by David Gilman
Knight looked. ‘Yes. Always ready to go.’
Beaumont sighed. ‘No stone left unturned, then.’
‘Hope not.’
A few years back a lone German bomber had dropped a stick of bombs, aiming for the railway lines. The bombs landed harmlessly in trees, but the blast nudged Hut Four three feet sideways off its footings. It was then decided that if ever the Germans discovered Bletchley’s vital importance and attempted to bomb it, the waiting train, its engine under constant steam, would transfer the vital code-breaking equipment to Liverpool for onward passage to America.
The military policeman waved them through. The car drove past troops manning anti-aircraft batteries and was then brought to a halt once again at the security checkpoint. The two men showed their identification, the sergeant at the gate saluted and the barrier was raised.
‘Sir?’ said the driver.
‘Hut Six,’ said Colonel Beaumont.
*
Hunched over a trestle table, Mitchell sat gazing at the elastic band cat’s cradle spread across his fingers. He twisted it this way and that, his thoughts exploring labyrinthine possibilities of ciphers that had not yet been decoded. Then he released the cat’s cradle, letting the intricate structure collapse, and picked up a code sheet. He was one of a dozen or more codebreakers in the hut; most were younger men, but not all. At the large desk at the head of the building, the hut controller, an RAF squadron leader, one arm missing, the sleeve pinned, worked his way through the sheaf of papers on his desk.
The lives of the codebreakers were rigidly organized: essential for the task at hand. The men were locked inside the poorly lit hut for their eight-hour shift, like the occupants of all the other huts. Shutters were closed and locked from the outside, denying those within any link with the outside world. The air was thick with pipe and cigarette smoke, hanging in a haze above the ceiling’s yellowed light bulbs like London smog.
Mitchell was now toying with a five-by-seven-inch index card. He glanced at the earnest younger man who shared his table, eyes peering through round-rimmed spectacles, lips parted as he muttered code sequences to himself. The young man, an untidy public schoolboy called Ronald Bellamy, licked a forefinger and riffled through a shoebox of similar handwritten cards. With admirable thoroughness, he collated various cards with his code sheet, all the while feigning disinterest in Mitchell’s silence and the card he held. Eventually, however, unable to resist, he darted a quick look in the older man’s direction. Mitchell smiled. He was on to something. Bellamy sighed. The codebreakers worked as a team but it was a competitive world, and it looked as if Mitchell had won – again.
‘What?’ Bellamy asked.
‘Remember the Luftwaffe deployment from January to mid-February?’ said Mitchell. Just mentioning that was enough to secure Bellamy’s undivided attention. Extracting the information about the deployment hidden in the codes had been a real coup.
‘Have you got something?’ Bellamy whispered.
Mitchell turned to face the younger man so that no one else could hear him. It was best always to be cautious. He tapped the edge of the index card on the table. ‘This month’s ciphers. Same recurring prefixes, same numerical response.’
‘The same Luftwaffe groups?’ said Bellamy.
‘Stuka, Heinkel and fighter support. I reckon they’re redeploying,’ Mitchell said quietly.
‘Bloody hell. Top of the class for that, Harry,’ Bellamy said in little more than a breathless exhalation. He reached forward to look at the information, but Mitchell held back the card. Bellamy’s eyebrows arched. ‘What?’
‘Fame and fortune here, Ronnie. The powers that be will fight to sprinkle talcum powder on your upper-class backside for this.’
Bellamy sighed. It was not the first time Mitchell had traded information. ‘All right. What is it you want? My marmalade hasn’t arrived from home yet.’
‘Your petrol ration. You don’t need it this weekend, do you?’
Bellamy groaned. ‘How do I know you’re not having me on... again?’
Mitchell slid the card across the table, face down like a card dealer. ‘Ronald James Horatio Bellamy, saviour of this green and pleasant land. Pay to see, Ronnie.’
Bellamy winced, already worried about being spotted in a huddle with Mitchell. Mitchell didn’t move, waiting for him to take the plunge. He relented and took out his petrol ration card. Both men eased their card forward at the same time and exchanged. Bellamy quickly scanned the information. It was special. He grinned at Mitchell, who scratched his beard, yawned and stretched.
