Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

Godfrey shook his head: ‘That isn’t important now. Why do you think he made such pointed reference to you? He knew we’d read the letter.’

Lindsay shrugged: ‘He knew it would cause trouble, sir. I think he believes it’s his duty to carry on fighting any way he can.’

The Admiral said nothing but reached across his desk for a silver cigarette box which he offered to Lindsay and Fleming.

‘Is there anything else about the letter that strikes you as strange?’

Lindsay took a cigarette, smelling it, then rolling it thoughtfully between his fingers: ‘Perhaps one thing, sir. It’s clumsy, badly written for an educated man.’

The Director of Naval Intelligence smiled. It was a tough little smile but it was the first that Lindsay had seen since marching into his office.

‘Yes, badly written and let me show you why.’

He opened the file again and withdrew a small square of light blue paper; on it were the dots and dashes of a signal in Morse code.

‘Look at Mohr’s letter again. Look at the first letter of each word in the opening and final paragraphs. Words that begin with letters from A to H are dots and words from L to Z dashes. Words that begin with letters from I to K indicate spaces. Here.’

Godfrey handed the signal paper to Lindsay: ‘It says: Two Wabos at fifty. Security problem. Position known but mission safe . And that’s it. With the exception of his swipe at you, the letter was written to conceal this message — that’s why it reads so badly. It’s not the first time U-boat prisoners have used this code. No doubt Miss Rasch has been instructed to forward everything Mohr sends to Dönitz’s headquarters.’

Lindsay pulled hard on his cigarette, savouring the hot sharp taste of the Admiral’s tobacco. Smoke curled about the paper on his knee, smudging Mohr’s secret dots and dashes. Wabos was just U-boat German for Wasserbomben or depth charges. The U-112 was sunk by two depth charges exploding fifty metres from its hull. But the rest of the message was harder to disentangle.

‘Well, you’ve spoken to Mohr?’

The Admiral’s voice suggested he wanted to hear something that would justify the time and trouble he was taking with a junior lieutenant.

Lindsay frowned: ‘If Mohr was expecting us to read this, why did he risk a secret message?’

It was Fleming who replied: ‘He knew we would censor the references to you. If you look carefully you can see he has not used any of the words in that part of the letter in his message. He’s a clever chap. He may have wanted to embarrass you, yes, but he also wanted to disguise his real purpose — the coded message.’

‘Well, sir…’ Lindsay leant forward to extinguish his cigarette.

‘“Position known” I think he means his own position. You see I asked him about his time at U-boat Headquarters.’

‘You also asked him about codes,’ said Godfrey coolly.

‘Yes sir.’ Lindsay half turned to look at Fleming: ‘And the cutting you sent me? Does the dead man have anything to do with this?’

Fleming glanced across at Godfrey. The Admiral was watching Lindsay with the fixed gaze of a sleek cat in a garden full of birds.

‘It’s possible,’ said Fleming cautiously. ‘Was the U-112 ’s engineer one of your prisoners?’

‘Heine?’

‘You’re surprised?’

‘Yes.’ Lindsay nodded. Yes, he was surprised. Heine was a practical man with the patience and dogged determination of a born engineer, not the sort to take his own life.

‘It was Heine who told me that Mohr served as one of the six Staff officers responsible for all day-to-day operations in the Atlantic. A sensitive role. Heine was terrified his comrades would find out.’ Lindsay could picture his pinched, swarthy face across the table, fear in his brown eyes. He had played with that fear to extract all he could from the engineer.

‘But I don’t think he told us enough to kill him.’

‘The Military Police think he committed suicide — they may be right,’ Godfrey replied. The note of scepticism in his voice suggested he believed quite the opposite. ‘Heine was either beaten or involved in a fight before he died. His face was very badly bruised.’

He pushed back his chair and walked across the room to the window. Filthy slate-grey cloud was scudding across the sky above the Foreign Office, sweeping gusts of rain into Horse Guards and tossing the barrage balloons about their moorings.

‘I don’t care about the engineer,’ said Godfrey. ‘But if he was murdered I want to know why. Are we missing something? What does Mohr mean when he says his “mission” is safe?’

He turned sharply to look at Lindsay, a silhouette against the window: ‘Commander Fleming thinks you might be useful.’

Every nerve in Lindsay’s body was tingling, every muscle taut as if he was reaching for something almost within his grasp, at the very tips of his fingers: ‘Yes, sir. I think I can help.’

Fleming raised a quizzical eyebrow and Lindsay wondered if he had sounded too confident.

‘Good.’

The Admiral walked back to his desk but remained standing, his hands resting on the back of the chair.

‘I’ve spoken to Colonel Checkland and for now you will be answering directly to me.’

‘Yes, sir. And the Security Service? They’ve been watching my home.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lindsay, do you, Ian?’

Fleming shook his head.

‘Oh and Lindsay, don’t make any more mistakes. Clear?’ It was a cool, crisp dismissal. Godfrey leant over his desk and opened another file.

The moment the door clicked gently shut, the Director’s gaze lifted to his Assistant: ‘You had better be right.’

‘He isn’t a spy, sir…’ Fleming frowned and leant forward a little to brush a speck of ash from his trousers.

‘But?’ Godfrey detected an uneasiness in his voice.

‘I think he’s a little damaged. The business with the Culloden …’

‘Enough to impair his judgement?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘We’re taking a big risk. If Five don’t think we should trust him, I don’t think we can entirely.’

‘There’s a fellow at Stapley Camp called Duncan. Another Scot. Military Intelligence. Solid. Colonel Gilbert’s instructed him to keep a close eye on Lindsay.’

‘All right, Ian.’ Godfrey picked up a silver paper knife from his desk and waved the point lazily at Fleming: ‘And in the meantime, let’s hope he’s as sharp as he thinks he is.’

…I will take heed to my ways that I offend not in my tongue. I will keep my mouth as it were with a bridle while the ungodly is in my sight…

The priest’s voice was strong and musical for one so bent by age. He had followed the little cortege with unsteady step to the north-east corner of Stapley churchyard and was standing beside a freshly dug mound of earth. Gathered about him was a score of blue and khaki uniforms and beneath the canopy of a yew tree close by, an honour guard of military policemen in their red caps.

…I held my tongue and spake nothing: I kept silence, yea, even from good words but it was pain and grief to me…

It was a perfect summer’s day and the old and the very young from Stapley village and the neighbouring farms were at the drystone wall of the churchyard to witness the spectacle. The Germans were in their full service blue and hanging from the throat of their commanding officer was the red, white and black ribbon of the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross. Someone recognised him from the paper as the ruthless Nazi responsible for sinking more than twenty British ships.

Deliver me from all mine offences and make me not a rebuke unto the foolish…