The German Numbers Woman (15 page)

‘If you like,' Howard rapped, face towards him.

‘Here goes, then. Rain later Karpathio east south-east. Five. Moderate. Rain later east Karpathio east to south-east. Five. Moderate. Rain later. South-west Aegean north north-east, six. Moderate. Rain south-east Aegean Ikario north to north-east. Six. Moderate. Rain later. Saronikos north-east. Five in the south.'

Howard scratched his nose, and sped back with: ‘Too much rain. Rough sea, as well. You must be cut off. What do you think about when alone in your little concrete blockhouse?'

More a demand than a request, so Richard could only send a list Howard would believe in. ‘My wife, my work, my past, and my future.'

‘Anything else?'

I should be questioning him, but he's blind so there's little to ask. It's all up to me, and he knows it. ‘What I'm going to have for supper when I get home. Whether I've got enough cigarettes to last to the morning.'

Howard pondered the list. ‘What you do to earn a living would be more interesting to hear about.'

Rain splattered the aerial window, a draught from the gap cooling Richard's cheek. It bloody well wouldn't, though it was difficult to think between messages tapped out in morse. The immediate response was all you could handle. You had to be quick and seemingly instinctive, so it was apt to come from a deeper place than intended. With so little time to decide you sent whatever sprang into your mind. Trying to formulate a considered statement would not only delay too long – with the risk of not being believed – but the mechanical expertise needed to work the key went awry and could betray you in any case. This sudden realisation hardly gave him time to wonder, let alone regret, how he had got into the situation. He felt as if in a confessional or on a psychiatrist's couch, giving in to relaxation and a false sense of trust, induced to speak whatever came. He must be careful. ‘It's quite simple. I hire myself out as a crew member on yachts, which have to be taken from A to B, by a rich owner who can't be bothered to do it himself.'

Because of Richard's hesitant rhythms at the key Howard knew that something was being held back, perhaps nothing important, yet maybe a text which Richard would feel better having brought into the open, and Howard knew that his duty was to give him the peace of mind all men should have. On the other hand he saw little use badgering him into revealing his trouble, if trouble there was, because that would only confuse or harden him. Kinder to come out with something personal of your own by way of encouragement:

‘I sometimes dream I can't open my eyes, that I've lost or broken my glasses – which I never wore, however – that my lids have congealed together, but I know I'm in a dream and that everything will be all right when I wake up. But when I do it isn't, which is the closest I get to nightmare. Luckily the dream has come only a few times in my life. I remember it blighting me as a child of eight or so, which may have been a sign as to what would happen later. What puzzles me is why I still have the dream as an adult, because what can it indicate for the future?'

Sending was more relaxed when a visible person was receiving your messages, but after his long paragraph Howard's fingers began to falter. Richard assumed it was the content which disturbed, and doubted he could respond at the same intimate level, didn't want to at all, though felt himself tangled in a net he couldn't fight free of:

‘I received a distress call today concerning a yacht that was sinking. I tried to contact it but failed. Think it was sunk deliberately. Sea was calm at the time. Men were arrested on the beach.'

He was surprised at the speed with which Howard demanded: ‘Was there a woman on board?'

‘Not specifically mentioned.'

‘Are you sure?'

Not having received such a signal made it easy to calm him: ‘I'm certain they were all men.'

A tremble in Howard's hand, and a minor error in sending, suggested to Richard that he had caught him on a disturbing point and, more important, that Howard had heard something on the radio he didn't want to share.

Indulging in such secret yet musical talk, Howard felt more sure of himself. He was captivated by being in control of a rare experience. Darkness fell away in the light of enthusiasm. Thoughts were exchanged with Richard in spite of himself, which was how it should be, for it was futile to be afraid of revealing what gems of intelligence he had picked up. Something may well have happened to Judy's yacht to shatter his inner confidence and peace. Perhaps her boat was employed in projects which were against the law. The rest of the crew knew it but she did not, though if they were caught there was a risk of her getting ten years in jail as well.

