Birth of a Spy

by Duncan Swindells

  The George Wiseman that greeted him had aged considerably since the publicity photograph for his book jacket had been taken. This Wiseman wore a hearing aid discreetly tucked behind his ear and Hunter thought he had probably shrunk too, although it was impossible to say of course. He had lost none of his style though that was for sure. Hunter imagined he didn’t receive too many guests these days and had made a special effort for the occasion. He wore a rich, dark blue velvet jacket and open necked shirt. Hunter briefly caught sight of a gaudy gold wristwatch and a pair of ostentatious cufflinks, a red silk handkerchief providing his top pocket with a spray of colour.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Hunter, won’t you please come in?’

  Hunter smiled a polite hello as Wiseman pushed past him, stepping quickly into the shared vestibule at the front of the building to check that the exterior security door had closed firmly behind his guest.

  The flat opened out into a small yet tastefully decorated entry hall. Hunter saw the old man had a passion for cricket; on a coat stand a cotton sunhat from Lord’s and below it a cricket bat covered with the faint red spots of years of use. There were umbrellas and walking sticks and rather incongruously a baseball mit. Beside the front door, watching over the space, hung a large and imposing oil of a strikingly beautiful woman in furs. To Hunter’s untrained eye it looked like a portrait of the highest quality. He could see two doors at the far end of the hall, presumably bedrooms, a kitchen or bathroom and each exhibiting the destruction of a seemingly absent cat. The old boy scurried past him, indicating a door to Hunter’s left, the sitting room and the room from which Wiseman had inspected him just a moment before. Pushed to one side a baby grand piano, no longer a musical instrument but now a piece of furniture, its lid home to dozens of black and white photographs. There were many portraits of a young woman, probably Wiseman’s wife, and many of the author himself, one of him laughing on a yacht, another in black tie, cigar in hand, a third of him standing beaming proudly next to a man Hunter half recognised in cricketing whites and a baggy cap. Behind the piano rose an elegant mahogany bookcase which Hunter was eager to examine. In the bay window a gate legged table, its leaves folded away, a 1960s Olivetti typewriter perched at one end. Once it had clearly been heavily used but seemed neglected and lonely now, its best days behind it, its purpose, like the baby grand’s, purely decorative. To the left of the Olivetti another smaller table and a telephone.

  Along one wall stretched a luxuriant black leather Chesterfield and facing it the central feature of the room, an impressive fireplace which could easily have heated the entire flat had it been lit, but was instead home to a fine collection of pine cones. Down each side of the fireplace, painted Victorian tiles in a dark red and above, a long, broad mantel piece brimming with yet more photographs. The majority of these seemed to be colour, of children awkwardly posed in school uniforms or at play. Grandchildren, Hunter supposed.

  ‘Please.’ Wiseman said gesturing towards a well-worn leather armchair angled at the empty fire. Hunter sat obediently. ‘Now may I get you something to drink?’

  Hunter thanked him and Wiseman turned and opened a cabinet to one side of the piano. He’d been hoping the old man would leave and go to the kitchen, providing him with an opportunity to examine the many collections of photographs and books, but instead, before Hunter could change his mind, Wiseman was bearing down on him with a glass of golden brown liquid and a small jug of water. Whisky at midday, on an empty stomach?

  ‘Thank you,’ he stammered.

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Yes. Plenty. Thank you.’

  Wiseman regarded him disappointedly before splashing some water into Hunter’s glass and taking some for himself in an act of grudging solidarity. Clearly this was not how he thought whisky should be taken. With a little effort he pulled up a chair.

  ‘Used to drink whisky with a chap in Bursa,’ Wiseman said smiling at the recollection, ‘He took water too. Poured such a miserly measure we used to call it a mirage. Let’s go round to Jerry’s for a mirage, we’d say. Funny chap. Dead now, of course.’ He looked up and away and Hunter wondered if he might not have had a wasted journey.

