Enigma

by Robert Harris

  Two possibilities, each equally unpleasant.

  One: the message had been super-enciphered, its plaintext scrambled once, and then again to make its meaning doubly obscure. A time-consuming technique, usually reserved for only the most secret communications.

  Two: Hester had made a mistake in transcription – had got, perhaps, just one letter wrong – in which case he could sit here, literally for the rest of his life, and still he would never make the cryptogram disgorge its secrets.

  Of the two explanations, the latter was the more likely.

  He paced around his cell for a while, trying to get some circulation back into his legs and arms. Then he set the rotors back at GAH and made an attempt to decipher the second message from 4 March. The same result:

  SZULCJK UKAH _

  He didn’t even bother with the third and fourth but instead played around with the rotor settings – GEH, GAN, CAH – in the hope she might simply have got one letter wrong, but all the Enigma winked at him was more gobbledygook.

  Four in the car. Hester in the back seat next to Wigram. Two men in the front. The doors all locked, the heater on, a stench of cigarette smoke and sweat so strong that Wigram had his paisley scarf pressed delicately to his nose. He kept his face half-turned from her all journey and didn’t say a word until they reached the main road. Then they pulled across the white lines to overtake another car and their driver switched on a police bell.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Leveret, cut it out.’

  The noise stopped. The car swerved left, then right. They jolted down a rutted track and Hester’s fingers sank deeper into the leather upholstery as she strained to avoid toppling into Wigram. She hadn’t spoken, either – it was her single, token gesture of defiance, this silence. She was damned if she was going to show her nerves by babbling like a girl.

  After a couple of minutes they stopped somewhere and Wigram sat motionless, a statesman, while his men in the front seats scrambled out. One of them opened his door. Torches flashed in the darkness. Shadows appeared. A welcoming committee.

  ‘Got those lights up yet, inspector?’ asked Wigram.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ A deep male voice; a Midlands accent. ‘A lot of complaints from the air raid people, though.’

  ‘Well, they can frig off for a start. Jerry wants to bomb this place, he’s welcome. Got the plans?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good-oh.’ Wigram grabbed the roof and hoisted himself out on the running board. He waited a second or two and when Hester didn’t move he ducked back inside and flexed his fingers irritably. ‘Come on, come on. D’you expect me to carry you?’

  She slid across the seat.

  Two other cars – no, three other cars with their headlights on, showing the cut-out patterns of men moving, plus a small Army truck and an ambulance. It was the ambulance that shook her. Its doors were open and, as Wigram guided her past it, his hand lightly on her elbow, she caught the smell of disinfectant, saw the dun-coloured oxygen cylinders, the stretchers with their coarse brown blankets, their leather straps, their innocent white sheets. Two men sat on the rear bumper, legs outstretched, smoking. They stared at her without interest.

  ‘Been here before?’ said Wigram.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘Lovers’ lane. Not your scene, I fancy.’

  He was holding a flashlight and as he stood aside to usher her through a gate she saw a sign: DANGER: FLOODED CLAY PIT – VERY DEEP WATER. She could hear a guttural engine somewhere ahead, and the cry of sea-birds. She started to shake.

  ‘The hand of the Lord was upon me, and carried me out in the spirit of the Lord, and set me down in the midst of the valley which was full of bones.’

  ‘D’you say something?’ asked Wigram.

  ‘I don’t believe so.’

  Oh, Claire, Claire, Claire …

  The engine noise was louder now, and seemed to be coming from inside a brick building to her left. A faint white light shone up through the gaps in its roof to reveal a tall, square chimney, its lower part engulfed by ivy. She was vaguely aware that they were at the head of a procession. Behind them came the driver, Leveret, and then the second man from the car wearing a belted gaberdine, and then the police inspector.

  ‘Mind yourself here,’ warned Wigram, and he tried to take her arm again but she shook him off. She picked her own way between the clumps of brick and the towering weeds, heard voices, turned a corner, and was confronted by a dazzling line of arc lights illuminating a broad path. Six policemen were working their way along it, in parallel, on their hands and knees among a glitter of broken glass and rubble. Behind them, one soldier tended a shuddering generator; another unreeled a drum of cable; a third was rigging more lights.

  Wigram grinned and winked at her, as if to say: See what I can command. He was pulling on a pair of light brown, calfskin gloves. ‘Got something to show you.’

  In a corner of the building, a police sergeant stood beside a rumpled heap of sacks. Hester had to will her legs to move forwards. Please, Lord, don’t let it be her.

