The Interrogator

by Andrew Williams

  ‘Are they looking after you, Heinz?’ Samuels asked him in German. ‘This lieutenant is my colleague.’

  Brand saluted smartly. Lindsay did not look up from his bible.

  ‘I have a few more questions for you, Heinz, just a few details I would like you to help me with,’ said Samuels.

  The ‘few details’ lasted for more than an hour. What did Brand know of the commander, how long had he been with the submarine, and what were the 112’s orders? The same questions in German over and over again. Act One of the pantomime. Lindsay listened but said nothing. Brand was forced to stand at the edge of the table, shifting his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot. He said he was sorry but he was under orders not to say anything. His expression suggested that his regret was genuine, as if it was the height of bad manners to refuse to answer an enemy’s questions.

  ‘I know that before you joined the 112 you served on a ship. What was her name?’ Samuels asked again in German. No reply.

  ‘Your comrade Oberfunkmaat Henning speaks excellent English, so does the commander, and that’s why you joined the U-boat. You were on a special mission. It was important that the wireless operators spoke English. Why?’

  Brand shook his head. There was a long silence. Then Lindsay spoke and it was as if his patience snapped. Turning to Samuels, he said angrily in English: ‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but you’re wrong.’

  Samuels looked down for a moment, then barely above a whisper: ‘We can’t be sure.’

  ‘Wireless operators. English speakers. The two they landed last summer were the same. We can be sure.’

  Lindsay glanced up at Brand who was anxiously biting his thumbnail. Their eyes met for a second and he shook his head a little. Lindsay ignored him and said in a very audible whisper: ‘He hasn’t answered one straight question. He can’t. He’s a spy.’

  ‘I don’t want him to hang because we made a mistake,’ said Samuels forcefully.

  ‘We haven’t,’ said Lindsay. He stood up quickly and picked up his bible and cigarettes as if preparing to leave the room. ‘Why are you concerned? He despises you, you said so yourself . . .’

  Brand looked surprised, confused.

  ‘. . . he’s a Nazi. He hates Jews.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ said Brand in English. His voice trembled slightly with emotion; ‘it’s not true.’

  Lindsay turned back to look him in the eye and when he spoke his voice was menacingly loud: ‘Herr Brand, or whatever your real name is, you are very clever, very capable, but you are a Nazi and you’re a spy. You have not been able to prove that you are not a spy. Lieutenant Samuels has had less experience than me . . .’ Lindsay glanced down at Samuels and Brand followed his gaze. Samuels was gripping the edge of the table, a frown on his face. Lindsay ignored him: ‘I know you are a spy, Herr Brand. You and your comrade were expected to send intelligence to Berlin on our convoys in and out of Freetown. You will be executed.’ He turned towards the door but Samuels grabbed his arm: ‘I think we’d better talk about this . . .’

  They left Brand standing anxiously before the table. Neither of them spoke until they had made their way along the corridor and down the stairs into the mess.

  ‘How long do you want to give him?’

  ‘Twenty minutes,’ said Samuels. ‘Do you think that’s enough?’

  ‘Your call.’ Lindsay flopped into an armchair and took a cigarette from the packet he had brought down from the interrogation room. ‘You don’t, do you, Charlie? I’ll leave these with you, Brand will certainly need one.’

  Samuels sat opposite him: ‘You play the ruthless bastard well, Douglas, but was it necessary to bring up my Jewishness?’

  Lindsay blew a long stream of smoke towards the mural of the god Mars over the fireplace.

  ‘After what you’d said, it was on my mind. I could see he liked you, so it just came out. It worked, didn’t it?’ He paused for a moment to consider the next Act. ‘Make him trust you too. Lay it on thick. Tell him I’m writing my report and you’ve got no more than a couple of hours to prove he’s not a spy. Perhaps we’ll be lucky with him and then perhaps I’ll be lucky with Mohr. Perhaps.’

  19

  W

  hen Jürgen Mohr closed his eyes the broad oil-black calm that for a time marked a ship’s end filled his mind. He opened them at once and gazed out of the window as the car ground past another parade of shops. The dreary soot-stained brick of north London seemed to stretch for miles.

