Andrew Williams - The Interrogator

What had the British promised Dietrich? What was the price?

‘You’re trying to blame us. You’ve made a deal,’ Schmidt’s voice was very shrill. ‘You of all people.’

‘What else did you say about me?’ Bruns was close to the hidden microphone.

‘I… but I think we should…’

Dietrich’s voice was drowned by a screeching chair and a moment later Lindsay heard gasping, then a low moan. Someone had struck Dietrich hard, perhaps forcing him to the floor.

‘Stop it, for God’s sake.’ It was the U-112 ’s second officer, Koch; he sounded more composed than the others. ‘Oberleutnant Dietrich, you must tell us. Help him up.’

‘The British are going to hang us for murder,’ said Dietrich thickly.

‘You were frightened so you told them about us, you cunt. I’m going to kill you.’

‘…they think we killed Heine and I tried to tell them… I explained we were only trying to frighten Lange. That’s all, I swear.’ Dietrich’s voice was shaking with fear.

‘I’m going to fucking kill you. You coward. You’re no better than Lange. Betrayed your comrades and the Fatherland.’

‘Shut up.’ It was Koch again. ‘Calm down.’

No one spoke for a few seconds. Heavy footsteps, short anxious breaths and one of them was obviously standing beneath the microphone hidden in the light fitting.

‘Did they ask you about Kapitän Mohr?’

Koch must have been leaning close to Dietrich because he spoke in barely a whisper: ‘His position at headquarters?’

‘Yes, they asked me about his role but I told them I didn’t know.’

‘Good.’

‘And the mission, the codes, did you tell him about the codes?’

‘No… I…’

‘Bastard.’ Bruns must have taken his hesitation as an admission of guilt or perhaps he could not contain his anger for a second longer. But there was another sharp gasp of pain from Dietrich and the clatter of the chair falling sideways.

‘Stop it,’ shouted Koch, struggling breathlessly to restrain Bruns. ‘That’s an order.’

‘I didn’t tell them about the mission,’ Dietrich gasped from the floor, ‘or the B-Service… I’ve only heard a little, just a little…’

He cried out. Someone — Bruns — must have kicked him as he lay there. And again, and again. And there was the sound of scuffling feet. Perhaps Schmidt was wading in too. Both men were on a short fuse and Koch had given up trying to restrain them.

Lindsay pulled off his headphones and, half rising, leant across to touch the sleeve of the man beside him: ‘Let’s rescue him.’

Robbins pulled a face and shook his head vigorously. He bent towards the machine again, his hands clamped tightly over the earpieces.

‘No, we must…’

But Robbins was waving him back into his chair, a wry smile on his face. Lindsay picked up the headphones again.

‘…They don’t know that we were intercepting their signals. I’ve said nothing about the captain’s role, I swear I haven’t.’

‘Shut up…’

‘But you’ve dropped us in the shit, you swine.’

There was a low moan that ended in a grunt of air as someone aimed another kick at the prone man.

‘That’s it, that’s enough,’ said Lindsay, pushing back his chair.

‘Sure?’ asked Robbins lazily. ‘Chap’s only getting what he deserves, you know. A few bruises.’

Lindsay did not answer but pushed past him to the cell door and on to the landing. It was only a few yards to the little interrogation room. He gathered guards in his wake.

‘All right. Let me in. Prisoners back to their cells. Fetch the doctor.’

Dietrich was lying in a tight little ball beside the table, his hands over his head. The others stepped back at once. Koch was quicker than the rest. When he saw Lindsay at the door he looked surprised, then anxious as the truth began to dawn on him.

‘Rabbit in the headlamps.’ Robbins was standing at Lindsay’s shoulder, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like an American gumshoe.

‘You’d think they would ask themselves why they’ve suddenly been thrown together. They panic. Spill it all to each other. It’s always the same. Especially at…’ and he glanced at his watch, ‘one o’clock in the morning.’

The doctor was bent over Dietrich who was uncurling slowly like a leaf in spring.

‘You see, just a few bruises,’ said Robbins. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’

‘Enough, I think.’

They watched as Dietrich was helped back to his feet. He swayed drunkenly, and there was a nasty cut high on his cheek that would certainly need stitches. The doctor took his arm and began leading him to the door. He was in his sixties with a shock of white hair and a heavy Old Testament brow, none too steady on his own feet. As they passed, he gave Robbins a sharp and knowing look that suggested it was not their first encounter in the interrogation room. If Robbins noticed, he was not at all concerned.

‘And now?’

‘Mohr.’

There was no choice. It was time to chance everything. The last throw. There was nothing more he could wring from the others tonight and he had promised the Director that he would have something by the morning. If he did not break Mohr then he would have failed and there would be nothing to show for the price he had made others pay. Nothing.

‘Lindsay?’ Samuels was walking along the landing towards him. ‘What’s happened to Dietrich?’

‘Just bruises.’

‘Bruises?’ Samuels frowned, ‘How?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘Did you hit him?’ Samuels looked shocked.

‘No. I’m sorry, Charlie, I haven’t got time’, and he brushed past him to the stairs and began thumping down to the ground floor.

‘It’s almost a year to the day since my ship was sunk…’

‘Is that why we’re here?’

‘No. We’re here because you and your officers committed two despicable crimes.’

‘Revenge?’

‘War.’

‘And your guilt?’

Lindsay leant across the table to offer him a cigarette. Mohr looked at it for a second or so then took it, rolling it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. He was a swarthy man but his skin had turned U-boat grey, as if he had spent weeks in the hull of his submarine, and there were dark rings about his eyes. It was a noisy landing at night with heavy-booted warders and the slamming of doors: that had been simple to arrange.

‘Don’t you want to smoke it?’ Lindsay sent his lighter spinning across the table. ‘There is more than one kind of death, don’t you agree?’

Mohr snapped the lighter and held the long yellow flame to his cigarette. It flickered in the draught from the ventilation grille above, cutting sad lines in his face. Then he inhaled deeply and with obvious pleasure.

‘Many men died on my ship,’ said Lindsay quietly, ‘Most of them. But their names will be remembered with pride and honour. That is one kind of death.’ He paused to fold his arms comfortably on the table in front of him in a way that suggested he was reflecting on this thought.

‘A man’s reputation for a hundred years can depend on a single moment. To lose it is another kind of death.’

Mohr watched him closely through the haze of cigarette smoke that hung over the table, his face quite empty of emotion.

‘What will people say about you and the others do you think? That you brought honour to your Navy and to your families in that washroom? Will your name be spoken in anything above a whisper?’

Still the quiet steady stare. Mohr’s elbow was on the table, the side of his face in his hand, his shoulders hunched wearily over the ashtray, and there was ash on the sleeve of his shit-brown uniform. He seemed older and diminished, as if after slopping-out with the cons at Brixton there was nowhere further to fall. If that was what he was thinking, he was wrong.