It was the question Mary knew Winn had been asking himself for the last four days.
‘. . . I’ve spoken to Bletchley and it is not clear from the special intelligence,’ said Winn cautiously. ‘I don’t think we can discount the possibility. I think the security of our codes is now the first priority.’
Admiral Pound’s body gave a little jerk as if he was joining them again: ‘Don’t we have anything more? I can’t tell the Prime Minister we think our own codes may be compromised but we’re not certain how many or which ones.’
‘Bletchley are doing some analysis of the enemy’s signals traffic, sir,’ said Godfrey, ‘and we are still working on the one man we have who knows.’
Pound turned away from the plot to Godfrey: ‘And when can I tell the Prime Minister we’ll have news for him about this, John?’
‘I can’t be sure, sir.’
Pound made a noise between a grunt and a cough in his throat to indicate his displeasure.
‘All right keep me informed.’
The smoke swirled again as Pound began to weave across the room like a balding enchanter, his Staff in close attendance. As he stepped through the door there was an audible sign of relief from those bent over their desks, phones began ringing, typewriters clattering; it was as if the stale air of crisis had disappeared with him. Admiral Godfrey was still standing with Winn at the plot, cigarette in hand.
‘Thank God he didn’t want to know who we’re working on,’ he said drily. ‘He was impressed by Mohr, took tea with him in the Admiralty boardroom.’
Winn took off his glasses and began polishing the lenses with his handkerchief: ‘I was more worried he would ask who is in charge of the interrogation.’
Mary could feel his eyes on her and she kept her head down over the report. It was already covered in small meaningless pencil marks.
‘Don’t you have faith in our man?’ asked Godfrey with a short laugh. ‘Half German, half mad, insubordinate, a little too ruthless I think – I’ve had the devil’s own job clearing up the mess at the POW camp. Fleming had better be right about him and Lindsay had better be right about Mohr or the shit will stick to all . . .’
Winn must have pulled a face or touched the Director’s arm to warn him to keep his voice down because he did not finish the sentence. Mary’s face was hot with anger and she knew Godfrey was looking across at her. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his gaze, her lips pursed in naked disapproval. The Admiral gave her a half-smile, a don’t-give-a-damn smile, then looked away.
A short time later, Winn flopped into a seat close to her desk. The Director had gone but his words were still ringing furiously in Mary’s ears and she must have been wearing something close to a scowl.
‘He was joking,’ said Winn, leaning forward to pat her arm. ‘He’s trusting Lindsay with a lot. Have you spoken lately?’
‘We keep missing each other, leaving messages. I haven’t seen him for a while.’
The business with the convoy had kept her late at the Citadel and it was almost a week since she had found time to speak to him.
‘What happened at the camp?’
Winn looked down for a moment, then reached into his uniform jacket pocket for his cigarettes. He took a thoughtful few seconds to light one.
‘It was something close to a riot. A bad business. I think you’d better ask him yourself.’
‘Isn’t it an official secret?’
‘Yes, it probably is, but you should ask him anyway,’ and leaning awkwardly on the arms of the chair he levered himself back on to his feet.
‘Ask him.’ The stiffness, the coldness in his face and voice sent an unpleasant shiver down Mary’s spine.
She left the Citadel a little after eleven and walked the short distance to Lindsay’s flat in St James’s Square. There was no answer. She did not expect there to be. She knew he was at Brixton Prison. But she was restless, she needed to walk, to move, to relieve the dull ache in her chest. It was more than the look Winn had given her. She was not sure how or why, it was a feeling, a strange instinctive feeling, that Lindsay was involved in something painful. Her mind was racing, turning dark corners. For a few wild seconds she considered walking to the prison and hammering on its gates. But she must have made an unconscious decision to go home because a short time later she found herself in Lord North Street. The house was empty and cold and she took an old fur coat of her mother’s from the cloakroom and wrapped it tightly about herself. Then she lay on her bed and curled into a ball to breathe the comfort of her mother’s perfume, the fur soft against her cheek. And she lay there sleepless until dawn.
