly 1941 and is addressed via the usual channels to a Marianne Rasch. From its tone and content it can be assumed that Miss Rasch is intimate with Captain Mohr.

3. It contains the following passage:

‘By an extraordinary coincidence I have had the unexpected pleasure of conversing at length with a cousin of my old comrade Schultze. Do you remember Schultze? His cousin is an interesting young man who shares many of our ideas. He entertained one of our officers at a jazz club and introduced him to his girlfriend. My meetings with him made me even more convinced that this war between Germans and Anglo-Saxons is some sort of madness. It will be over soon, I am sure. In the meantime, please write to Schultze and let him know his cousin prospers, although he looks tired and must be working too hard.’

Lindsay gave a short humourless laugh. It was impossible not to admire the audacity of the man. He closed his eyes for a moment and rumpled his fingers through his hair. Mohr had the instinctive cunning of the true hunter. It had let him down only once and he had become a prisoner but now it was serving him well.

4. Further investigation with the co-operation of ADNI and personnel in NID sections 8, 10 and 11 has revealed the identity of Schultze to be that of a U-boat commander, Lieutenant-Commander Martin Schultze. His cousin has been identified as Lieutenant DAC Lindsay RNVR Until recently Lieutenant Lindsay has been serving as an interrogator at C.S.D.I.C. and he was responsible for questioning Captain Mohr. Although something of his family background was known to the relevant sections in the Division, this close connection to the German Navy was not, nor his apparent sympathy with ‘Nazi ideas’. It is the opinion of this officer that further inquiries should be carried out at once to prevent any risk of a damaging breach of security and that the Security Service should be asked to investigate.

The report was signed by a Major Macfarlane of Military Counter-Intelligence Western Command. At the bottom, someone else — perhaps Gilbert of MI5 — had scrawled in pencil: Concur. Recommend removal of officer at once and immediate follow-up .

Lindsay slipped the report back into the envelope. He wondered if Colonel Gilbert had expected him to read it. Perhaps the report was part of the game too? It must stop, stop at once. This spiral of suspicion was not malicious, it was cold policy, but his mother and Mary were in danger of being caught up in it too. He dropped the envelope on the couch and walked over to the window, stepping carefully behind the heavy blackout drapes. His lip was throbbing.

The black Morris was parked in the north-east corner of the square again. It was too dark to see behind the wheel but he felt sure the same ugly driver was there. He was too tired to care any more. His file could be stamped ‘Security Risk’ and sent to the Admiralty Registry for burial.

Ashaft of soft light was pouring through a crack in the shutters on to the yellow wallpaper above Lange’s head. It was close to five o’clock. He had woken with an anxious start. His skin was damp and cold and the pulse in his neck throbbed. He pulled the rough blankets to his chin, wrapping them like a cocoon about his body. His room-mates were still sleeping, he could hear the steady rise and fall of their breathing. He could hear voices in the corridor too and a floorboard creaked close to the door. Someone was rattling the handle. Lange knew with stiff cold certainty, in a frozen second, that something was very wrong. Heads at the door, light striking a steel bed-end and the first harsh whisper.

‘Schmidt. Are you ready?’

Schmidt was ready. He was in the bed closest to the light from the door and as he pushed his blankets away Lange could see that he was dressed in the shirt and trousers of the evening before. Everyone in the room was stirring now.

‘Who’s there?’ It was Bischoff from the bed beneath the window.

‘Shut up. Shut up and stay where you are,’ someone whispered harshly.

‘Schmidt. Lange. Come with us.’

He could not move. They were going to hurt him. But if he lay with his head on the pillow he would be safe. They would leave him if he said nothing, if he did not move a muscle.

‘Come on, Lange.’ It was the first officer of the U-500 , Dietrich. ‘Help him, Schmidt.’

Schmidt took two steps across the room and grabbed Lange’s blankets.

‘Get up,’ and he jerked them roughly from the bed. ‘Get up.’

He was lying on the bed in only his shorts. ‘Sweet Mary, help me.’ His lips moved as he chanted the prayer silently. ‘Sweet Mary, help me.’ Schmidt bent down and shook him roughly by the shoulder.

‘What’s the matter with you? Bruns, help him.’

But Lange swung his legs from the bed and reached for his shirt.

‘And quick about it,’ Dietrich hissed. ‘The rest of you — back to sleep. This is none of your business.’

There were five men in the corridor. Oberleutnant zur See Dietrich was in command. A nasty piece, short, heavily built, ideologically pure, twenty-three. He had made his contempt for Lange crystal clear in the weeks they spent together aboard the 500 .

‘May I speak to Kapitän Mohr?

Someone shoved Lange from behind.

‘Shut up.’

Where are you taking me?’

Bruns held him by the arm: ‘This way.’

They followed Dietrich quickly and quietly down the corridor and on to the landing above the hall. A Luftwaffe lieutenant Lange did not recognise was acting as lookout at the top of the stairs. He nodded curtly to Dietrich to indicate that it was safe to continue. The British guard posted in the vestibule at night must have left the house already.

Down the stairs at the double and across the inner hall with Bruns’s grip bruising his arm. He was breathless with anxiety and his knees were shaking so hard he was sure he would collapse. At the end of the long corridor another Luftwaffe officer stepped out of the shadows to signal that the coast was clear and they hurried on into the West wing of the house.

On the right of the dark passage the kitchen and the servants’ hall, the prisoners’ washroom on the left. Dietrich led them to the kitchen door. He was reaching for the handle when it opened from the inside. Someone shoved Lange hard from behind and he stumbled through the door. Bright light was reflecting off the cream tiles that covered the walls from floor to ceiling and it took a few seconds to adjust. The kitchen was crowded. He was shocked to see the faces of some twenty men turned towards him, cold and silent. The ones he recognised he knew to be good National Socialists. The large wooden table the cooks used for food preparation had been pushed back against the wall and in its place was a single wooden chair. Sitting on the chair was a white-faced and crumpled August Heine, his eyes wild with fear. Lange looked away.