The Athens Assignment

by David Boyle

  It looked nothing like the real thing, of course. This was a fake Enigma. But assuming Bletchley had managed to extract the settings of the day and would, as they should have done every night at this time, broadcast them to her – then it would be an effective machine.

  But hold on. The lights were not coming on. “Have you plugged it into your battery?”

  “Hold your horses! Just doing it now.”

  Billy put some finishing touches to the makeshift wires attached to his radio equipment.

  “Bingo,” he said quietly. “Should work now. Bang on time.”

  Xanthe put her finger on the X button and was delighted to see the B come up.

  “Ok, it’s on – we’re on! Now, where’s that message for me?”

  “Hold on, blimey you’re impatient. Five minutes still till we’re due.”

  It seemed like an age. Then at 10.15 p.m., Billy suddenly swept into action and put his headphones on his head.

  More waiting.

  “What’s happening now?”

  “I’m just waiting for our call sign. Then…” His face concentrated suddenly, and he reached for the pad.

  Again, nothing.

  “What’s the sign?”

  “Can’t say,” said Billy. “Sorry, careless talk and all that. Wait!”

  The air seemed to be filled with imaginary bleeps and dots and dashes. Billy’s hand flew across his pad. Then he took off his headphones.

  “Well?”

  “Well,” said Billy, tentatively. “There are three sentences for you, but I don’t understand them. ‘A bright dark moon the sky. Every joy on your infantile verandah as quiet Kenyan wildebeest has nothing to do for Sundays through May but June.’ And finally, ‘Every girl wants one.’”

  “Sounds odd, doesn’t it? That’s the settings, ok. Let’s get on, shall we…?”

  “No, hold on, there’s more. There’s also a message: ‘Beast now loose. Imperative know destination. Immediate.’ They must be desperate. They’ve only coded it once. I suppose they must be hoping nobody makes a connection, but even I can hazard a guess what that one’s about.”

  “Well, if you do, please don’t say it,” said Xanthe warningly. “Was it broadcast from London?”

  “Yes, on Radio London on the English language wavelength. They’ve been doing the same every night for the past few nights at this time.”

  Xanthe was thinking as fast as she could. She felt exhausted and struggled to keep herself thinking clearly.

  How was it the settings? We can’t know everything, she told herself, but these were going to be their best guess in Bletchley at the Luftwaffe Enigma settings for the day – one reason for making the signal at 11 p.m. The minutes were ticking by too. Come on, Xanthe…

  “What’s the moon got to do with it,” asked Billy.

  “The first sentence gives me the order of the rotors, I, II and IV, then the ring positions they need to be set in. Those are the letters in the alphabet. It isn’t a difficult code, I’m glad to say. ‘Moon the sky’ that’s the – um – thirteenth letter, so we get thirteen, twenty, nineteen. That’s not too tough.”

  She clicked the rotors into their correct positions.

  “The second sentence is the wiring for the so-called steckerboard. What was it again? ‘Every joy’ means we link the E and the J, ‘on your’ is the O and the Y.”

  She grappled with the spider’s web of wires and plugged them in either end.

  “Can you read out the rest of the sentence? Thanks, Billy.”

  The pretend steckerboard was plugged and they were ready to go.

  “Oh yes, the third sentence, that’s the kennegruppen code for the day – ‘Every Girl Wants One’ which means EGW.”

  Xanthe was also thinking tactically. Her original purpose was to find out when Bismarck was sailing. The ship had now sailed and, judging by the tenor of the coded signal she had just received, they had now lost track of her. There had been a battle, so they had obviously known where the battleship was at one stage, but now the Hood was at the bottom of the ocean, their quarry lost somewhere in the Atlantic.

  The navy must be taking other measures. They could not conceivably be relying entirely on her. But, even so, the weight of responsibility hung heavily. She must not get this wrong. Somewhere, four or five thousand miles away, forty thousand tons of naval metal was in the ocean spray, waiting for a convoy taking food or families to or from America. If she could possibly, possibly prevent their unnecessary and hideous deaths, by fire or drowning, she would do so.