  ‘Get your notebook out,’ said Wigram to the sergeant. He hoisted the tails of his overcoat and squatted on his haunches. ‘I am showing the witness, first, one lady’s coat, ankle-length by the look of it, colour grey, trimmed with black velvet.’ He drew it completely out of the sack and turned it over. ‘Grey satin lining. Quite badly stained. Probably blood. Need to check it. Collar label: “Hunters, Burlington Arcade”. And the witness responded?’ He held it up, without looking round.

  Remember, I said, ‘That’s too beautiful to put on every day,’ and you said, ‘Silly old Hester, that’s the only reason there is to wear it’?

  ‘And the witness responded?’

  ‘It’s hers.’

  ‘“It’s hers.” Got that? Good. OK. Next. One lady’s shoe. Left foot. Black. High heel. Heel snapped off. Hers, d’you think?’

  ‘How can I tell? One shoe –’

  ‘Largish. Say, size seven. Eight. What size did she take?’

  A pause, then Hester, quietly: ‘Seven.’

  ‘We’ve found the other one outside, sir,’ said the inspector. ‘Near the water’s edge.’

  ‘And a pair of knickers. White. Silk. Badly bloodstained.’ He held them out at arm’s length between finger and thumb. ‘Recognise these, Miss Wallace?’ He let them drop and rummaged in the bottom of the sack. ‘Final item. One brick.’ He shone his flashlight onto it; something glinted. ‘Also bloodstained. Blonde hairs attached.’

  ‘Eleven main buildings,’ said the inspector. ‘Eight of them with kilns, four with chimneys still standing. Rail spur here with sidings, linking into the main line, and a branch going off here, right through the site.’

  They were outside now, at the spot where the second shoe had been found, and the map was spread over a rusting water tank. Hester stood away from them, Leveret watching her, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. There were more men moving down by the water’s edge, torches stabbing the night.

  ‘Local fishing club use a shed here, near the jetty. Three rowing boats usually stored.’

  ‘Usually?’

  ‘Door’s been kicked in, sir. Season’s over. That’s why nobody discovered it. A boat’s missing.’

  ‘Since?’

  ‘Well, there was some fishing on Sunday. Deep ledgering for carp. That was the last day of the season. Everything was all right then. So any time from Sunday night onwards.’

  ‘Sunday. And we’re now into Wednesday.’ Wigram sighed and shook his head.

  The inspector spread his hands. ‘With respect, sir, I have three men stationed in Bletchley. Bedford lent us six, Buckingham nine. We’re two miles from the centre of town. There is a limit. Sir.’

  Wigram didn’t seem to hear him. ‘And how big’s the lake?’

  ‘About a quarter of a mile across.’

  ‘Deep?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What – twenty, thirty feet?’

  ‘At the edges. Sh
elving to sixty. Could be seventy. It’s an old working. They built the town with what they dug out here.’

  ‘Did they really?’ Wigram flashed his light across the lake. ‘Makes sense, I suppose. Making one hole out of another.’ Mist was rising, swirling in the breeze like steam above a cauldron. He swung the beam round and pointed it back at the building. ‘So what happened here?’ he said softly. ‘Our man lures her out for a shag on Sunday night. Kills her, probably with that brick. Drags her down here …’ The beam traced the path from the kilns to the water. ‘Strong man – must have been, she was a big girl. Then what? Gets a boat. Stuffs the body in a sack maybe. Weights it with bricks. That’s obvious. Rows it out. Dumps it. A muffled splash at midnight, just like in the pictures … He probably meant to come back for the clothes as well, but something put him off. Perhaps the next pair of lovebirds had already arrived.’ He played the light over the mist again. ‘Seventy feet deep. Frigging hell! We’ll need to put a submarine down there to find her.’

  ‘May I go now?’ said Hester. She had kept herself very quiet and composed so far, but now the tears had started and she was drawing in great gulps of air.

  Wigram aimed the beam at her wet face. ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘I’m rather afraid you can’t.’

  Jericho was replugging the cipher machine as quickly as his numb fingers would permit him.

  Enigma settings for German Army key Vulture, 6 February 1943:

  I V III DMR EY JL AK NV FZ CT HP MX BQ GS

  The final four cryptograms were hopeless, a disaster, mere chaos out of chaos. He had wasted too much time on them already. He would begin again, this time with the first signal. E to Y, J to L. And if this didn’t work? Don’t even think it. A to K, N to V … He lifted the lid, unfastened the spindle, slid off the rotors. Above his head, the great house was silent. He was too deeply entombed to hear a footstep. He wondered what they were doing up there. Looking for him? Probably. And if they woke up Logie it wouldn’t take them long to find him. He slid the rotors into place – first, fifth, third – and clicked them round to DMR.

