Jericho took a sip of whisky. ‘Do you know, I really think he may have loved her – that’s the joke of it. So much so that his last words, literally, were a lie – “I killed her, Thomas, I’m so very sorry” – a deliberate lie, a gesture from the edge of the grave, to give her a chance to get away.
‘And that, of course, was the cue for Wigram, because from his point of view, that confession neatly tied up everything. Puck was dead. Raposo would soon be dead. Why not leave “Claire” to rest at the bottom of the lake as well? All that he needed to do to round the story off was to pretend that it was me who led him to the traitor.
‘So to say that she’s still alive is not an act of faith, but merely logical. She is alive, isn’t she?’
A long pause. Somewhere a trapped fly barged against a window pane.
Yes, said Romilly, hopelessly. Yes, he understood that to be the case.
What was it Hardy had written? That a mathematical proof, like a chess problem, to be aesthetically satisfying, must possess three qualities: inevitability, unexpectedness and economy; that it should ‘resemble a simple and clear-cut constellation, not a scattered cluster in the Milky Way’.
Well, Claire, thought Jericho, here is my proof.
Here is my clear-cut constellation.
*
Poor Romilly, he didn’t want Jericho to leave. He had bought some food, he said, on his way home from the office. They could have supper together. Jericho could stay the night – God knew, he had enough room …
But Jericho, looking around at the furniture dressed as ghosts, the dirty plates, the empty whisky bottle, the photographs, was suddenly desperate to get away.
‘Thank you, but I’m late.’ He managed to push himself to his feet. ‘I was due back in Cambridge hours ago.’
Disappointment settled like a shadow across Romilly’s long face. ‘If you’re sure I can’t persuade you …’ His words were slightly slurred. He was drunk. On the landing he bumped against a table and switched on a tasselled lamp, then conducted Jericho, unsteadily, down the stairs to the hall.
‘Will you try and find her?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Jericho. ‘Perhaps.’
The death certificate was still lying on the letter-stand in the hall. ‘Then you’ll need this,’ said Romilly, picking it up. ‘You must show it to Wigram. If you like, you can tell him you’ve seen me. In case he tries to deny everything. I’m sure he’ll have to let you see her then. If you insist.’
‘Won’t that get you into trouble?’
‘Trouble?’ Romilly gave a laugh. He gestured behind him, at his mausoleum of a house. ‘D’you think I care about trouble? Come on, Mr Jericho. Take it.’
Jericho hesitated, and in that moment he had a vision of himself – a few years older, another Romilly, struggling vainly to breathe life into a ghost. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘You are very kind. But I think I ought to leave it here.’
He left the silent street with relief and walked towards the sound of traffic. On Cromwell Road he hailed a cab.
The spring evening had brought out the crowds. Along the wide pavements of Knightsbridge and in Hyde Park it was almost like a festival: a profusion of uniforms, American and British, Commonwealth and exile – dark blue, khaki, grey – with everywhere the splashes of colour from the summer dresses.
She was probably here, he thought, tonight, somewhere in the city. Or perhaps that would have been considered too risky, and she had been sent abroad by now, to lie low until the whole business had been forgotten. It occurred to him that a lot of what she had told him might actually be true, that she could well be a diplomat’s daughter.
On Regent Street, a blonde-haired woman on the arm of an American major came out of the Café Royal.
He made a conscious effort to look away.
ALLIED SUCCESS IN NORTH ATLANTIC read a newspaper placard on the opposite side of the street. NAZI U-BOATS SUNK.
He pulled down the window and felt the warm night air on his face.
And here was something very odd. Staring out at the teeming streets he began to experience a definite sense of – well, he could not call it happiness, exactly. Release, perhaps, would be a better word.
He remembered their last night together. Lying beside her as she wept. What had that been? Remorse, was it? In which case, perhaps she had felt something for him.
‘She never talked about you,’ Hester had said.
‘I’m flattered.’
‘Given the way she used to talk about the others, you should be …’
And then there had been that birthday card: ‘Dearest Tom … always see you as a friend … perhaps in the future … Sorry to hear about … in haste … Much love …’
It was a solution, of a sort. As good a solution, at any rate, as he was likely to get.