  But then why, in those circumstances, should Bismarck be heading anywhere in particular? That was the oddity. The purpose of her voyage was not to head anywhere, but to lurk somewhere on the convoy routes, refuelling occasionally from Nazi tankers. If the Admiralty believed she was heading somewhere, then it could only be for one reason: the Bismarck was damaged. Perhaps in the encounter with the Hood and maybe others. Perhaps later. Perhaps the navy had managed to get an aircraft carrier within striking range before they lost her. Maybe she was even leaking fuel oil across the Atlantic too. It explained the sudden urgency: Bismarck was heading for the safety of home ports, either back in Norway or in occupied France. But which one?

  Still, none of this was, in a sense, her business. She just had to do what she had been trained to do – and to do what she was told.

  “That’s right,” said Billy, reading her thoughts. “Ours is not to reason why…”

  “Tennyson,” said Xanthe. “I once had a crossword clue about that!”

  “Ours is but to do and die – that’s the next line,” said Billy.

  It was black humour, given their predicament, but it was at least humour. The tension seemed to relax. They were not defined by this poky basement and the smell of long-spilt ouzo.

  “Ok, twenty minutes to go,” said Billy grinning. “How’re you getting on?”

  “I’ve got to write this signal, haven’t I?”

  She sat down. She was pretty clear in her mind about what she was going to write. She started in English.

  “Chief of Staff to General Jeschonnek urgent message to Luftwaffe staff, Reich Air Ministry, Berlin. Jeschonnek has godson aboard Bismarck. Please advise heading.”

  Yes, that was about it. But was it too stark? Who knows – those were the lines she had been advised to try, basic, obvious and peremptory. It depended, above all else, on Nazi deference to make its mark. If an RAF air marshal of the seniority of Jeschonnek had asked for such information, and on such a flimsy excuse, it would have rung alarm bells everywhere. But, with a little luck, it would not do so in a Nazi Germany now immune to nervousness about such privileges, such immunity to questioning. And Jeschonnek – what a silly name too, thought Xanthe to herself.

  The main danger was that Jeschonnek or his staff would see the message and repudiate it, but the chances were that he would only know about it when the reply had been made and, by that time, it would be too late. The signal would have been picked up in Luftwaffe code in Bletchley and the cat would be out of the bag.

  Still, all she could do was her very best. She wasn’t psychic. It was one of those occasions when she must not let the best be the enemy of the good. The signal had to go, now in sixteen and a half minutes. She translated it into German, then she set and double-checked the rotors and fed it through the Enigma process:

  “Jeschonnek hat Patenkind an Bord der Bismarck. Bitte informieren Sie sich auf Fahrtrichtung.”

  She read and re-read it. Is that what a Luftwaffe signal would sound like? Perhaps the mistakes in naval terminology might be assumed from a Luftwaffe officer. Still, there was no way now to make sure.

  “Right, then,” she said. “Just let me put it into code.”

  *

  First, there was the time, 2300, followed by “1tle”, to show there was just one message, then the number of characters.

  Next, the starting position of the rotors, using a random “trigram” – let’s say Xanthe Rose Schneider, XRS. She put
the rotors so that those letters appeared in the little holes.

  “What’s your full name, Billy?”

  “William Richard Edwards, if you must know.”

  Right. She put WRE in that position and it was encoded as ZDF. That was the introductory sentence:

  “2300 1tle-145 = XRS ZDF.”

  Next, the kennegruppen code for the day, to which she added her initial to the start, XS, to give XSEGW. Then she used the same positions to encode the message letter by letter, splitting it up into groups of five letters and not forgetting the X for the full stop at the end.

  There was no time to check the German and nobody to check it with. Or so she assumed.

  “Do you speak any German, Billy?”

  “Sorry, love.”

  Right assumption.

  “Ok. Never mind. Here we are then. Still got a couple of minutes to go. Do you know the right frequency? I know, it’s a bit late to ask!”