‘Pop it down the tunnel once you’ve shown it to the one-armed bandit.’
There was no note of cruelty in Mitchell’s voice. The officer in the blue uniform had been an ace Spitfire pilot and ‘the Bandit’ had been his nickname because of his incredible skill in sneaking up on enemy aircraft. It was considered impolite not to continue the tradition of respect cloaked by gentle mockery. Hut Three next door housed the analysts who interpreted the material that those in Hut Six deciphered. As there was a constant stream of paperwork passing between the two huts which risked getting wet in the inclement weather, they had built a wooden tunnel and pushed trays of paperwork through it with broomsticks.
A sudden clatter shook the wooden hut as sentries outside slammed open the wooden shutters. Mitchell pulled on his coat.
‘Shift’s over! Right, breakfast and bed for me. Go on, Ronnie, show ‘em your prize and make sure they only use the best talc.’
Light shafted into the smoky room, someone reached up and opened a window and the door was pushed open by another sentry. Two men in suits stood alongside Bletchley Park’s Deputy Director, Commander Edward Travis. The codebreakers stopped in their tracks: no one got into any of the huts unless they were top brass. And even that wasn’t a guarantee. Then the Deputy Director pointed out Mitchell to the two men.
*
The barest of halls, little more than a corrugated addition to the old pub, was unheated except for the small two-bar electric heater, and empty except for the two men who sat facing Mitchell. The village of Drayton Parslow offered accommodation, like many other surrounding villages, to those who worked at Bletchley Park and the six-mile bicycle ride each way kept Mitchell reasonably fit. His return every day after the long shift to his room at the public house offered the comfort only a pub, with its smell of spilt beer and rough-cut tobacco in the air, could. It was a comfort lost to memory and regret as the pub was now only licensed to sell beer to be taken away.
Mitchell sat opposite Knight and Beaumont. Despite the cold air and his fatigue Mitchell resisted showing any discomfort and had placed the small, inefficient heater closer to the older of the two visitors, neither of whom removed their overcoats. A small table in front of them showed two War Department folders.
‘It’s called the Ewe and Lamb but locals call it the Jug and Bottle because they can’t sell beer except to take home in a jug, or, as is patently obvious, in a bottle. What miserable bureaucrat thought that one up? Imagine depriving a village of its pub,’ said Mitchell in an obvious dig at the two suited men, who looked as though they could have been from the Ministry of Works, but, as Mitchell rightly suspected, were not.
Beaumont placed a pair of spectacles on his nose, tucking the curved ends carefully around his ears. ‘I’m Colonel Beaumont, Military Intelligence. Three years ago, almost to the month, the prime minister, inspired it seems by the tactics of Sinn Fein, ordered the creation of an organization to sabotage, harass and kill the enemy and establish escape lines. It’s called SOE, Special Operations Executive.’
Mitchell folded his arms across his chest in feigned indifference and to keep himself from shivering in the cold. He suspected these men bore bad news. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘Very few do,’ said Beaumont. ‘It’s thought by some to be waging an ungentlemanly war.’
Mitchell shifted his gaze to the younger man, who had so far remained silent. ‘And who are y
ou?’
‘Major Knight. From that organization.’
Beaumont opened one of the folders and read from the notes clipped inside. ‘When you lived in Paris you and your wife put your lives at risk to help others escape. That was very courageous of you both.’
‘You’re confusing courage with panic.’
Beaumont ignored his remark. ‘During your planned escape from Paris, you became separated from your wife and daughter. You’ve written twenty-odd letters to the Foreign Office –’
‘Twenty-three,’ Mitchell interrupted.
‘– asking for any information on their whereabouts.’
‘And had no reply,’ he said.
‘Before you left Paris you helped establish an escape route for downed airmen and vital French personnel.’
Mitchell remained silent. Whatever these men were here for they clearly wanted to impress him first with their knowledge of his past.
Beaumont’s eyes followed the typewritten notes in his folder. ‘More recently you advised that the Americans were sending through weather reports to their shipping in plain language and that this seriously compromised our own security.’