  ‘So, how may I help you? It has been a long time since I received such an enigmatic request.’ He smiled obsequiously, acknowledging the pun. ‘I take it my publishers were unable to assist you?’ Rather than answer that particular question Hunter produced his copy of the book. ‘Well well, may I?’

  The author took it from him, slipped on a pair of reading glasses which had been dangling carelessly around his neck, and with a look of unabashed pride began examining his work, nodding at it approvingly. Before Hunter could stop him the old man had taken a fountain pen from his jacket pocket, extravagantly signing his name on the inside cover, seemingly oblivious to the sticker on the facing page clearly stating it was the property of Trinity College Library. Then having diligently shaken the ink dry, he handed the book back.

  ‘Would you mind if I ask you a few questions about Enigma?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Wiseman replied.

  Hunter took an apologetic sip of his whisky. Surely to God nobody with an ounce of self respect could put this stuff willingly in their bodies, especially before lunch. The slightly sickly smell as the single malt caught at the back of his throat. He returned the glass to its table and tried to hide his feelings.

  ‘You worked on it during the war?’

  Wiseman’s brow furrowed and he fiddled peevishly with his hearing aid.

  ‘After the war. I take it you have read my book, Mr Hunter?’

  ‘I’m sorry. After the war.’

  ‘My father worked for the SOE during the war and then latterly at Bletchley Park. He must have seen in me some aptitude for the work and so I briefly assisted him. We may have had to stretch the truth a little with regards to my age, you understand?’ Wiseman added with a mischievous grin.

  ‘I can’t remember, does your book ever actually say what work your father did?’

  ‘No. That would be because the nature of my father’s work was, like so much at Bletchley, rather sensitive, do you see? Few are aware, for instance, that after the war, with Churchill still determined Bletchley be kept under wraps, many of the technologies captured from the Germans were passed on to our friends in the colonies.’

  ‘Passed on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which technologies?’

  Wiseman produced a leather case and, stifling a wet cough, lit an impressive cigar before addressing Hunter through a thick fug of smoke.

  ‘Enigma, and the like.’

  ‘Really?’ Hunter could scarcely believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you telling me the British government sold German Enigma machines to the Commonwealth?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said sold exactly, but yes, that’s the gist of it.’

  Hunter gave a shocked laugh and reached for his glass.

  That was good, Wiseman thought, watching the youngster persevering with his drink. Laughter was a good sign. It had been a deliberately naughty little tale, designed to be just grubby enough to keep the young pup happy. A cheeky reverse sweep, showy and eye-catching yet, ultimately inconsequential and certainly not to be repeated.

  ‘And was it passed on as a secure network?’

  ‘Mr Hunter,’ Wiseman stopped to suppress another cough, ‘secure is such a relative term, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘No. Not particularly. Certainly not when it comes to something as sensitive as Enigma. Were the respective countries made aware that it had been broken?’

  Wiseman swirled the spirit around his glass and watched it cling to the sides.

  ‘You know, I’m not sure they were. Enigma was unbreakable, as far as the colonies were concerned at least.’

  ‘Giving our government the ability to listen in on their secure chatter.’

  ‘That would be the logical conclusion, I suppose. A little Trojan horse, if you like,’ Wiseman said chuckling to himself.

  ‘That’s a bit unscr
upulous isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? I’d never really thought of it like that.’

  ‘And your father?’

  They listened as Wiseman’s cigar hissed and crackled before the old man replied.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Was that what he was involved in? Systematically eavesdropping on our allies?’

  Wiseman tapped his Montecristo firmly on the ashtray by his side and watched contentedly as the cigar’s ashen tip fell off.

  ‘What did you say it was you are studying at Cambridge?’

  ‘Mathematics.’

  ‘Oh dear, I am sorry.’

  Hunter chose to ignore the slight and pressed on.

  ‘And I’m not studying actually, I graduated last year.’

  ‘Good Lord, you don’t look old enough. Well, I’m sure your parents must be extremely proud.’