  “Luftwaffe general staff, check. Righto. Off in a jiffy.”

  A couple of minutes later, with a flurry of tappings, nearly silent in the house, and the message was gone. Gathering speed, hopefully, across Europe.

  “Off we go, then,” he said, packing up his equipment.

  In all her preparations, Xanthe had never quite imagined the moments after sending, and, of course, if the Nazis had picked up the message nearby and had been able to use direction-finding equipment, they would not be far away. They must get out as soon as possible.

  She imagined her message sweeping across occupied Europe, to be picked up at Luftwaffe headquarters in Berlin. She could picture the very building. She did so, willing it to reach the right junior’s desk who would simply forward the request to the Admiralty. She knew these mind-over-matter games would probably make no difference, but she did it anyway. Hopefully, they were also decoding it in Bletchley and they would know she had succeeded – this far at least.

  Right, think ahead, Xanthe. Struggling with tiredness and the aftermath of the rush of adrenalin, she tried to wrestle her thoughts into order. First task: put her dummy Enigma machine into the harbour where it could not be found. Her second task was somehow to get out of Athens and back to Indigo.

  7

  Athens, May 1941

  “Bye, love,” said Billy as soon as they were outside in the street and disappeared into the blackout.

  Xanthe staggered out into the night, carrying the components of her machine. She was on her own again, unsure even of the reception she would get at Betty’s flat – and who could blame Betty for being angry? She had risked compromising her. She had never asked her permission. She would have been more than cross if the tables had been turned. She felt lonely and isolated.

  As soon as she was outside, she thought better of the harbour plan. It would take at least two hours to walk to Piraeus, and maybe half that to get to the sea, but she knew she might easily be stopped before she reached either. The wharfs were also guarded well, and it was just too big a risk.

  There must be deepish water somewhere near if she could just wrack her brains. Then she remembered, she was only a few minutes’ walk to the Kifissos River, which connected – or so Betty had told her – to the ancient underground rivers of Athens that snaked around the Acropolis.

  She headed west, and sure enough, there was the muddy stream of the Kifissos. Wasting no time, she looked around her, flung her bag into the river and walked in the opposite direction towards Betty’s flat in Patriarchou Joachim, behind the Acropolis, down the narrow streets with the little shops and no food. She breathed an enormous sigh of relief. If she possibly could, she would now get back to her son – if she could just get across the city in the curfew. She should never have left Indigo in the first place.

  *

  As usual, Betty’s flat was filled with people, chatting happily and scurrilously, mainly exchanging rumours about the occupation. There were also conversations that Xanthe could overhear, as she let herself through Betty’s invariably unlocked front door, about the battle for Crete and whether or not there had really been an Austrian mutiny. They barely looked up when she came in, another foreigner, student or journalist among so many.

  She found Betty in the kitchen. The relief of having dumped her Enigma machine in the river was making her light-headed.

  “Betty. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I owe you a huge amount and wouldn’t hurt you for anything. I’ll tell you as much as I can.”

  Betty gave her a bright smile.

  “Hello, darling. I was worried about you. I was afraid Jurgen had got hold of you again…”

  On the way there, in the dark, sticking to the shadows, peering ahead and behind, Xanthe had come to a decision. Betty had been wonderful to her. She had to accept the risk of taking her at least partly into her confidence, especially if she was going to find a way out of Greece. She owed her at least some of the truth. But how much, and how far to go?

  Xanthe closed the kitchen door.

  “What is it?”

  “Listen, Betty. I can’t say much. But I will tell you everything one day. You’ve been more than a friend to me these few days, and I am forever in your debt. But I need to leave soon.”

  “You mean…?”

  Betty was clearly struggling with herself in some way.

  “My dear Shirley,” she said, hugging her. “I know. Or rather I don’t know, but I don’t need to know either. What you’re telling me is that you can’t wait for me to find a way out the front door. You need to slip out the back door. Right?”

  Xanthe suddenly felt tears pricking the back of her eyes. It felt so wrong to say goodbye in such terms, using a false name, but she dared not risk that revelation.