  Almost at once he began to sense success. First C and X, which were nulls, and then A, N, O, K, H.

  An OKH …

  To OKH. Oberkommando des Heeres. The High Command of the Army.

  A miracle.

  His finger hammered away at the key. The lights flashed.

  An OKH/BEFEHL. To the office of the Commander-in-Chief.

  Dringend.

  Urgent.

  Melde Auffindung zahlreicher menschlicher Überreste zwölf Km westlich Smolensk …

  Discovered yesterday twelve kilometres west Smolensk human remains …

  Hester was locked in the car with Wigram, Leveret standing guard outside.

  Jericho. He was asking her about Jericho. Where was he? What was he doing? When did she last see him?

  ‘He’s left the hut. He’s not at his digs. He’s not at the cottage. I ask you: Where the hell else is there to go in this frigging town?’

  She said nothing.

  He tried shouting at her, pounding his fist on the seat in front, and then, when that didn’t work, he gave her his handkerchief and tried sympathy, but the scent of cologne on the silk and the memory of the blonde hair gilding the brick made her want to be sick and he had to wind his window down and get Leveret to come round and open her door.

  ‘They’ve found the boat, sir,’ said Leveret. ‘Blood in the bottom.’

  Just before three o’clock, Jericho had the first message deciphered.

  TO THE OFFICE OF THE COMMANDER IN CHIEF. URGENT. DISCOVERED TWELVE KILOMETRES WEST SMOLENSK EVIDENCE HUMAN REMAINS. BELIEVED EXTENSIVE, POSSIBLY THOUSANDS. HOW AM I TO PROCEED? LACHMAN, OBERST, FIELD POLICE.

  Jericho sat back and contemplated this marvel. Well, yes, Herr Oberst, how are you to proceed? I die to know.

  Once again he began the tedious procedure of replugging and re-rotoring the Enigma. The next signal had been sent from Smolensk three days later, on 9 February. A, N, O, K, H, B, E, F, E, H, L … The exquisite formality of the German armed forces unfolded before him. And then a null, and then G, E, S, T, E, R, N, U, N, D, H, E, U, T, E.

  Gestern und heute. Yesterday and today.

  And so on, letter by letter, inescapably, remorselessly – press, clunk, light, note – stopping occasionally to massage his fingers and straighten his back, the whole ghastly story made worse by the slowness with which he had to read it, his eyeballs pressed to the crime. Some of the words gave him difficulty. What was mumifiziert? Could it be ‘mummified’? And Sagemehl geknebelt? ‘Gagged with sawdust’?

  PRELIMINARY EXCAVATION UNDERTAKEN IN FOREST NORTH DNIEPER CASTLE YESTERDAY AND TODAY. SITE APPROXIMATELY TWO HUNDRED SQUARE METRES. TOPSOIL COVERING TO DEPTH OF ONE POINT FIVE METRES PLANTED PINE SAPLINGS. FIVE LAYERS CORPSES. UPPER MUMMIFIED LOWER LIQUID. TWENTY BODIES RECOVERED. DEATH CAUSED BY SINGLE SHOT HEAD. HANDS BOUND WIRE. MOUTHS GAGGED CLOTH AND SAWDUST. MILITARY UNIFORMS, HIGH BOOTS AND MEDALS INDICATE VICTIMS POLISH OFFICERS. SEVERE FROST AND HEAVY SNOWFALL OBLIGE US SUSPEND OPERATIONS PENDING THAW. I SHALL CONTINUE MY INVESTIGATIONS. LACHMAN, OBERST, FIELD POLICE.

  Jericho took a tour around his little cell, flapping his arms and stamping his feet. It seemed to him to be peopled with ghosts, grinning at him with toothless mouths blasted into the backs of their heads. He was walking in the forest himself. The cold sliced his flesh. And when he stopped and listened he could hear the sound of trees being uprooted, of spades and pickaxes ringing on frozen earth.

  Polish officers?

  Puck?