0030
15 September
‘C’ Wing, Brixton Prison
Oberleutnant Dietrich was the senior officer in the room but the others were too afraid to care. The atmosphere crackled in the headphones like distant thunder. Bruns had remembered one of the lines from the first officer’s confession perfectly.
‘. . . Bruns was for executing Lange as a traitor . . .
What had the British promised Dietrich? What was the price?
‘You’re trying to blame us. You’ve made a deal,’ Schmidt’s voice was very shrill. ‘You of all people.’
‘What else did you say about me?’ Bruns was close to the hidden microphone.
‘I . . . but I think we should . . .’
Dietrich’s voice was drowned by a screeching chair and a moment later Lindsay heard gasping, then a low moan. Someone had struck Dietrich hard, perhaps forcing him to the floor.
‘Stop it, for God’s sake.’ It was the U-112’s second officer, Koch; he sounded more composed than the others. ‘Oberleutnant Dietrich, you must tell us. Help him up.’
‘The British are going to hang us for murder,’ said Dietrich thickly.
‘You were frightened so you told them about us, you cunt. I’m going to kill you.’
‘. . . they think we killed Heine and I tried to tell them . . . I explained we were only trying to frighten Lange. That’s all, I swear.’ Dietrich’s voice was shaking with fear.
‘I’m going to fucking kill you. You coward. You’re no better than Lange. Betrayed your comrades and the Fatherland.’
‘Shut up.’ It was Koch again. ‘Calm down.’
No one spoke for a few seconds. Heavy footsteps, short anxious breaths and one of them was obviously standing beneath the microphone hidden in the light fitting.
‘Did they ask you about Kapitän Mohr?’
Koch must have been leaning close to Dietrich because he spoke in barely a whisper: ‘His position at headquarters?’
‘Yes, they asked me about his role but I told them I didn’t know.’
‘Good.’
‘And the mission, the codes, did you tell him about the codes?’
‘No . . . I . . .’
‘Bastard.’ Bruns must have taken his hesitation as an admission of guilt or perhaps he could not contain his anger for a second longer. But there was another sharp gasp of pain from Dietrich and the clatter of the chair falling sideways.
‘Stop it,’ shouted Koch, struggling breathlessly to restrain Bruns. ‘That’s an order.’
‘I didn’t tell them about the mission,’ Dietrich gasped from the floor, ‘or the B-Service . . . I’ve only heard a little, just a little . . .’
He cried out. Someone – Bruns – must have kicked him as he lay there. And again, and again. And there was the sound of scuffling feet. Perhaps Schmidt was wading in too. Both men were on a short fuse and Koch had given up trying to restrain them.
Lindsay pulled off his headphones and, half rising, leant across to touch the sleeve of the man beside him: ‘Let’s rescue him.’
Robbins pulled a face and shook his head vigorously. He bent towards the machine again, his hands clamped tightly over the earpieces.
‘No, we must . . .’
But Robbins was waving him back into his chair, a wry smile on his face. Lindsay picked up the headphones again.
‘. . . They do
n’t know that we were intercepting their signals. I’ve said nothing about the captain’s role, I swear I haven’t.’
‘Shut up . . .’
‘But you’ve dropped us in the shit, you swine.’
There was a low moan that ended in a grunt of air as someone aimed another kick at the prone man.
‘That’s it, that’s enough,’ said Lindsay, pushing back his chair.
‘Sure?’ asked Robbins lazily. ‘Chap’s only getting what he deserves, you know. A few bruises.’
Lindsay did not answer but pushed past him to the cell door and on to the landing. It was only a few yards to the little interrogation room. He gathered guards in his wake.
‘All right. Let me in. Prisoners back to their cells. Fetch the doctor.’