  “You’re a brick, Betty. I need to get home because… because I’ve got a little boy… The baby didn’t die.”

  She burst into tears, kicking herself for doing so as she did. She wept for Indigo and herself, and her distant father, and for Hugh and Ralph and all her hopes and dreams.

  “Listen, darling. There was a time I believed in journalistic purity, but all I need to know – whatever it is you’re doing – is that we’re committed to the same side. And if I ever get out of here myself, I’ll use whatever skills I have to save Greece, or help Greece save itself – whichever seems most practical at the time. Speaking of which…”

  “I know, Betty. This is a kind of intimate request. But could I borrow a pair of your knickers?”

  Betty laughed uproariously.

  “My pleasure, honey. Now, dry your eyes, and I’m going to get you to talk to Daphne. She’s just outside and you can trust her. She works at the photographic shop around the corner. She speaks perfect English. Ready? Right, let me get the knickers and bring her in.”

  By the time she had returned, with a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl in tow, Xanthe had composed herself and set her face in what she hoped was a trustworthy way.

  They shut the kitchen door behind them.

  “You need to leave,” said Daphne, without bothering with the niceties. “It can be done. I did it a few weeks ago with my friends Jack and Bruce. One was English, one was Australian.”

  Xanthe nodded encouragingly.

  “There is a boat leaving tomorrow. I will find out the details tonight. You can set off tomorrow morning, when it is light. The problem is, you don’t speak Greek, do you?”

  “No. Did Jack and Bruce?”

  “Well, no, they didn’t. But they were lucky. I went with them.”

  Xanthe laughed.

  “That’s what I call service. Can you go with me, by any chance?”

  “I’m afraid I have to be in the shop for the next few days, but – if you can hang on – I certainly can. But I suggest you don’t wait. Don’t even wait until tonight.”

  It took a moment for what she was being told to sink in.

  “Of course,” said Xanthe, flustered. It was true that once Berlin had replied to her signal, then mystery would surround the reply when it reached Athens – assuming al
l went well. Why were they being told the destination set by Bismarck? It would be confusing and it may be that suspicion would be aroused once they heard it was a reply to a signal in Athens. Perhaps, for a while, they would look for an internal culprit, but it would hardly be long before someone like Jurgen wondered about her. She realised how little she actually knew about the technology of signal interception.

  She collected her few possessions next to the sofa where she had slept. It was a devastating thing to do, alienating. The curfew was in place. She dared not go out.

  She glanced over at Betty and saw her talking to a large man she had not seen before. He had blonde hair; this was no Greek. Betty kept on glancing over at her. Then the man did too, once, twice. What was going on?

  Then to Xanthe’s horror, they both moved over to the door and left. The tall man gave her a grim glance as he pulled the door behind him.

  Xanthe’s mind was now completely jumbled. She knew she was physically exhausted. She knew, on the face of it, that Betty would never betray her. Yet should she also not listen to her gut feelings? How easy it would be just to relax and be led into some kind of a trap. But who could she trust absolutely? Was there anybody, if Betty was behaving oddly?

  If she could not trust Betty, then she would need to be at least a little careful of Daphne. Was she going insane? Was this what happened to you when you spent too long in the field – you started getting suspicious of the merest look? Or was it what happened if you went into the field just a few short weeks after giving birth?

  No, it was no good; she would have to leave and go – where? It was now very late, there was a curfew and she had nowhere to go.

  The people in Betty’s flat were too busy talking to notice her, as she gathered her few belongings together into a bag that could go on her shoulder. From the kitchen she found, not bread – nobody had bread in Athens anymore – but a pile of raisins, which appeared to be the only food still widely available. She filled her pockets, took a drink of water from the large bottle that Betty kept in the cooler and slipped out of the house.

  In a moment, she was outside in the cool night. Not a sound. No movement. And it struck her, at this critical moment, that there was somewhere she could go. Nor was it very far. She would go, if she could get there, to the Metropolis cathedral and pray that it was not locked at night.