  ‘Not far to go, sir.’ The young British officer in the front seat of the car had turned to look at him with a warm smile as if he had read Mohr’s thoughts.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant . . .’ he could not remember his name. A cheery soul. His escort back from the Admiralty.

  It was after five o’clock and the shops along the Seven Sisters Road were closing, queues forming at the bus stops. It would be the same in Berlin with shoppers pouring on to trams in the Kurfürstendamm, Alexanderplatz and the Unter den Linden. Mohr had spent a week’s leave in the city at Christmas, walked its bustling streets alone, gazed into bright windows and tasted the cold clear air. He had enjoyed the bustle of ordinary life without feeling any need to be more than a spectator, and although he dined with friends more than once, it was in his own company that he was happiest. He had marked this growing sense of detachment in himself for some time and no doubt others had too. His family in the east grumbled that he never visited, hardly ever wrote, and it was many weeks since he had spoken and laughed with his friend Marianne. Marianne Rasch: her brother was lost on a U-boat in the first months of the war. She was younger and gayer, and always frustrated that he could not or would not show his feelings. But in war, no one could claim the right to a private life. By now Marianne would know he was a prisoner. She would know too that the Bismarck had been lost.

  Mohr had been standing in the eighteenth-century hall where Nelson’s captains had waited on the Lords of the Admiralty. When he was in London ten years earlier, he had walked down Whitehall to stop and stare through the white stone screen at the front, surprised by the modesty of the building. They had not permitted him to wear uniform to visit the First Sea Lord but had found him a dark suit that fitted well enough, and he felt honoured to be there. Then a member of Admiral Pound’s Staff had told him ever so politely that they had sunk the Bismarck. The pride of the German Navy just so much broken flotsam and two thousand men lost.

  The Staff officer led him in a trance up the staircase into the oak-panelled Boardroom to take tea with Admiral Pound. It was a very British affair. Sir Dudley made only a brief reference to the Bismarck, a shake of the head, regret for the loss of so much life, as if passing on condolences for the death of a respected friend. He asked many questions about U-boats and Admiral Dönitz but did not seem concerned when Mohr declined to answer them. It struck Mohr as strange that the man charged with protecting Great Britain’s ships should take such a dispassionate interest in their destruction. Then Admiral Pound asked him to describe the sinking of his own U-boat and, judging it to be of little importance, he gave him a short, matter-of-fact account.

  There at the Admiral’s splendid table, polished to perfection, beneath those elegant oak pillars, he said nothing of the fear or the agony of waiting, the angry kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that was never far from the front of his mind. Even now, sliding about the car’s leather seat, he could imagine the soft splash, splash of depth charges and the shriek of steel as the 112 shuddered and plunged towards destruction. ‘Give it air, give it air,’ he had shouted into the darkness, and they had managed to hold the boat. Then the thrash of propellers, the splash of more charges and detonations that rolled endlessly through the depths. And when the light was restored, grim faces, terrified faces, valves thrown to Open, water above the deck plates – they were too deep for the bilge pumps – and the boat slipping deeper still, its hull groaning and contracting under the pressure. That was the agony of waiting. They had all felt it – stiff and breathless, the air hot with
the smell of oil and piss and battery gas. He had experienced it many times but the danger had always passed with a swish of retreating propellers.

  ‘But my luck ran out,’ he told Admiral Pound with an insincere little smile that the First Sea Lord returned. In the end he had forced the boat to the surface long enough to save the crew. At least he had saved the crew.

  The car turned right off the Cockfosters Road and through the gates, and after a brief exchange between the driver and a guard it was soon bumping its way down the long carriageway to Trent Park. The warm sun was shining through the trees, dappling Mohr’s suit and the red leather seat. He was still a prisoner and soon he would be interrogated again, and yet this was a sort of peace.

  ‘We’re back, sir,’ said the young officer from the front.

  The car turned left past the stable block and along the wire fence towards the front of the house.

