The Xanthe Schneider Enigma Files Box Set

by David Boyle

  “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 all went well. Why were they being told the destination set by Bi
smarck? 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.

  She would wait there for daylight and then she would seek out the priest in the confessional, and ask for guidance, geographical as well as spiritual.

  *

  The dark streets were completely deserted. It was nearly midnight. There were shadows of people slipping around silently, and she could see them once her eyes adjusted a little to the gloom. There were no signs of the crowds of revellers from the night of the raid. She knew which way to go, if only she could find it in the dark. But she was beginning to feel limp and helpless now that the adrenalin of the evening had dissipated.

  If she really had been betrayed, then she had precious little time to get under cover where she would not be found. The first turning she took seemed completely unfamiliar. Fighting back the panic, Xanthe retraced her steps and tried again.

  This time, looming out of the dark were the arches of the great cathedral.

  She peered through the gloom in all directions and made a dash up the steps. There was an ancient iron handle on the door. Desperately, she pushed it down, and to her astonishment, the door swung open. In a moment, she was inside and in complete blackness.

  She stood quite still and could see, up ahead, a single candle. It illuminated the transept where she had gone before, where she knew the confessionals were.

  Very slowly, she made her way over, gingerly stepping around the chairs. Her hopes were beginning to rise. She appeared to be totally alone.

  She slipped into the first confessional and peered through the grill. There was nobody there.

  A tiny shifting sound caught her attention. It was so tempting to risk going back outside to see. She slipped out and into the next confessional. She drew the curtain aside and knelt down.

  To her surprise, a young woman’s voice spoke to her quietly in Greek. Was this really a confessional? She was nervously unfamiliar with the rituals and rules of the Orthodox church.

  “Sorry,” she said, very quietly. “I don’t speak the language.”

  “Shirley? Is that you? It’s Daphne. Why are you here?”

  “I lost my nerve. What’s your excuse? How did you get here before me?”

  “Speak quietly. We have an arrangement with the priest. He signals to me if there is someone asking for help and I skip in here. Sometimes I’m here all night. I try not to think about the ghosts.”

  “So you didn’t see me coming or something?”

  Paranoia was beginning to weigh her down.

  “Is everything all right? Listen carefully. I have the information I needed. There is a yacht leaving a small harbour north of Rafina tomorrow night, at dusk. You will need to walk there, and it will take five or six hours, so even if you wait until daylight, you should still get there. But it will be tough and hot, and you have not been looking that well, I am sorry to have to tell you. So you need to decide. Can you manage it?”

  Xanthe’s heart sank.

  “I think so. I have to really. Where is the yacht going?”

  “It will take you to Egypt, along with some RAF people and a couple of Anzacs left behind. But look, Shirley, the difficulty is that you will be a woman alone, and you will need to dress Greek and be able to speak the language if you are stopped by anyone unfriendly. So, I am sending someone with you.”

  “Really? Sorry to sound so pathetic.”

  “You don’t, of course. Now, if you are sure, we need to put you somewhere safe for the night, and it so happens that your guide for tomorrow is quite close. So, when you’re sure nobody can see you, I want you to go and pray in the chapel of Our Lady, and I will come there in a moment and introduce you.”

  *

  “Where are we going?” said Xanthe in a whisper, as she was led down some ancient steps, blackened with age, below the cathedral. Then again down an old brick passage and into what seemed like a cavern.

  It was freezing cold and damp. Daphne carried an electric torch. She swung it around.

  “We are heading towards the ancient river which used to flow through Athens in classical times and now goes underground. It also provides us with a safe passage under the city, and we are going to wrap you up down here for the night.”

  Xanthe shivered involuntarily. It wasn’t so much the temperature. It was that the wraiths of Athens past seemed to live here already. She felt lonely and somewhat spooked.

  “Don’t worry, Shirley. We have many blankets. You should rest here for a few hours and then Giorgios will lead you to the yacht. And I will leave you with the torch. There is a lamp also. Why did you leave Betty’s house?”

  “I suddenly didn’t feel safe. I don’t know really. I was being silly, I’m sure.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “No,” Xanthe lied.

  “Because if something happened, however small, I need to know about it.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “I just got nervous that Betty and that blonde man were talking about me. I don’t have any doubts about Betty, honestly. I’d trust her with anything. Really, I shouldn’t have panicked.”

  In the darkness, Daphne grew silent.

  “Very sensible precaution,” she said. “Now, here is Giorgios and he has another torch and a spare battery, as I do, and a small lamp.”

  Strange, thought Xanthe. Why did Daphne not ask more about it? Was she so certain that Betty was safe and straight? Perhaps she was. Perhaps – no, that was to let in the madness…

  Meanwhile, the shape of a young man stood in their path. The light flicked in his face and he gave her a big grin.

  “Giorgios – I’m so glad it’s you!”

  “I am also glad,” he said.

  Daphne handed over the torch, fished out another and gave her an unexpected kiss. T
hen she turned to go.

  “Wrap her up warm, Giorgios. And very good luck!”

  *

  Somewhere on the Atlantic, five thousand miles or more away, the Bismarck was cutting through the waves, heading perhaps back around Iceland, perhaps to France.

  Somewhere, a desperate British fleet was searching, propping their eyes open with their binoculars, sweeping the horizon for a giveaway flash. Somewhere, perhaps even then, the signals office at Luftwaffe headquarters was sending a message to the German admiralty, asking for an answer to General Jeschonnek’s question. Perhaps at that very moment, perhaps not yet, the reply was speeding through the ether, picked up in Athens to the consternation of Jeschonnek’s staff and intercepted by one of the listening stations in England on a short-wave receiver. Then it would pop out of the teleprinter in Hut 6, ready for decoding.

  8

  Athens, May 1941

  Xanthe could not sleep. She was cold and could see her breath in the pale torchlight. She was wondering about her own emotional resilience, let alone her physical resilience for the long walk. She was, she felt, quite unnecessarily delighted at seeing Giorgios again. She felt absurdly safe with him.

  He was not sleeping either and kept on looking over to her pile of blankets with concern. He could see she was in pain, even if it had probably not occurred to him that it was the aftermath of giving birth.

  “Miss Shirley,” he said, with great seriousness, sitting up. “You are cold; I am warm. I invite you to share my blankets and heat.”

  It was not an invitation she would normally entertain, especially not from a man some years younger than herself. But these were not normal times. In a moment, she was across the cavern and, in the pale lamplight, lying warmer in his arms.

  The tension dissolved and she found herself sobbing there quietly. He kissed her gently but insistently on the lips. Despite herself, she found she was kissing him back. His stubble tickled. It felt rough and even a little exciting.

  “No!” she kept telling him as his hand crept around. “No, Giorgios, sorry.”

  “I may? I promised to love you,” he said finally.