‘Fairly bloody obvious if anyone had given it a second thought. We send our reports in code; it would hardly take much for the Germans to compare plain text with our encryption and break our codes.’
‘But you gave this information to one of your American co-workers here at Bletchley.’
‘Sam Henderson, yes. So what?’
‘You might have claimed credit for it yourself.’
‘Who cares who solves a problem?’
‘You have a soft spot for Americans?’
‘I’m happy that we have such fine minds as Henderson’s working with us. This is all very tedious.’
‘Our work often is,’ said Beaumont with a self-deprecating smile. ‘So you were known to the Americans in Paris? Those who stayed, I mean, not their airmen.’
‘Yes. My wife and I knew Americans there. Both socially and professionally.’
‘And those who helped establish the escape routes?’
‘You don’t seriously expect me to answer that.’
‘There’s a surgeon at the American Hospital in Paris and someone in the American Library who help downed airmen. Those who have not been incarcerated are still active in helping the Allies.’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Mitchell replied.
‘Fortunately, we have information that some of those involved are not yet under suspicion,’ said Beaumont.
‘And how would you know that?’ said Mitchell.
‘Because last year a few French telephone linesmen spent a year tapping into the main underground telephone cable at Noisy-le-Grand in Paris that carried all German telephonic communication between Paris and Metz. They recorded every word and sent it by wireless to us. There was no mention of these Americans being under suspicion.’ Beaumont sighed. ‘Brave men, those linesmen. They were caught and shot.’
Mitchell glanced at the younger man. Major Knight had been studying him since he had first sat down.
‘You’re talking, but he’s making decisions about me,’ said Mitchell. ‘What do you want, major?’
There was a subtle shift in authority. Major Knight opened the second folder and slid a photograph across the table in front of Mitchell, who didn’t move. He could see clearly enough. The SOE man placed another photograph from the folder. He placed his finger on the first.
‘This man was one of my agents. His name is Peter Thompson. Do you know him?’
‘From Paris?’
‘Oxford.’
‘No.’
‘I see. Understandable, he’s quite a few years younger than you. But that’s unimportant. Some months ago he was attempting to exfiltrate this man.’ Knight eased the other photograph in front of Mitchell. It showed an identity card picture of a man who looked to be in his sixties. ‘His name is Alfred Korte. A German. He’s a scientist and a fervent anti-Nazi. He was arrested in Germany in 1941, was released to work with other scientists but he fled to France last year. He was hunted by Vichy and German forces, but he vanished from the face of the earth. He has vital information that we need.’
‘Then they must have got him,’ said Mitchell. ‘Him and your agent.’
‘We think not. We would have heard. No, he got as far as Paris, but we don’t know where he is. Peter Thompson – Guy Neuville was his cover name – was close to getting him out.’
‘And your agent?’
‘Also gone to ground. Perhaps even been obliged to change his nom de guerre.’
‘Or dead.’
‘Yes.’
‘And why are you sharing this information with me?’
‘We need someone to go to Paris and find Alfred Korte and bring him to us.’
Mitchell failed to stop the derisive laugh that escaped. He looked from Knight to Beaumont. Neither man was smiling.
‘I’m too old to go running around the back streets. The place is crawling with informers, gangsters, collaborators and a hotchpotch of French Resistance groups who at any given time are at each other’s throats. No thank you. I’ll stay in Hut Six and put up with the bickering and frayed nerves there.’
Knight and Beaumont lowered their eyes, seemingly disappointed.
‘We had hoped we might have relied on your goodwill in this matter,’ said Beaumont.’
‘“Hope deceives more men than cunning does,”’ Mitchell told them.
Beaumont sighed and removed his spectacles. After a moment’s thought, he said quietly: ‘Who said that?’
Mitchell shrugged. ‘I forget,’ he said uncaringly.
‘I doubt that,’ said Beaumont. ‘Vauvenargues, wasn’t it? Quoting a minor eighteenth-century French writer might impress those who take their beer ration at this inn but not us. You’re not the only one who went to university, for pity’s sake. We are not interested in people who are too clever for their own good.’