At King’s Cross Station he bought a postcard and a book of stamps and sent a message to Hester asking her to visit him in Cambridge as soon as she could.
On the train he found an empty compartment and stared at his reflection in the glass, an image which gradually became clearer as the dusk gathered and the flat countryside disappeared, until he fell asleep.
The main gate to the college was closed. Only the little doorway cut into it was unlocked and it must have been ten o’clock when Kite, dozing beside the coke stove, was woken by the sound of it opening and closing. He lifted the corner of the blackout curtain in time to see Jericho walking into the great court.
Kite quietly let himself out of the Porter’s Lodge to get a better view.
It was unexpectedly bright – there were a lot of stars – and he thought for a moment that Jericho must have heard him, for the young man was standing at the edge of the lawn and seemed to be listening. But then he realised that Jericho was actually looking up at the sky. The way Kite told it afterwards, Jericho must have stood that way for at least five minutes, turning first towards the chapel, then the meadow, and then the hall, before moving off purposefully towards his staircase, passing out of sight.
Acknowledgements
I OWE A debt of gratitude to all those former employees of Bletchley Park who spoke to me about their wartime experiences. In particular, I would like to thank Sir Harry Hinsley (Naval Section, Hut 4), Margaret Macintyre and Jane Parkinson (Hut 6 Decoding Room), the late Sir Stuart Milner-Barry (former head of Hut 6), Joan Murray (Hut 8) and Alan Stripp (Japanese ciphers).
Roger Bristow, Tony Sale and their colleagues at the Bletchley Park Trust answered my questions with great patience and allowed me to wander about the site at will.
None of these kind people bears any responsibility for the contents of this book, which is a work of the imagination, not of reference.
For those readers who would like the facts on which this novel is based, I strongly recommend Top Secret Ultra by Peter Calvocoressi (London, 1980), Codebreakers edited by F. H. Hinsley and Alan Stripp (Oxford, 1993), Seizing the Enigma by David Kahn (Boston, USA, 1991), The Enigma Symposium by Hugh Skillen (Middlesex, two volumes, 1992 and 1994), The Hut 6 Story by Gordon Welchman (New York, 1982) and GCHQ by Nigel West (London, 1986).
Details of the action in the North Atlantic are drawn from the original, decoded signals of the U-boats, held at the Public Record Office in London, and also from Convoy by Martin Middlebrook (London, 1976) and The Critical Convoy Battles of March 1943 by Jürgen Rohwer (English translation, London, 1977).
Finally, I would like to record my special thanks to Sue Freestone and David Rosenthal, neither of whom ever lost faith in Enigma, even on those occasions when it was a mystery to its author.
Robert Harris
June 1995
Dictator
Robert Harris
‘Laws are silent in times of war.’
Cicero
There was a time when Cicero held Caesar’s life in the palm of his hand. But now Caesar is the dominant figure and Cicero’s life is in ruins. Exiled, separated from his wife and children, his possessions confiscated, his life cons
tantly in danger, Cicero is tormented by the knowledge that he has sacrificed power for the sake of his principles.
His comeback requires wit, skill and courage – and for a brief and glorious period, the legendary orator is once more the supreme senator in Rome. But politics is never static and no statesman, however cunning, can safeguard against the ambition and corruption of others.
Riveting and tumultuous, DICTATOR encompasses some of the most epic events in human history yet is also an intimate portrait of a brilliant, flawed, frequently fearful yet ultimately brave man – a hero for his time and for ours. This is an unforgettable tour de force from a master storyteller.
‘Not since Robert Graves has a novelist of equal power set to fictionalising ancient Rome’
Tom Holland, Daily Telegraph on LUSTRUM
‘Immaculately researched but delivered with such a deft touch that it never feels like a history lesson . . . superlative’
Max Davidson, Mail on Sunday on AN OFFICER AND A SPY
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Copyright © Robert Harris 1995
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1995 by Hutchinson First published by Arrow Books in 1996
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Enigma Page 35