His mood changed by the moment, and in spite of a touch of exhaustion he sent to Richard: ‘As the
Flying Dutchman
goes around in circles without hope, I hear Russian transport planes crossing and recrossing Europe and Asia. Some appear to be going to Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikstan, and maybe even Kyrgyzstan …'

Richard broke in excitedly: ‘All the Stanleys, in fact. And what do you suppose they were carrying?'

‘It could be anybody's guess, but I get their positions, routes, speeds, and heights from a direction finding station and a command traffic network. Sometimes a plane goes to India, or Nepal, or even beyond.'

Now he was talking, so we'll give him a bit of encouragement: ‘To Poppyland, do you suppose?'

‘Drugs, you mean? Why not? I sometimes think so.' But let's get off that subject, though not too obviously. ‘I also play “Spot the Bomber” now and again.' He couldn't help himself: ‘Even they may be on the drugs run. It's every man for himself over there.'

Which explained the rash of pins on his map. He's got more up his sleeve than he's letting on, so it's time to give a little encouragement. ‘Myself, I keep watch for smugglers of cocaine coming from Colombia to Europe. In my time I've learned they bring matter concealed in false bottomed suitcases. In fact a party of six is expected soon. Information from the informer is unidentified, though I assume Intercop will be waiting, unless the intrepid six are warned beforehand.'

Howard laughed at the way things were going. If he and Richard put their materials together they would have an even more exciting game than Monopoly or Cluedo. Richard wanted him to think so. Imagination was a wonderful thing, could be put to many uses. ‘The time is right for searching the aether assiduously for arcane morsels of morse,' he went on, ‘and we can post the transcripts to each other, or collect them as and when we meet. Life is too short not to need the benefits of collaboration in our rare pastime. It would double the results of our efforts, a two-man GCHQ no less.'

‘We'd have been great assets to that establishment,' Howard beat out. ‘I'd have been happy working there.'

‘Me too,' Richard flashed. ‘One of us would have been in charge by now. But to stay on the subject of our future correspondence. We can even suggest to each other the frequencies that ought to be watched. These might include voice transmissions as well as telegraphy. We might listen in to trawlers, for instance. You never know what you might get from them. I see you've got VHF. You could pick up cross-Channel small boat traffic, or even the coastguards and their choppers.'

‘No problem,' Howard said. ‘I can get VHF. I'll give it a go. We'll have fat files on all the villains of the universe, or know things about people whether they do anything against the law or not.'

He was too far ahead, so Richard pushed his advantage in another direction. ‘What I suggest is that when I write to you I don't do it on paper, for obvious reasons. I'll tap it onto a tape so that you can listen to it with no difficulty.' In that way Laura wouldn't know what was being communicated. ‘And you can tape record a morse letter to me whenever you come across something interesting. The post should get it to me overnight.'

‘I like that idea.' Howard drew him more surely into the alliance. ‘We'll have a perfect interception system.'

‘For economy's sake,' Richard tapped on, ‘we can use the same tape over and over again' – rubbing out each text as soon as it's read, which is good for security.

Howard decided on a little mischief. ‘I might want to file your letters, I would if they were written. I'd keep them in a shoebox like an old lady,' he laughed. ‘I don't see why I should destroy them, because they'd be in the sort of sound bytes I like. In any case I might want to refer to them later on.'

‘Just as you wish.' You can't win 'em all. ‘I only thought it would save the expense of buying new tapes.' Shouldn't have said that, because he and Laura obviously lived on more than whatever pittance he got for a pension.

‘I'm not short of a bob or two,' Howard told him.

‘What about space for storage?'

‘I can always put them in the loft.'

Something else he thought of: ‘If you get a report that's really interesting and amusing, and you want to share it with me, you can always get me on the phone.'

‘What if we're listened to?'

Not yet they wouldn't be. ‘Hardly likely.'

‘You've done me quite a favour tonight. I can't remember enjoying myself so much.'

