The Interrogator

by Andrew Williams

  ‘No.’

  Mohr smiled.

  They walked on in silence again and were soon at the lake. It was lunch-time and small groups of uniformed Staff were talking and smoking on the north terrace. As they approached, Charlie Samuels stepped from the shadow beneath it and began scurrying across the lawn to meet them. ‘I’m to take the commander back, Douglas. The Colonel is waiting for you in his office.’ His forehead was wrinkled with anxiety.

  ‘Fine,’ said Lindsay airily. He was conscious that Mohr was following their exchange. He nodded curtly to him: ‘Goodbye, Herr Kapitän.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lieutenant. I hope we meet again soon.’ Mohr turned to speak to Samuels, ‘The Lieutenant and I have so much in common . . .’ Samuels looked surprised. To Lindsay’s great relief Mohr made no effort to explain.

  ‘Good luck, Douglas,’ said Samuels. Lindsay guessed that the words ‘You’ll need it’ were on the tip of his tongue.

  Checkland’s office was on the first floor of the house, near the Map Room. A pretty Wren, very young, very well spoken, was keeping the door. She smiled warmly at Lindsay: ‘Colonel Checkland is expecting you, sir. Would you wait just a minute?’

  She slipped out from behind her desk, knocked gently and opened Checkland’s door. Lindsay caught a glimpse of him at his desk before the door closed behind her. She reappeared a moment later, swinging her navy-blue hips, the room full of her perfume: ‘The Colonel will see you now.’

  Checkland was not alone. Henderson was standing by the fireplace. Lindsay stepped smartly into the room and stood to attention before the head bent over the desk. The door clicked behind him. Checkland carried on writing.

  ‘Sit down, Lindsay.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Lindsay followed the steady course of his pen across the sheet of headed paper. He held it like a weapon. There were few personal touches in the room; some photographs of ships – presumably ones Checkland had served in – and the King, charts, the usual Service furniture and cream paint. He turned to look at Henderson who was gazing out of the window to the hill Lindsay had just climbed with Mohr, his face set hard, itching for a fight.

  ‘Did you get my message this morning?’ Checkland’s head was still bent over his letter.

  ‘Sir?’

  Checkland looked up at him and very deliberately put down his pen.

  ‘Don’t play the idiot. James has spoken to Chief Wren Sherlock.’

  Checkland’s face was a little red but his voice was calm and measured. He had a certain easy authority and had been a fine interrogator in his day. The Germans had caught him spying before the Great War – bobbing about in the Baltic with pen and notebook. He knew what it was to be a prisoner.

  ‘You were to find one of us at once.’

  ‘I was going to find you, sir . . .’

  ‘But not before you’d interrogated Mohr again.’

  ‘No, sir.’ There was no point in lying. ‘I was hoping to speak to him yesterday but he was at the Admiralty . . .’

  ‘You know of course that I’ve spoken to Samuels. You were under strict orders not to question Mohr, not to question any of the prisoners about codes but that’s what you’ve done.’

  ‘Did Lieutenant Samuels tell you what he’s dragged from the wireless operators?’ Lindsay’s voice was quiet and controlled too. It was one of the first things Checkland taught newcomers to his Section: never lose your temper because anger will cloud your judgement. ‘We’ve proof that our codes have been broken.’

  Henderson snorted sceptically. ‘Proof, what proof?’

  Checkland half raised a hand to silence him. ‘Samuels did tell us they spoke English and that they were brought together for the 112’s patrol to Freetown. That isn’t proof our codes have been broken. Which code is broken, which cipher – one or all of them?’

  Lindsay shook his head. ‘That’s what I was trying to wring from Mohr, sir.’

  ‘Did you succeed?’

  ‘No.’

  Checkland gave a long, exasperated sigh. ‘You have no proof but by questioning Mohr about codes you may have done a great deal of harm . . .’

  ‘How much proof do you need, sir?’ said Lindsay. ‘They were . . .’

  But Checkland cut across him sharply: ‘What do you know of disguised indicators? Do you know anything about the sub-tractor system or onetime pads, reciphering tables and typex machines?’

  Lindsay flushed a little. It was true, he knew very little about the mechanics of code making and breaking: ‘I just know that . . .’