  The third signal, after a gap of eleven days, had been sent on 20th February. Nach Eintreten Tauwetter Exhumierungen im Wald bei Katyn fortgesetzt …

  FOLLOWING THAW KATYN FOREST EXCAVATIONS RESUMED EIGHT HUNDRED YESTERDAY. FIFTY-TWO CORPSES EXAMINED. QUANTITIES OF PERSONAL LETTERS, MEDALS, POLISH CURRENCY RECOVERED. ALSO SPENT PISTOL CARTRIDGE CASES SEVEN POINT SIX FIVE MILLIMETRE STAMPED QUOTE GECO D UNQUOTE. INTERROGATION LOCAL POPULATION ESTABLISHES ONE EXECUTIONS CONDUCTED NKVD DURING SOVIET OCCUPATION MARCH AND APRIL NINETEEN HUNDRED AND FORTY. TWO VICTIMS BELIEVED BROUGHT FROM KOZIELSK DETENTION CAMP BY RAIL TO GNIEZDOVO STATION TAKEN INTO FOREST AT NIGHT IN GROUPS ONE HUNDRED SHOTS HEARD. THREE TOTAL NUMBER VICTIMS ESTIMATED TEN THOUSAND REPEAT TEN THOUSAND. ASSISTANCE URGENTLY REQUIRED IF FURTHER EXCAVATION DESIRED.

  Jericho sat motionless for fifteen minutes, gazing at the Enigma, trying to comprehend the scale of the implications. This was a secret it was dangerous to know, he thought. This was a secret big enough to swallow a person whole. Ten thousand Poles – our gallant Allies, survivors of an army that had charged the Wehrmacht’s Panzers on horseback, waving swords – ten thousand of them trussed, gagged and shot by our other, more recent, gallant Allies, the heroic Soviet Union? No wonder the Registry had been cleared.

  An idea occurred to him and he went back to the first cryptogram. For if one looked at it thus:

  HYCYKWPIOROKDZENAJEWICZJPTAKJHRUTBPYSJMOTYLPCIE

  it was meaningless, but if one rearranged it thus:

  HYCYK, W., PIORO, K., DZENAJEWICZ, J.,

  PTAK, J., HRUT, B., PYS, J., MOTYL, P., _

  then out of the chaos was conjured order. Names.

  He had enough now. He could have stopped. But he went on anyway, for he was never a man to leave a mystery partially solved, a mathematical proof only half worked-out. One had to sketch in the route to the answer, even if one had guessed at the destination long before the journey’s end.

  Enigma settings for German Army key Vulture, 2 March 1943:

  III IV II LUK JP DY QS HL AE NW CU IK FX BR

  An Ostubaf Dorfmann. Ostubaf for Obersturmbannführer. A Gestapo rank.

  TO OBERSTURMBANNFUHRER DORFMANN RHSA ON ORDERS OFFICE COMMANDER IN CHIEF NAMES OF POLISH OFFICERS IDENTIFIED TO DATE IN KATYN FOREST AS FOLLOWS

  He didn’t bother to write them down. He knew what he was looking for and he found it after an hour, buried in a babble of other names. It wasn’t sent to the
Gestapo on the 2nd, but on the 3rd:

  PUKOWSKI, T.

  6

  A few minutes after 5 a.m., Tom Jericho surfaced, molelike, from his subterranean hole, and stood in the passage of the mansion, listening. The Enigma had been returned to its shelf, the safe locked, the door to the Black Museum locked as well. The cryptograms and the settings were in his pocket. He had left no trace. He could hear footsteps and male voices coming towards him and he drew back against the wall, but whoever they were they didn’t come his way. The wooden staircase creaked as they passed on, out of sight, up to the offices in the bedrooms.

  He moved cautiously, keeping close to the wall. If Wigram had gone looking for him in the hut at midnight and failed to find him, what would he have done? He would have gone to Albion Street. And seeing Jericho hadn’t turned up there, he might by now have roused a considerable search party. And Jericho didn’t want to be found, not yet. There were too many questions he had to ask, and only one man had the answers.

  He passed the foot of the staircase and opened the double doors that led to the lobby.

  You became her lover, didn’t you, Puck? The next after me in the great revolving door of Claire Romilly’s men. And somehow – how? – you knew that something terrible was going on in that ghastly forest. Wasn’t that why you sought her out? Because she had access to information you couldn’t get to? And she must have agreed to help, must have started copying out anything that looked of interest. (‘She’d really been much more attentive of late …’) And then there came the nightmare day when you realised – who? your father? your brother? – was buried in that hideous place. And then, the next day, all she could bring you was cryptograms, because the British – the British: your trusty Allies, your loyal protectors, to whom the Poles had entrusted the secret of Enigma – the British had decided that in the higher interest they simply didn’t want to know any more.

  Puck, Puck, what have you done?

  What have you done with her?

  There was a sentry in the Gothic entry hall, a couple of cryptanalysts talking quietly on a bench, a WAAF with a stack of box files struggling to find the doorhandle with her elbow. Jericho opened it for her and she smiled her thanks and made a rolling motion with her eyes, as if to say: What a place to find ourselves at five o’clock on a spring morning, and Jericho smiled and nodded back, a fellow sufferer: Yes, indeed, what a place …