  He hadn’t travelled all that way to talk about his parents and so there settled an uncomfortable silence between the two men. Wiseman smoked whilst Hunter wondered how best to salvage the situation. The old man took another sip from his tumbler.

  ‘Truly, I’m sorry,’ he said sensing Hunter’s discomfort, ‘that really was none of my business. Now, you have something you wish to show me?’

  Hunter reached into his shoulder bag and produced the sheet of code, looking at it one last time before conceding defeat, willing the letters to magically spring from the page and rearrange themselves there and then. But when they didn’t, he handed it to George Wiseman. The old man retrieved his reading glasses before carefully balancing his cigar on the heavy crystal ashtray at his elbow.

  ‘My doctors keep telling me I’m to pack it in,’ he said distractedly, not looking at the sheet of code. ‘They say if I don’t I’ll have to have some sort of operation,’ he continued theatrically drawing a line down his chest from his throat to his stomach. ‘That sort of thing. Horrid little buggers, doctors, don’t you think? Well they aren’t getting their hands on me, I can tell you. And anyway, I think, once you get to my age, you’re entitled to stop listening to doctors all together, don’t you?’

  Hunter said that he had to agree and began moving uneasily in his chair as the old man slowly inspected the page, his tired, watery eyes flicking up from time to time to study him.

  ‘And where did you say you came by this?’ he finally asked, retrieving his cigar.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks for the trip down memory lane, but I’m not sure how I can be of any use to you whatsoever. It’s a quatsch, you see?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s rubbish. Gibberish.’

  There was something in the old man’s tone. Hunter knew a brush off when he heard one, and he didn’t like being lied to. There was more here, something the old man knew but wouldn’t share.

  ‘I don’t believe so,’ he suggested tentatively.

  ‘You don’t believe so? I see. And what may I ask, makes you say that?’

  ‘Well, erm. I mean, nothing specific I suppose its just…’ It crossed Hunter’s mind that perhaps it had all been one of Alec’s pathetic attempts at humour after all. Maybe he was wasting everyone’s time whilst Alec sat in a pub somewhere howling with laughter at his gullibility?

  ‘I mean, I suppose it could all be…’ Hunter shook his head. He’d been a fool and an idiot. He’d wasted twenty pounds of Amy’s money which he would struggle to pay her back, not to mention all the lies he had told.

  ‘All right then,’ Wiseman cut in abruptly, ‘have you considered Playfair?’

  Now Hunter was shocked. Was the old man being deliberately rude, trying to provoke him? Double Playfair had been one of Germany’s most rudimentary codes and even suggesting such a thing to him was insulting.

  ‘It’s a single. There’s no depth,’ Hunter continued, trying to encourage Wiseman to take him a little more seriously.

  ‘I can see that, young man.’

  Then why did you suggest Playfair?

  ‘And there’s no crib either.’

  ‘In which case, Scott, as I think I said, I fail to see how I can assist you.’

  Wiseman puffed at his cigar, closing his eyes to savour the taste as he thought.

  ‘Have you checked for numbers?’

  Hunter nodded. It had been the first thing he had done.

  ‘Punctuation?’

  ‘I don’t think there is any.’

  ‘That would be highly unusual, you’d have to agree?’

  Again Hunter nodded. They’d explored every possibility. Wiseman had been his last hope but the author had been unable or unwilling to shed any fresh light on the code, if indeed it was a code and not some cruel practical joke. There simply wasn’t enough to go on. He regrettably had to acknowledge that the old boy was probably right. It was perhaps time to call it a day, return to Cambridge, make up something plausible to tell Amy and try and forget about the whole strange business.

  ‘You never did tell me how this came to be in your possession?’

  ‘It was left me.’

  ‘Left you? Bequeathed to you in a will, was it?’

  ‘No. Left on my door matt. Shoved through the letter box.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why you then?’

  ‘I don’t know that either. I break codes. It’s what I do. I’m in a club you see, we try to crack old Enigma codes… for fun.’

