William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

Lysander realized he could think of three or four symbolic, doom-laden interpretations of this encounter with a London crow but decided to investigate none of them further. He threw his cigarette into the Thames, picked up his attaché case and, watching out for the speeding traffic, made his way across the Embankment to the Annexe’s front door.

Once he’d presented his credentials, Lysander was taken by an orderly up to the fourth floor. They pushed through swing doors into a lobby with two corridors on either side. On the wall were lists of various departments and meaningless acronyms and small arrows indicating which corridor to take — DGMR, Port & Transport Ctte, Railway and Road Engineering, DC (War Office), Ordnance (France), Food Controller (Dover), DART (Mesopotamia), ROD (II), and the like. Lysander and the orderly turned right and walked down a wide linoleum-floored passageway with many doors off it. The sound of typewriters and ringing telephone bells followed them all the way to a door marked ‘Director of Movements’. The orderly knocked and Lysander was admitted.

The Director of Movements, Brevet Lt.-Colonel Osborne-Way (Worcester Regiment) was not at all pleased to see him, so Lysander recognized in about two seconds. His manner was unapologetically brusque and cold. Lysander was not offered a seat, Osborne-Way did not attempt to shake his hand, nor return his salute. Lysander handed him over his magic laissez-passer to the kingdom of the Directorate — a sheet of headed notepaper signed by the Chief of the Imperial General Staff himself, Lieutenant-General Sir James Murray, KCB, that said that “the under-named officer, Lieutenant L.U.Rief, is to be afforded every possible assistance and access. He is acting under my personal instructions and is reporting directly to me.”

Osborne-Way read this missive several times as if he couldn’t believe what was actually written down in black and white. He was a short man with a grey toothbrush moustache, and large puffy bags under his eyes. There were seven telephones in a row on his desk and a camp bed with a blanket was set up in the corner of his office.

“I don’t understand,” he said, finally. “What’s it got to do with the C.I.G.S., himself? Why’s he sending you? Doesn’t he realize how busy we are here?”

As if to illustrate this claim two of the telephones on his desk began to ring simultaneously. He picked up the first and said “Yes. Yes…repeat, yes. Affirmative.” Then he picked up the second, listened for a moment and said “No,” and hung up.

“This is not my idea, sir,” Lysander said, reasonably. He was affecting a slightly drawling, nasal voice, faintly caddish and bored-sounding, he thought, conscious that this tone would make Osborne-Way like him even less. He didn’t care — he wasn’t entering a popularity contest. “I’m just following orders. Some unfinished, supplementary business to Sir Horace Ede’s commission of inquiry on transportation. Matter of some urgency given the up-coming all-nations’ conference.”

“What do you need from us, then?” Osborne-Way said, handing the letter back as if it was burning his hand.

“I’d like a list of all personnel in the Directorate and their distribution of duties. And I’d be grateful if you’d alert everyone in the Directorate to the fact that I am here and have a job to do. At some stage I will want to interview them. The sooner I’m finished the sooner you’ll see the back of me,” he smiled. “Sir.”

“Very well.”

“I believe I have an office assigned to me.”

Osborne-Way picked up a telephone and shouted, “Tremlett!” into the mouthpiece.

In about thirty seconds a lance-corporal appeared at the door. He had a black patch over one eye.

“Tremlett, this is Lieutenant Rief. Take him to Room 205.” Then to Lysander he said, “Tremlett will fetch you any files or documents you need, any person you wish to interview and will provide you with tea and biscuits. Good day.” He opened a drawer on his desk and began removing papers. The meeting was clearly over. Lysander followed Tremlett back along the wide passageway, taking two right-angled turns as they made for Room 205.

“Good to have you aboard, sir,” Tremlett said, turning and giving him a lopsided smile, the portion of his face below the patch not moving. He was a young man in his early twenties, with a London accent. “I’m on extension 11. Give me a tinkle whenever you need me. Here we are, sir.”

He opened the door to Room 205. It was a windowless box with a dirty skylight. Here was a table, two wooden chairs and a very old filing cabinet. On the table was a telephone. It was not a room one would want to spend many hours in, Lysander thought.

“What’s that curious smell?” he asked.

“Disinfectant, sir. Colonel Osborne-Way thought we should give the place a good swab-out before you arrived.”

He told Tremlett to bring him Osborne-Way’s list as soon as possible, sat down and lit a cigarette. His eyes were already stinging slightly from the astringency of the disinfectant. The battle lines had been drawn — the Director of Movements had made a pre-emptive strike.

♦

There were twenty-seven members of the Directorate of Movements on the fourth floor of the Annexe, and many clerical and secretarial staff to serve them. Almost all of them were army officers who had been wounded and were unfit for active service. As he looked down the list of names Lysander found himself wondering — which one of you is Andromeda? Which one of you has been sending coded messages to Manfred Glockner in Geneva? Who has access to the astounding detail those letters contained? Where are you, Andromeda? Temporary Captain J.C.T. Baillie (Royal Scots)? Or temporary Major S.A.M.M. Goodforth (Irish Guards)?…He leafed through the typed pages, wondering what had made him choose Andromeda as the name of the traitor in the Directorate. Andromeda — a helpless, naked, beautiful young woman chained to the rocks at the ocean’s edge, waiting terrified for the approach of the sea monster Cetus — didn’t exactly conform to the stereotypical image of a man actively and efficiently betraying his country. ‘Cetus’ might have been more apt — but he liked the ring and the idea of looking for an ‘Andromeda’. The paradox was more intriguing.

But he quickly became aware as he contemplated Osborne-Way’s list that it would not be an easy process. He picked a name at random: temporary Captain M.J. McCrimmon (Royal Sussex Regiment). Duties — 1. Despatch of units and drafts to India and Mesopotamia. 2. Inter-colonial moves. 3. Admiralty transport claims and individual passage claims to and from India. He picked another — temporary Major E.C. Lloyd-Russell (Retired. Special Reserve). Duties — 1. Despatch of units and drafts from India to France (Force ‘A’) and Egypt (Force ‘E’). 2. Union of South Africa contingent. Labour corps from South Africa and India to France. 3. Supervision of Stores Service from the USA and Canada to the United Kingdom. Then there was Major L.L. Eardley (Royal Engineers). Duties — 1. Travelling concessions and irregularities. 2. Issue of railway warrants unconnected with embarkation. 3. General questions concerning railways and canals in the United Kingdom.

And so it went on, Lysander beginning to feel a mild nausea as he tried to take all this amount of work — these ‘duties’ — on board. He ordered a pot of tea and some biscuits from Tremlett. He thought of himself as a child on the roof of a vast factory peering down through a skylight at all the machinery and the people inside. Who were they? What were they doing? What was being made? All these strange jobs and responsibilities — ‘Railway Engineering Services. Accounts for work services. Occupation and rent of railway property. Shipping statistics. Labour Corps to France. Re-mounts to France. Long-voyage hospital ships. Despatches of stores to theatres of war other than France. Construction of sidings…’ They went on and on. And this was only one department in the War Office. And there were thousands of people working in the War Office. And this was only one country at war. The Directorate of Movements would have its equivalent in France, in Germany, in Russia, in Austria-Hungary…