He was getting tired. Keep it short. ‘Nor me.'

‘We'll close the wavelength down, if you like.'

‘Agreed.'

‘Funny how pastimes wear you out as much as real work,' Howard commiserated.

They exchanged the appropriate signals, switched off, disconnected, and pushed their chairs back. The atmosphere of the room died on them, colder in the silence. Surprising how working the fingers heated the body, with the effort of using your arm and the whole right side. Throat and mouth speech seemed strange after such intensity with ears and fingers, more shallow, less significant, more formal even.

Laura was in the living room, a book on the table by her hand. Richard felt relieved at coming back into the real world. She stood up. ‘You look as if you've had a hard time at the tappers. I could hear it vaguely rattling away. I'll make another pot of coffee before you go.'

There was a too-saintly aspect about her face, and the blue peculiarly bruised eyes that went with it. Something had happened in her life that had harmed her crucially, and Howard didn't know because he couldn't see it, never had and never would. He had seen a similar look of blight in Amanda's features on saying the unforgivable during a quarrel, but after making up it wasn't there any more.

‘It's a blustery night,' she said, ‘so you must have a hot drink.'

He saw no make-up in the bathroom when he went there, just utilitarian Kleenex, an electric shaver for Howard, and a razor. Amanda's tubes and bottles spilled over the whole place, but he liked that untidy part of her. No proper shower here, but a rubber pipe attached by two leads to the taps.

Laura met him by the kitchen door. ‘You must come again. I know he enjoyed it.'

He followed her in. ‘I will.'

‘He's a busy man,' Howard called.

‘Not all the time,' Richard said. ‘I'll send you a tape. It'll be good practice for me to fill one. Then I can look forward to yours.'

Laura thought Howard would go to bed after Richard had gone, but he went straight back to the radio, thinking he might hear Judy talking to her lover.

TEN

When Richard finished listening he screwed up the papers written on and burned them in the stove. This time he hadn't, in too much of a hurry to get into town and spend a couple of hours with that blind telegraphist. She wondered what they could possibly find to talk about for so long.

He had left after supper and wouldn't return till near twelve, a perfect alibi for seeing a girlfriend – if he needed an alibi. She had one as well, come to that, though there was no call at the moment, which made existence rather a bore – him being away so often.

He was the love of her life, but it was no use telling him, could only let him know in her ecstasy while making love, when he assumed the words didn't mean much, said the same back, as if he hadn't thought of them till she put the notion into his mind by crying out. At such times the truth didn't come into it. For him that was what you said while making love, and because she had done so already he had to make some response. A man must do what a woman had to tell him, but it was better than him not doing anything at all.

She knew him to be one of those men who loved women, and knowing that women found it easy to love him back, made him a difficult man to deal with. The more women love men like that the more such men loved women, and if you were married to one you never knew where he might be when he said he was visiting so-and-so for the evening. Luckily she wasn't jealous, only suspicious, knowing his secrets weren't necessarily to do with other women – at least as far as she knew.

She smoothed the papers over and over to get them flat. No love letters anywhere, not yet anyway, but what was on them must be important because he had taken care to make sure nobody got a look in. Much of it seemed gibberish, or in code, letters and figures in tidy groups, an orderliness not altogether characteristic, so confused and uncertain was he much of the time about his life, rarely knowing what to do with himself between mysterious jobs with boats he was called on to man.

His handwriting for taking morse was more legible than on the occasional postcards he sent her, as if he was an altered person at the radio. She supposed handwriting varied according to what you did with it, and knew he could be quite a different man to the one she knew in their normal life.

She was amused therefore to think that in his secret activity he wasn't the person she knew him to be, that what he did was so confidential he must become someone else to do it. Unless that person was the greater part of him and all these years she had been knowing only an offshoot of his true personality. Such might be the case with some women's husbands, and with many husbands' women as well. Who knew anything about another until words or actions provided the evidence or proved them wrong?