Dietrich was lying in a tight little ball beside the table, his hands over his head. The others stepped back at once. Koch was quicker than the rest. When he saw Lindsay at the door he looked surprised, then anxious as the truth began to dawn on him.
‘Rabbit in the headlamps.’ Robbins was standing at Lindsay’s shoulder, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth like an American gumshoe.
‘You’d think they would ask themselves why they’ve suddenly been thrown together. They panic. Spill it all to each other. It’s always the same. Especially at . . .’ and he glanced at his watch, ‘one o’clock in the morning.’
The doctor was bent over Dietrich who was uncurling slowly like a leaf in spring.
‘You see, just a few bruises,’ said Robbins. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’
‘Enough, I think.’
They watched as Dietrich was helped back to his feet. He swayed drunkenly, and there was a nasty cut high on his cheek that would certainly need stitches. The doctor took his arm and began leading him to the door. He was in his sixties with a shock of white hair and a heavy Old Testament brow, none too steady on his own feet. As they passed, he gave Robbins a sharp and knowing look that suggested it was not their first encounter in the interrogation room. If Robbins noticed, he was not at all concerned.
‘And now?’
‘Mohr.’
There was no choice. It was time to chance everything. The last throw. There was nothing more he could wring from the others tonight and he had promised the Director that he would have something by the morning. If he did not break Mohr then he would have failed and there would be nothing to show for the price he had made others pay. Nothing.
‘Lindsay?’ Samuels was walking along the landing towards him. ‘What’s happened to Dietrich?’
‘Just bruises.’
‘Bruises?’ Samuels frowned, ‘How?’
‘He’s fine.’
‘Did you hit him?’ Samuels looked shocked.
‘No. I’m sorry, Charlie, I haven’t got time’, and he brushed past him to the stairs and began thumping down to the ground floor.
48
0200
15 September
‘F’ Wing, Brixton Prison
‘
I
t’s almost a year to the day since my ship was sunk . . .’
‘Is that why we’re here?’
‘No. We’re here because you and your officers committed two despicable crimes.’
‘Revenge?’
‘War.’
‘And your guilt?’
Lindsay leant across the table to offer him a cigarette. Mohr looked at it for a second or so then took it, rolling it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. He was a swarthy man but his skin had turned U-boat grey, as if he had spent weeks in the hull of his submarine, and there were dark rings about his eyes. It was a noisy landing at night with heavy-booted warders and the slamming of doors: that had been simple to arrange.
‘Don’t you want to smoke it?’ Lindsay sent his lighter spinning across the table. ‘There is more than one kind of death, don’t you agree?’
Mohr snapped the lighter and held the long yellow flame to his cigarette. It flickered in the draught from the ventilation grille above, cutting sad lines in his face. Then he inhaled deeply and with obvious pleasure.
‘Many men died on my ship,’ said Lindsay quietly, ‘Most of them. But their names will be remembered with pride and honour. That is one kind of death.’ He paused to fold his arms comfortably on the table in front of him in a way that suggested he was reflecting on this thought.
‘A man’s reputation for a hundred years can depend on a single moment. To lose it is another kind of death.’
Mohr watched him closely through the haze of cigarette smoke that hung over the table, his face quite empty of emotion.
‘What will people say about you and the others do you think? That you brought honour to your Navy and to your families in that washroom? Will your name be spoken in anything above a whisper?’
Still the quiet steady stare. Mohr’s elbow was on the table, the side of his face in his hand, his shoulders hunched wearily over the ashtray, and there was ash on the sleeve of his shit-brown uniform. He seemed older and diminished, as if after slopping-out with the cons at Brixton there was nowhere further to fall. If that was what he was thinking, he was wrong.
‘I’ve spoken to someone here and they say you’re given your own clothes and a glass of brandy to steady your nerves – I would ask for the bottle. Then the hangman visits your cell to strap your hands behind your back. A “T” is chalked on the trap-door for your feet and there are warders on the boards on either side in case you faint. White cotton hood, the noose, the hangman’s assistant straps your ankles.’