  ‘You think you know that the Germans are into one or more of our codes. Yes, you’ve said.’

  Checkland paused to consider his next words, then said with careful emphasis: ‘You know, there are people who understand these things and they have better sources than us. You have put some of those sources at risk. You were instructed not to question the prisoners about codes and ciphers. You broke a direct order. You are a lieutenant in one small section of Naval Intelligence and yet you think you know better than the Director of the Division, his Staff, and me. It’s a pity, Lindsay, you were a promising interrogator but with a little too much to prove . . .’

  23

  F

  or once all the interrogators were in the office, swapping stories and smoking. Lieutenant Dick Graham was holding up a prophylactic the guards had taken from one of the prisoners. Lindsay tried to avoid catching his eye. He failed.

  ‘You’ve come at the perfect time, Douglas. Tell me, what should I do with this? The girls won’t give me a sensible answer.’

  Lieutenant Graham’s little audience giggled appreciatively.

  ‘Would you like it?’

  More laughter. Graham was a history don in Civvy Street, a greying thirty-six with pince-nez spectacles, a slight lisp and a taste for the bizarre. He was indulging it now, swinging the French letter like the pendulum of a clock.

  ‘You’re a member of the master race, of course, but I’m sure it will fit.’

  It took Lindsay most of the afternoon to two-finger-type a presentable copy of his report. Two flimsy sheets. He sat back in his chair and stared at the lines above the ribbon:

  To conclude: the U-112 was on a special mission to African waters under the command of one of Admiral Dönitz’s most trusted officers. The mission required highly trained English-speaking wireless operators. Evidence and SR transcripts taken during the interrogation of other U-boat crews suggests the enemy is obtaining intelligence from wireless traffic. Kapitän zur See Mohr may have been using this intelligence to co-ordinate attacks on convoys in and out of Freetown. One or more of our codes has been broken.

  Short and thin. But there were those little signs that meant so much to an experienced eye that never made it into a report. He wondered if he should have included a few:

  . . . the prisoner Brand kept touching his lip . . .

  . . . Kapitän zur See Mohr lost his composure when codes were mentioned and refused to make eye contact . . .

  All this was evidence too but it counted for nothing because the Section’s work was not respected in the Division. You had to have friends to put your case. He would send Winn a copy and Fleming too.

  ‘How was it?’ Charlie Samuels was standing beside his desk: ‘You’ve been hammering that typewriter without mercy.’

  Lindsay glanced beyond him into the body of the room: even Dick Graham was busy.

  ‘I’m preparing my defence,’ said Lindsay quietly.

  ‘I thought you might be. Checkland wants to see me again,’ Samuels looked at his watch, ‘in ten minutes.’

  His eyes were roving restlessly in every direction but Lindsay’s, and he was nibbling a thumbnail like an anxious schoolboy summoned to his headmaster’s study.

  ‘Rest easy, Charlie, it’s my fault, he knows that,’ said Lindsay.

  ‘Yes, well . . .’ He sounded uncertain.

  ‘Here.’ Lindsay pulled the sheet from the typewriter and offered it to him: ‘Read it, it might help.’


  Samuels smiled weakly and shook his head: ‘Not on your Nelly. Surrender followed by an abject apology. Section 11 suits me very well. I hate the sea, and I have family to look after in London.’

  ‘You’ve never mentioned them.’

  ‘You’ve never asked.’

  It was true. Lindsay felt a little ashamed.

  ‘Time up,’ said Samuels. ‘Wish me luck.’

  Lindsay was still at his desk an hour later, his thoughts flitting from Mohr to Winn to Mary to Mohr. Rich golden light was streaming low through the south-facing windows, casting twisted shadows across the floor as the trees swayed in the gentlest of evening breezes. The office was empty but for the duty Wrens. The other interrogators were sipping pink gins in the mess. The late courier had taken Lindsay’s report to the Admiralty and by now Checkland would have his copy too. He wanted to ring Mary but she would be at her desk in Room 41. Better to ring later and from the privacy of his home.

  Turning to the window, he was struggling into his jacket when the door opened behind him. With strange certainty, he knew the person he least wanted to speak to had just stepped into the room.

  ‘Lindsay, a word.’ There was an ominously satisfied note in his voice.

  ‘Here?’ asked Lindsay, turning to face him.