  ‘For fun! Dear God, boy.’ The old man’s face hardened and he angrily stubbed at his cigar before thrusting the code back at Hunter. ‘I can assure you this is no game. People lost their lives over such things. Fun indeed.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Hunter said, with the meeting now in danger of becoming more of a disaster than he could ever have predicted. ‘I chose my words poorly. As a mathematician there is something both beautiful and elegant about Enigma. That’s what fascinates me, the intellectual challenge.’

  ‘That is very much the problem with you mathematicians, if you’ll forgive me for saying. You lack empathy and imagination. Not everything in life can be boiled down to ones and zeros, as I’m afraid you will discover.’

  Hunter certainly didn’t need the lecture. He was painfully aware of life and its many complexities.

  ‘And you still haven’t told me who left you this?’

  ‘That’s because I don’t know.’

  ‘Why you then, why would they choose you?’

  ‘I break codes. It’s what I do.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. Anyone could have broken this.’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone could have,’ Hunter said, struggling to disguise the dent to his pride.

  Wiseman relit his cigar and fiddled with his hearing aid some more. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, the corners of his mouth threatening to curl into a conciliatory smile. And then, just as quickly the moment passed.

  ‘I can’t help you I’m afraid. It appears your journey may have been a wasted one.’ With a little difficulty the old man rose from his chair to freshen his drink. ‘This,’ he continued, pointing to the sheet of paper in Hunter’s hand, ‘is a dead duck. Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps it should just be left well alone?’ Wiseman stared at him, the frustrated teacher and the obdurate child.

  ‘That’s exactly what Sinclair said. Perhaps you’re right?’ Hunter threw back the last of his scotch and seeing the old man make no effort to refill his glass, assumed he had outstayed his welcome and that it was now time to do battle with London’s over stretched transport system once more. But Wiseman’s anger appeared to have evaporated.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Professor Sinclair, he kind of runs our club,’ Hunter said, surrounding the word in silent and apologetic parentheses. ‘He thought perhaps this one should be left alone too.’

  ‘Did he now?’ Wiseman massaged the arm of his chair. ‘Professor Josef Sinclair?’

  ‘Freddie Sinclair, Head of Classics.’

  ‘My mistake.’ Wiseman nodded to himself,
‘Now I come to think of it, I couldn’t swear Josef was a Cambridge man. That is just one of the many problems of advancing old age, I’m afraid.’

  Hunter picked up his things and handed back his empty tumbler.

  ‘I can heartily advise against it,’ Wiseman continued, ‘Old age, I mean.’

  Hunter had turned towards the door and the hall and was already thinking apprehensively how he would return to Liverpool Street.

  ‘Now, where do you think you are going? Sit, sit and let’s begin again. You’re missing something. What is it you’re not telling me?’

  Hunter let out a quiet sigh of exasperation. Really, where were they going with all this? But as much to put off sitting on a crowded tube train as anything he decided he would humour the old man. Slowly he related his routine to Wiseman on receiving a new code. He told him how he would log all the relevant information, adding that in this case there had been very little. He described the ring binder he used, right down to its colour and even mentioned the post it notes and where the folder was kept. He told the silent Wiseman as much about the algorithm as he thought he would understand and then just when Hunter believed he had unburdened himself entirely, right down to the last pointless little detail, Wiseman stirred.

  ‘So please, Mr Hunter, tell me everything again, from the beginning and this time be more specific. Be careful not to omit a single detail.’

  ‘You’re kidding. I’ve just told you everything.’

  Beneath their wrinkles, Wiseman’s eyes hardened.

  ‘My age, you understand? At my age it is sometimes necessary to repeat things, sometimes several times. Please indulge me, you returned to your digs. We shall continue from there. Then what did you do? You’re forgetting something, intentionally or not.’

  ‘There’s nothing more to tell. Once I’d ascertained it was a code and checked to see I hadn’t just missed the professor, I processed the information the way I always do. Like I just told you.’

  ‘You saw this Professor Sinclair?’

  ‘No, I left the house to make sure I hadn’t just missed him.’

  ‘Go on,’ Wiseman urged.