Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

‘They must have got that sort of intelligence from our signals.’

His voice was husky with excitement and Mary felt guilty that she was too tired and jaded to share it. A single scrap of rip-and-read was not conclusive proof that the Navy’s codes were compromised; the intelligence could have come from a German spy or from a captured document. And the reference to the ‘shipping schedule’ seemed a little neat:

‘Would U-boat Headquarters betray its source in a signal?’

Childs frowned, irritated by the scepticism in her voice: ‘It’s entirely possible. The Germans believe Enigma is the cipher that cannot be broken. Dönitz has no inkling we’re reading his signals. Of course that sort of intelligence should be need-to-know only but from time to time his people will make mistakes.’

Childs leant over his desk to check the Trade Division’s report on shipping movements for the day: ‘According to our records, the Clan Innes was at 60°45 North and 33°02 West at a little before four on the afternoon of the seventh of May — that would put her in grid square AK22.’

‘All right, anything else sent on the seventh or eighth?’

Childs picked up a shabby brown cardboard file and shook it at her: ‘If you want to know, help me look.’

And it was Mary who found the next signal. She held it in her right hand and the paper trembled as a tingle of excitement passed through her whole body. Childs was right; he had found something, something very important. For a few days in May, U-boat Headquarters had been very careless. It was an update on the progress of the freighter, Clan Innes :

1440/7/5 B REPORT. SHIP IN GRID AL14 ATTACK WITHOUT FURTHER ORDERS.

It left little room for doubt about the source — the B-Dienst. The Kriegsmarine’s signals intelligence service was intercepting and reading British wireless traffic. She passed the signal to Childs who looked at it and at once began bouncing in his chair with a smile like a Cheshire cat on his face.

‘What happened to the ship, Geoff?’

‘Sunk the same day, the seventh of May.’ He opened the Trade Division file on the desk in front of him and flicked through the reports until he found the one he was looking for. ‘Here we are, Clan Innes , lost with all hands, 145 men. Bastards.’

He glanced at Mary: ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

And there was more in the file. The same two days in May yielded three signals with intelligence on a homebound convoy that was sourced to ‘B-Reports’:

1805/6/5 B REPORT. EASTBOUND CONVOY HX 121. GRID AL22. COURSE SOUTH SOUTH EAST. EIGHT KNOTS.

And the following afternoon another position report and an injunction:

1445 /7/5 B REPORT. CONVOY HX. 121. GRID AM13. PRESS HOME ATTACK.

But it was the last signal sent to the U-boats pursuing HX121 that was the most thrilling — and disturbing:

AT 0230 TODAY ADMIRALTY ISSUED WARNING OF A U-BOAT IN GRID AM13

Five small pieces of paper in total, five small pieces out of the hundreds of signals sent to Merchant and Royal Navy ships every day that suggested some at least were being read by the Germans. But they were the only five in the many files of decrypted messages they had read, and with so few in so many weeks it was impossible to tell if one code or many had been compromised.

‘What a bloody mess’ said Childs. Why didn’t someone pick up on this before? And it’s not the first time the Germans have penetrated our codes, is it?’

Mary could not help a half-smile as she thought of Lindsay.

‘I don’t think we’ve got much to smile about.’

‘No,’ she said with a defensive shake of the head, ‘no, we haven’t. I think it’s time to show this to Rodger, don’t you?’

But Winn was not in his office and he had left word with one of the clerical assistants that he would not be back until late in the evening.

‘Look at us,’ Childs said at his door, ‘like children waiting to show teacher their treasure.’

The pleasure Mary felt at their discovery was blunted by the delivery of more files from the Registry. Hawkins dropped them on her desk with a sly smile, as if to say, ‘so you think you’ve finished, do you?’Amidst the smoke, the trilling telephones, the soporific murmur of voices, her thoughts began to drift from the dry sentences of the signals to Lindsay, the joy she felt in his arms, intense and shameless, a warm wistful haze of memories. She had promised to make up for their last unsatisfactory meeting and he had promised with a mischievous smile to hold her to it. They were to rendezvous in front of Victoria Station at eight o’clock that evening and have dinner at a restaurant close by. But now she would meet him only to excuse herself and he would be cross and would want to know why. The thought troubled her for the rest of the afternoon and was still hanging over her when she left the Citadel to keep her appointment.

They met at a newspaper stand on the filthy concourse, steam and soot belching from the engines beyond the barrier, the station ringing with the shrill whistles of the guards on the platforms, raised voices and the heavy slam of carriage doors. She let him kiss her, a long, tender, conscienceless kiss that only ended when the grumpy newspaper seller began barracking them for spoiling his trade. They shuffled on a few feet without protest and kissed again. Then she told him that their evening was going to have to end in the noise and squalor of the station, in the company of bored commuters and rowdy squaddies.

‘Aren’t you disappointed?’

He laughed and squeezed her tightly: ‘You’re cross with me for not putting up a fight but would it do any good to protest?’

‘You have to care enough to try.’

‘I do care. Of course I do. Do you have to go back right away? May I walk you back?’

They left the station and crossed the road into Victoria Street and on past the rubble and dust of what had once been a tidy row of shop fronts. It was a strange sight. The blast had demolished the shops at random, leaving those that remained like broken teeth in the mouth of a pensioner. They walked quickly and in silence. Lindsay was lost in thoughts he did not want to share. When they reached the piazza in front of Westminster Cathedral Mary shook her arm free. ‘Have you been inside?’

‘No.’

‘I want to light a candle.’

He looked at her, then rolled his eyes up to the striped campanile. ‘I thought you needed to be at your desk.’

‘It won’t take long,’ and she set off towards the front of the cathedral.

She was not sure he would follow until his hand fell upon hers as she pulled the handle of the heavy door. A late Mass had just finished and the dark Byzantine interior was rich with the sweet perfume of incense. Beneath the baldacchino, the servers were clearing candles and cloths from the high altar. And for a moment the smoky gloom, the low lights reminded her of the Tracking Room and those who served with monastic discipline at its table.

Lindsay bent forward to whisper in her ear: ‘Popery. My Mother wouldn’t approve.’

She turned her head to glare at him and began walking down the aisle towards the Lady Chapel, her shoes clicking on the bare stone. The chapel was empty but for an old woman in a heavy threadbare coat mechanically working her way along her rosary. It seemed brighter than the rest of the cathedral, a bank of votive candles burning before the altar, the gold ceiling shimmering with light which reflected off the glass tesserae depicting Christ in majesty upon the tree of life.

‘Why are you lighting a candle?’

‘Oh, for those people lost with the Imperial Star .’

She leant forward to place it at the back of the stand and gasped as a flame caught her wrist.