Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

The door slammed shut and the empty echo bounced round the hard walls of Mohr’s cell and reverberated in his mind.

Lieutenant Samuels was the sort of man it was easy to spot in a crowd, even in an undistinguished business suit. He arrived in a hissing cloud of steam and smoke on the three o’clock from Doncaster. It was half an hour late. Lindsay saw him at once rolling awkwardly along the platform, a space opening about him, head a little bent, his face pasty and earnest. He managed a warm smile when he saw Lindsay at the barrier, grateful no doubt to be back in ‘the Smoke’ and to the man who was making it possible.

‘How was the racecourse, Charlie?’ Lindsay asked, taking his bag.

‘Heavy-going,’ he said with another weak smile. ‘I didn’t expect you to be here to meet me.’

‘We need to talk. We haven’t got long. Admiral Godfrey wants this wrapped up in twenty-four hours. He’s fending off a lot of people at the War Office who want to know about the riot at the camp.’

Lindsay’s jeep was parked at the front of King’s Cross Station. He did his best to brief Samuels as he ground up and down the gears through the London streets. If they could not break Mohr quickly, then the police would take him off their hands: ‘And after the shambles at the camp, I will be hung out to dry somewhere.’

Samuels grunted: ‘Again.’

‘For good.’

They drew up at some lights in Fleet Street and Lindsay reached down for his cigarettes: ‘I saw Mohr this morning and showed him his picture in the paper. I think he was upset. Very gratifying.’

‘So the papers have it?’ Samuels was surprised.

‘No, no. We’re trying to keep it from the papers. It was my own special edition of the Daily Mail . The tricks people at MI5 came up with the idea.’

The Security Service had tried the same thing on their prisoners. It was in the papers so it must be true. The Daily Mail had replaced a front-page story with the one that put Mohr on a murder charge, then run off half a dozen copies for Lindsay.

‘And Five are helping us with three of their chaps.’ He paused, then almost as an afterthought: ‘Two of them work for a man called Colonel Gilbert. They look a little rough.’

Samuels frowned.

‘…Oh and we’ve got Dick Graham from the Park.’

They stopped at a greasy-spoon café in Pimlico for precious eggs and some tomatoes, accompanied by bread and cups of tea. It was going to be a busy night. ‘Our last chance, really,’ said Lindsay, putting down his knife and fork and reaching for his cup.

‘You seem quite calm.’

Did he feel calm? Perhaps something harder. Harder, yes. He knew he would risk anything. It felt almost as if life hung in the balance, hope and happiness, perhaps even his sanity in one scale and Kapitän Jürgen Mohr in the other. This was the time. There was no turning back.

‘We’ll try the Cross Ruff on all the prisoners but Mohr — play one off against another.’ He put his cup back on the table, then caught the waiter’s eye for the bill. ‘Oh and congratulations. You’ve been promoted to Captain. Your new uniform is waiting for you at the prison.’

Samuels groaned, then laughed: ‘Do you think it will work, a Jewish captain?’

‘My God, it had better.’

It was their own little Court of Honour. A badly lit windowless room at the end of the wing with the necessary degree of discomfort. The new captain — Samuels — was in the chair. Nazi officers showed slavish respect for rank and Oberleutnant zur See Dietrich was one of the true believers. He seemed a hard case, the chief interrogator of Heine, the leader of the little washroom band, not afraid to take the rope in his own hands. But a man who needed things to be simple, easily led so easy to confuse, and brittle. And he was not one of Mohr’s men but the first officer of the U-500 and Lindsay sensed he had not been schooled to keep his mouth shut as well as some of the others. Above all, if anyone was going to hang it would be Dietrich and he knew it. His fear was transparent in his face the moment the prison warders led him into the room. He stood before the table, his chin raised, his lips pursed in a show of defiance that was compromised by a clownishly baggy prison uniform. Perhaps it was a deliberate attempt by the warders to undermine his sense of self-importance and dignity. The bottom of his trousers hung in rolls over his shoes and he was obliged to keep a firm hand on the waist to prevent them from falling down altogether.

Lindsay had asked one of Gilbert’s MI5 officers to be the other member of their court, a large muscular man called Robbins who looked as if he would ask most of his questions with his fists. He sat at the table in his dark suit with the face of a hanging judge. It was Samuels who began the interrogation in German: ‘You know why you’re here, Dietrich. You’ve been charged with the murder of two men.’

There was a cold crisp authority in his voice that would not have been out of place on a parade ground: ‘Tomorrow you will appear before a court. If convicted — and you will be — you will be taken to a prison like this and you will be hanged. Do you understand?’

Dietrich did not say anything but stared at a stretch of wall above Samuels’ right shoulder. He was struggling to keep his composure.

‘Do you understand? Answer me,’ Samuels barked.

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

‘Your only hope of seeing Germany and your family again is if you co-operate. I make no promises, will strike no bargains but there is a possibility, I put it at no more than that, if you answer our questions the court will take your attitude into account. Do you understand?’

Dietrich nodded.

‘Do you understand?’ asked Samuels sharply.

‘Yes, Herr Kapitän.’

Samuels glanced across at Lindsay who, taking his cue, opened the file in front of him and pushed a sheet of paper across the table towards Dietrich.

‘Was it your decision to interrogate Heine?’

‘No.’

‘Who gave the order?’

Silence. Dietrich shifting his weight awkwardly.

‘Who?’

Still nothing.

‘Who ordered you to interrogate Heine?’

‘I am not sure…’

‘Who?’

The hand Dietrich lifted to his mouth trembled a little.

‘Your life may depend upon your answer. Who?’

His lips seemed to form the words but there was no sound.

‘Who?’

‘…I don’t…’

‘Who ordered you to interrogate Heine?’

‘The Ältestenrat.’ Barely more than a whisper but Lindsay pounced:

‘Write this,’ and he leant across the table to place his fountain pen on the paper.

‘Write: “The Ältestenrat instructed me to interrogate Leutnant Heine.” Write it now.’

Dietrich looked down at the paper. To speak it softly in a dark room was one thing; to commit it to paper in your own hand was an entirely different matter.

‘Don’t try our patience, Dietrich. We have the evidence to hang you.’

Dietrich’s hand hovered above the paper for two, three, four seconds before he lifted it to cover his mouth once more.

Samuels cleared his throat and began gathering the papers into the file in front of him. ‘All right, that’s enough. We know the answers to these questions. This was your opportunity to do something to help yourself, Dietrich.’

And he lifted his hand to beckon the prison warders standing at the back of the room.

But the pen was in Dietrich’s hand before they could take a step.