Lindsay paused to flick ash from the end of his cigarette.
‘Then bang . . .’
And he wrapped his knuckles on the table.
‘. . . the door opens and down you go. Very efficient. Twenty seconds from the condemned cell to the drop. I believe when they take you down they measure your neck and it’s usually an inch or two longer. Then they bury you in an unmarked grave in the prison yard. Not a place of pilgrimage and a long way from the sea.’
Mohr sat there motionless still, his face stiff and white like a marble Buddha, as if determined to live up to the name he was known by in the U-boat messes.
‘There is a choice you know,’ said Lindsay slowly. ‘An honourable one.’
‘An honourable one?’ Mohr laughed harshly.
‘I think so.’
‘I didn’t want those men to die. You know that, don’t you?’ He lifted his right hand to his brow for a moment, a small troubled gesture. The mask was cracking a little. ‘Heine took his own life. And with Lange, well, I let it be known that no one was to speak to him, he was to be isolated, ostracised, and that was all.’
For a few seconds Lindsay stared at him with an expression close to contempt, then he pushed back his chair and got to his feet. There was a yellow file on the table. He picked it up and took a few steps towards the door, his back to Mohr: ‘That is for the court to decide but I am confident they have enough to reach the correct verdict.’
There was an early-morning chill and the corners of the cell were in shadow. It was the large one they had used for the interrogation of Dietrich, gloomy, lit by only a single bulb.
‘Do you recognise the file? It’s the one your men handed to Heine when he was forced to sign a confession.’
‘I know nothing of that.’
‘Well, I thought it was appropriate to use it again for the statements your officers have given to me. They all agree, you know. They’re very clear that they were carrying out your wishes. Here, Dietrich: . . . the Ältestenrat found him guilty of aiding the enemy . . . we were carrying out Kapitän Mohr’s orders as senior officer . . .’
Mohr shook his head but said nothing.
‘Are you afraid of death, Mohr?’
‘No.’
‘And your family? Your lady friend, Marianne, isn’t it? What are they going to think of you when they hear how you died?’
‘Can I have another cigarette?’ His strange high-pitched voice cracked a l
ittle.
Turning back to the table, Lindsay placed his silver cigarette case and lighter in front of him. Mohr picked up the case and turned it over in his hands thoughtfully. As he put it down again the small gold crown and letter ‘M’ on the face of Lindsay’s watch caught his eye.
‘My Grandfather’s,’ said Lindsay, drawn by his gaze. ‘The cigarette case belonged to him too. He served in the Imperial Navy.’
‘Your cousin Martin mentioned him to me once – he was on Admiral von Hipper’s Staff?’
‘He’s of the old school. You know, he would think very poorly of what has been done in your name.’
The jibe found its mark, the colour rushing back to Mohr’s face: ‘That was an easy shot. I trusted people . . . and there was a certain madness. But what would he think of you?’
‘That I was doing my job, I hope.’
‘And if I told you what you want to know, if I betrayed the Reich, what would your grandfather say then?’
‘He will never know.’
Mohr snorted and shook his head.
‘If you tell me in confidence I guarantee there will be no record kept of the source. You and your men will be returned to the camp and in due course sent on to another in Canada. The charges will be dropped and a verdict of suicide recorded in both cases. These things are easy to arrange.’
‘And my honour, my duty to the Fatherland?’
‘Honour will mean nothing at the end of the rope. Disgraced. A murderer. And what about your officers?’
Lindsay dropped the yellow file and bent over the table on outstretched arms so that his face was only a few feet from Mohr’s and when he spoke it was no more than an earnest whisper:
‘They trusted their commanding officer. Weeks in the U-boat, the hardships they endured for you, their commander, their captain, with their blind faith in your judgement. Are you going to desert them now? You are the one who has brought them here to this place. And their lives hang in the balance. It is your duty to return them some day to their families, to their loved ones.’
The Interrogator Page 32