  Henderson looked at the Wrens; one was bent low over her desk, no doubt keen to impress with her industry, the other busy at a filing cabinet by the door.

  ‘I say, would you mind leaving us alone? We’ll answer the telephones.’

  Lindsay settled into his chair and concentrated on appearing more relaxed than he felt. The last thing he wanted was another unpleasant encounter. The Wrens swept a few personal things into their bags and left without saying a word.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  Lindsay leant forward and shook a cigarette from the packet on his desk.

  ‘Samuels is going. The Director is sending him to a POW camp in the north, an old racecourse. He can’t do much harm there.’

  Poor Samuels. Lindsay had the uncomfortable feeling he had presented Checkland with the excuse to get rid of him. He drew deeply on his cigarette, then said: ‘Pleased?’

  Henderson coloured a little: ‘Not at all pleased. Two officers in the Section disciplined, intelligence sources put at risk . . .’

  ‘Are you sending me to the races too?’

  ‘I knew that first week you were shadowing me that we had made a mistake.’ There was something like a triumphant ‘told you so’ in Henderson’s voice.

  Lindsay could not help smiling; he had begun to find the man’s unrelenting hostility grimly amusing. It was an unfortunate smile. The expression on Henderson’s face changed in an instant from complacent triumph to fury. He made a noise like a bull, half grunt, half moan, and slipped from the edge of the desk he was leaning against as if preparing to charge. Rough words tumbled from him instead: ‘You’re arrogant. You think your decoration allows you to behave just as you like. You’re wrong. You see only a small part of the picture. I wish my sister . . .’ He was struggling for something sufficiently insulting; ‘. . . you’re an arrogant German bastard.’

  ‘Finished, sir?’ Leaning forward a little, Lindsay ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. He did not feel anger, he felt contempt.

  ‘And what was the Colonel’s message, sir?’

  24

  B

  ig Ben began to strike half past seven and before its closing chime Mary Henderson was on her feet and walking with brisk purpose through the park. Before her was the Citadel, forbidding even on a warm summer evening, a masterpiece of its kind, featureless and impartial. Inside it, the wheels of the machine were turning still, churning out an endless stream of paper. A cheery word to the guards at the Mall entrance then on into the Admiralty’s cool marble hall. A group of crisply dressed Staff officers had just left the Director’s office and were chatting noisily at his door. Mary slipped past, head bent, anxious to catch no one’s eye.

  ‘Dr Henderson . . .’

  It was the Director’s Assistant. She turned to greet him:

  ‘Ian, how are you?’

  Fleming reached for her hand, then kissed her warmly on both cheeks: ‘Lovely, even in your customary academic dress, and do you know, I was just thinking of you.’

  Mary raised her eyebrows sceptically. She had known Ian Fleming since childhood, an old family friend who had been at Eton for a time with her brother. But he was an adventurer – fine words had been followed more than once by a direct challenge to her virtue. A handsome thirty-three, Fleming was tall, immaculate, with wavy hair, tired close-set eyes, a strong jaw and a severe mouth that turned down a little disdainfully at the corners. She had always stoutly resisted his attempts to seduce her – that was why they were still on good terms.

  ‘I’ve just left the Director. We were talking about your chap. Your name was mentioned too,’ he said, squeezing her hand gently between both of his.

  Mary coloured a little and slipped free: ‘Why on earth . . .’

  ‘It isn’t a secret, is it? Don’t academics take lovers?’

  ‘Only sensitive ones.’

  Fleming gave her a small dry smile: ‘Have you spoken to him today?’

  Mary shook her head.

  ‘Then come with me.’ He guided her by the elbow into a transept off the main corridor, then through a green baize door into a small office. ‘You don’t, do you?’ he asked, waving a packet of Morland cigarettes at her. ‘Very wise, they’re rather strong,’ and he gestured towards a chair in front of the desk. The room was thick with the smell of stale tobacco, well ordered, bright, unremarkable but for the view across Horse Guards to the Foreign Office and the garden of Number 10 Downing Street.

  ‘You know I found Lindsay and introduced him to the Division . . .’ Fleming settled into the chair beside her, his back to the door. ‘Has he told you anything about his work?’