  Two thousand men dead. Admiral Dönitz had taught him that honour lay in duty and the harshest will to win. He had believed it to be the meaning in his life, his Weltanschauung. But in the silence of his prison room, he was beginning to wonder what would be left when the victory was won and the slogans no longer had meaning. Who would he be?

  20

  F

  rom the window of Interrogation Room Two, Lindsay watched the black Humber Snipe cruise slowly down the drive and come to a halt at the security gate. A sergeant stepped smartly up to the car, peered at the passengers, then turned and waved to his men. The gate opened and the car crept across the forecourt, where the union flag was picked out in pink and white stones.

  ‘Mohr’s back.’

  There was the screech of a chair being pushed hurriedly away and a moment later he sensed Samuels at his shoulder.

  ‘A nice suit. Do you think the Division found him that?’

  Escort in tow, Mohr was led from the car and into the porch.

  ‘I’ve got you what you want.’

  Lindsay turned to look at him: ‘Charlie?’

  Samuels walked back to the table and picked up his bible: ‘Poor Brand, quite a civilised German.’ He flicked through his notes until he found the correct page then began to read:

  Funkobergefreiter Heinz Brand. Born Hamburg 1922. Joined Kriegsmarine 1938. Trained wireless school Glückstadt, wireless intelligence Flensburg . . .

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Lindsay snapped, ‘but what about the U-112?’

  ‘All right, you were right,’ sighed Samuels as if it were painful to admit. ‘It was his first war patrol in a U-boat.’

  Brand had served as a wireless operator on board an Atlantic raider called the Pinguin that preyed on British and Empire ships sailing outside the protection of a convoy. In January, he had transferred to the U-boat arm and a month later sailed out of Lorient on the 112: ‘And he confirmed that the other wireless operator, Henning, was a new boy too. That’s the good news. The bad news – he wouldn’t tell me why they joined the 112.’

  ‘Well done, Charlie, well done.’

  Samuels looked at Lindsay as if he had taken leave of his senses: ‘Where does this take us?’

  Lindsay turned back to the window. A green bus was parked on the forecourt now and a motley collection of U-boat prisoners was emptying out of it. The guards were encouraging them none too gently down steps into the basement of the building, where they would be issued with soap and fresh clothes.

  ‘This was the first war patrol south to African waters,’ he muttered. His mind was racing with new questions and possibilities. Dönitz chose a senior Staff officer. August Heine had described him as ‘one of the six’. Capable, experienced, Mohr was just the sort of commander you would want if you were going to try something new.

  ‘The first south,’ he said again for Samuels’ benefit.

  ‘But there were three other U-boats, and it doesn’t explain why the wireless operators would need to speak English.’

  ‘And Mohr speaks perfect English.’

  Reaching into his jacket, Lindsay took out his cigarettes, tapped one gently on the top of his silver case and lit it. The tobacco hissed as he filled his lungs with the bitter smoke. He stood there, head bent a little, cigarette poised close to his lips, face wrinkled with concentration.

  ‘Look, Douglas, let’s . . .’

  ‘No, Charlie, please, just . . .’

  He raised a hand to silence him. The seconds slipped by. The answer was dancing like a shadow through his mind, tantalisingly close. It was something quite obvious. He closed his eyes – English, English, the wireless operators speak English – a constant beat in the darkness. And then it came to him: ‘How bloody stupid of us. How stupid.’

  ‘Well?’ Samuels asked impatiently.

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? The wireless operators were reading our signals. Why else would they need to speak English?’

  ‘Steady,’ and as if to make his point Samuels reached out and placed his hand on Lindsay’s arm. ‘We don’t know if the wireless operators speak English well enough for that and even if they do, all our signals are in code. They would need to . . .’ He stopped suddenly to scrutinise Lindsay’s face, ‘. . . ah, I see. I see. Douglas, you’re racing ahead of yourself.’

  ‘No, Charlie, listen. There are other things . . .’ Lindsay hesitated. It was neither the time nor the place to talk of his visit to Winn at the Citadel.

  ‘This is not for us,’ said Samuels with a profound shake of the head. ‘If you think our codes have been broken you’d better take it up with Checkland.’

  ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘I’m sure he speaks well of you too,’ said Samuels quietly. ‘Actually I agree with you but an interrogation room at Trent Park isn’t the place to say so.’

  Samuels picked up his bible and walked towards the door: ‘Are you driving into Town?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can give me a lift. We’ll talk in the car.’

  He led Lindsay into the corridor and through the house to the main staircase. At the bottom, they turned into the entrance hall and walked towards the security desk. Behind it, the duty sergeant was on the telephone. Lindsay nodded and was halfway through the door when the sergeant put the receiver down with a bang.

  ‘A message, sir.’ He was addressing Samuels. ‘Colonel Checkland’s office on the telephone. The colonel would like to see you at once.’

  Samuels groaned loudly and dropped his chin on to his chest: ‘Perfect timing.’

  Lindsay looked at him intently for a moment, then reached forward to touch his arm: ‘A word.’

  He led Samuels through the porch and across the forecourt to the perimeter fence. ‘Look, don’t mention codes to the Colonel.’

  ‘What?’ asked Samuels. He looked as if he could not quite believe what he had heard.

  ‘Please. We need more time. You said yourself that there were too many unanswered questions.’

  Samuels took out his handkerchief and held it to his mouth and nose. It was his little anxious ritual. Lindsay had observed him do the same in interrogations. A few seconds later he slipped the handkerchief back in his pocket with a weary sigh: ‘I won’t lie to him, Douglas.’

  Lindsay clapped him on the arm: ‘Just be economical with the truth, Charlie. We’re on to something.’

  21

  I

  t was after midnight when Mary finally turned into Lord North Street. Lindsay had been waiting on the steps beneath the shell of St John’s Church for more than an hour. Time counted in cigarettes. An air raid warden had approached him and demanded to know what he was doing. He had asked himself the same question more than once. In the end his uniform was explanation enough for the warden.

  Mary was almost at her uncle’s door. ‘Hey,’ he whispered as loudly as he dared. She did not hear him. He walked down the church steps towards her: ‘Mary, it’s me.’ His voice shook a little. She had unlocked the door and was on the point of stepping inside.

  ‘Mary,’ he said again.

  ‘Douglas? What on earth’s the matte
r?’

  He skipped the last few yards until he was standing beside her. ‘Nothing, nothing, don’t worry.’ Her hand was cold.

  ‘Then why are you here?’ She sounded very tired.

  ‘Oh an impulse. Can we go in?’

  She hesitated for a moment: ‘My uncle may be here. Look, I’m very tired, Douglas.’

  ‘I see,’ he said shortly.

  ‘No you don’t,’ she said and pulled him towards the door.

  ‘No, really, I don’t want to force myself upon you,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you? Then why are you here?’

  In the hall, he helped her out of her jacket. She turned towards him, stroked his face with the back of her hand and then raised her chin a little, inviting him to kiss her, a quiet, tender kiss.

  ‘I so wanted to see you,’ he said. ‘Last time with Lange, well . . .’

  ‘I haven’t quite forgiven you for that.’ She turned and walked down the hall to the kitchen and Lindsay followed.

  ‘I don’t know where Uncle is.’ She switched on the light and began reaching into cupboards for tea and cups.

  Lindsay stood blinking by the door. He felt a little guilty: ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help myself. I wasn’t sure you’d come home but I knew I’d feel better if I tried to see you.’

  Mary turned towards him, cup in hand, and gave him a tired, sweet smile. ‘I’m glad you came,’ she said.

  They sat at the kitchen table sipping tea and Lindsay asked her about Winn and the Tracking Room. She seemed distracted and answered only half heartedly. ‘Let’s not talk about work, I want to forget it,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. Sorry.’

  ‘And stop saying sorry.’ She got up and carried her cup to the sink. ‘I want to go to bed.’

  Her back was turned and there was nothing in her weary voice to indicate whether this was a dismissal or an invitation. Lindsay watched the graceful sweep of the hand she lifted to the nape of her neck – her coal black hair was tied in an unruly bun – hoping, willing her to turn to him with a smile. But instead she said sharply: ‘Well?’