‘Which can get you killed,’ added Knight. ‘Arrogance is the last thing we want. So keep your pretensions to yourself.’
Mitchell pushed back his chair. ‘I’m cold and I’m tired. And I’ve had enough of your games.’
‘Sit down,’ said Knight firmly. ‘We’re not finished with you yet.’ The command was spoken with quiet authority. Despite his wounded pride Mitchell did as he was told.
Knight took another photograph from the folder. ‘The safe houses we had established in the city have all been closed down by the Germans. This man’s name is Alain Ory. He was the second man we sent into Paris. His wireless traffic was intermittent before it fell silent. Then picked up again sporadically.’ He gathered the photographs and retrieved the file. ‘We believe someone is betraying our agents,’ he continued.
‘Or he has fallen ill, tripped and fallen, broken his arm: there could be any number of reasons,’ said Mitchell. ‘Perhaps the Germans were too close to his location and he couldn’t use his wireless. There are a dozen scenarios why he hasn’t been in touch regularly. And losing safe houses is down to nosey neighbours.’
‘Perhaps. We have good people in the Resistance getting our people into Paris; it’s once they are in the city that they are being betrayed. You know people over there. You can move more freely, you have contacts.’ He paused. ‘And I can’t risk sending in another agent blind.’
‘You want me to act as bait.’
‘I want you to do whatever the situation demands. Make contact with Ory and find Alfred Korte and get him out. And then find the traitor and deal with him.’
‘I’m an academic, not a killer.’
‘We can teach you,’ Knight said evenly.
‘That’s not something I want to learn.’
‘Then find him and have the Resistance kill him. How the end result is achieved is immaterial.’
The two men stared each other down. Colonel Beaumont leant forward slightly. ‘If you found your daughter and her life was threatened, you’d kill to save her, wouldn’t
you?’ he said gently.
There it was, Mitchell realized. They had a card of their own to play, just as he had tempted young Bellamy. He tried to keep the nervousness from his voice. ‘Only my daughter?’
‘Your wife was with Alan Ory and another man who was shot at that time. They were running from a patrol. She used her maiden name as cover – she helped our people. I’m sorry, Mitchell. She was also betrayed to the Gestapo,’ Knight said in a flat, unemotional manner.
Mitchell blinked. Knight was simply stating facts. He wasn’t there to offer condolences. Mitchell’s stomach squirmed and knotted as he struggled to hide the emotion.
‘Where are they?’ he asked, unable to stop his throat constricting, his voice barely audible.
‘As far as we know your daughter is being held in La Santé Prison in Paris.’
Mitchell grimaced. La Santé was notorious. The thought of her being held there froze his heart. He calmed. ‘And my wife?’
Major Knight, slowly, almost reluctantly, eased the closed folder towards Mitchell. ‘These photographs were taken moments before she was executed. They were smuggled out by a member of the Resistance who works in the German photo laboratory. I’m sorry.’ He let the moment settle. ‘I truly am sorry, Mitchell. But I need to find Alfred Korte and the traitor.’
For a moment longer Knight and Beaumont watched Mitchell whose eyes dropped to the folder that held his worst fears. The two men stood without another word and walked away. At first, Mitchell did not reach for the file. Then, unable to resist, he opened it. A picture of Suzanne: like Korte’s an identity card photograph. And behind it a blurred picture of movement, a woman being dragged by two guards. Other photographs captured her head slumped, body bloodstained, hair down over her face. And, finally, an SS officer aiming his pistol at her head.
Mitchell sucked in air. Stoically not yielding to the grief that clawed at him. They had known the risks. Suzanne knew. He knew. They had felt death looking over their shoulders the moment the Germans marched into Paris. Now the scourge had taken her from him. A pulse beat in his neck: a sickening heartbeat of loss. It took little imagination to see the images of torture in his mind’s eye. See the suffering. Her agony. Her bravery. He tasted salt on his tongue as he laid his palm over the blurred photograph. More blurred now than the soft focus image he had seen only moments before. A lifetime ago.