  Mary shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Only what I need to know. Rodger asked him to brief me,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Brief you?’ He gave a short laugh, ‘I see. And what have you told him about your work?’

  ‘Only what he needs to know.’

  Fleming’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinised her face for a moment, then said: ‘Section 11 wants rid of him. Colonel Checkland doesn’t trust him and I suppose you know what your brother thinks?’

  Mary frowned angrily and opened her mouth to speak but he held up his hand: ‘. . . the Colonel says he has a bee in his bonnet about our codes, that he asks dangerous questions. It hasn’t gone down well here. He might give away more than he discovers. You know how careful we have to be. Has Lindsay discussed this fellow Mohr with you?’

  ‘No,’ she lied.

  Fleming drew on his cigarette, the tip rasping and glowing, then he blew a sceptical stream of smoke at the ceiling: ‘And his family?’

  ‘What about them?’

  He looked a little haughtily down his nose at her: ‘The Director doesn’t want to take any chances. He wants to send Lindsay back to sea. I’m going to try and persuade him not to. There are things a clever German speaker can do for me. But you should both be careful . . .’

  She interrupted him crossly: ‘Careful?’

  ‘Yes, very, very careful,’ he said firmly, ‘and you most of all. You are one of the few who knows of special intelligence. Listen to me, it’s good advice.’

  Mary looked down at her hands, tightly balled in her lap. Were pieces of paper marked ‘Very’ or ‘Most Secret’ circulating in the Division, their pillow talk a subject for comment?

  ‘Did we meet by chance?’ she asked, and her voice shook a little.

  ‘Yes. But I’m glad we did.’ Fleming smiled and leant across to give her hand a gentle squeeze.

  Mary stayed for only a couple of minutes more, to exchange a few strained pleasantries. Then Fleming’s door clicked shut behind her and she stood outside it, breathing deeply. She was cross with him but crosser still with L
indsay. He was fighting his own little war, careless of orders and the opinions of others. And now their relationship was a security matter, their conversation a subject for speculation, what was private and special between them common currency. She shuddered at the thought. A phone began to ring in Fleming’s office. It was almost eight o’clock and she was expected at her desk.

  Slowly, with a distant smile for familiar faces, she made her way down brown lino-covered steps into the dim corridors of the Citadel, Fleming’s ‘careful’ playing roughly through her mind. Outside Room 41, she hesitated then walked a few steps further to stand at a different door. It opened almost at once and a large bundle of files began to totter unsteadily out. Mary could see just enough short dark hair to be sure that one of the watch-keepers, Lieutenant Sutherland, was somewhere beneath them.

  ‘Is that you, Dr Henderson?’ There was a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Are you coming in?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I want to try . . .’

  But Sutherland was concentrating too hard on his files to care what she wanted. And what did she want? It was a foolish notion – certainly not what Fleming meant by ‘careful’ – but it had taken hold of her in the corridor. She wanted to speak to Lindsay.

  ‘Well, go on, take the door,’ said Sutherland sharply.

  Mary held it open for him then stepped inside.

  Room 30 was a little larger than its neighbour across the corridor but just as smoky, with the same droplights and shabby office furniture. It had its own plot table too and on it a mad cat’s cradle of thread and cardboard arrows tracked the enemy’s small fleet of ships. A clerical assistant at the plot smiled warmly at Mary, another looked up from her desk for just a moment, but neither said anything to her. The room was unusually quiet. That was unfortunate. Personal telephone calls were strictly forbidden but at busy times no one noticed you, or wanted to be noticed.

  In the far right-hand corner, an anonymous blue door led to the Teleprinter Room – the home of ‘the secret ladies’. One of them, dumpy in brown lambswool and tweed, was standing over a teleprinter coiling a coded message around a spool. She was too lost in her world of printer’s ribbon and tape to notice Mary enter and there appeared to be no one else in the room. At times, it was full of the harsh mind-numbing chatter of a dozen teleprinters sending and receiving signals. The ladies would hover about them like acolytes of a strange mechanical oracle, ready to rip, read, and distribute. To the right of the door, a long table was subdivided into six desks and on a shelf above there were a number of heavy black telephones. After just a moment’s hesitation, Mary walked to the far end of the table, picked one up and placed it on the desk in front of her. The Admiralty switchboard connected her without question.