The Interrogator (40 page)

The MI5 man was on his feet and preparing to leave. He offered both men his large hand and a promise that he would be close by if needed again in the course of what was going to be a long night. Lindsay watched him leave, then turned to Samuels again: ‘Can I have that?’

Samuels glanced down at the statement quivering slightly in his hand: ‘This?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you planning to do anything with it now?’ Samuels sounded a little suspicious.

‘Reference.’

‘Ah.’ He leant forward with the document and Lindsay clasped the top of it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Samuels did not release the bottom. They stood holding the statement together and Samuels’ soft brown eyes were searching his face:

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Lindsay.’

He said it softly and very deliberately.

‘Please. Nothing stupid.’

Obersteuermann Bruns was pacing his little rectangle of floor like a bear in a cage. Three steps to the wall and a smart turn to the door. There was a dark frown on his face, more belligerent than anxious. The little disc slipped back over the viewing window and with a jangling of keys the door swung open. When he saw Lindsay he snapped smartly to attention.

‘Easy, easy. How are you, Georg?’ Lindsay asked in German.

Bruns raised his eyebrows in surprise. A friendly ‘How are you?’ was not at all what he was expecting. A moment later and his features settled into a stiff scowl and Lindsay could almost hear the cogs of his mind slowly turning over: it was a trick, it must be.

‘Sit down, Georg.’

‘I want to stand.’

‘All right, if you feel more comfortable,’ but Lindsay sat at the bottom of his bed. He leant down to take a file from his briefcase, conscious that Bruns’s little brown eyes were following him closely. He had a curious face, long, with high cheek-bones and brown skin that would not have looked at all out of place in Zanzibar, his birthplace. But that was not an observation that would endear him to a devout Nazi like Bruns.

‘You know you’re in a great deal of trouble, Georg? Two charges of murder.’

Bruns was clenching and unclenching his hands as if he wanted to relieve his anxiety by taking a swing at something or someone.

‘Well, Georg, what will you tell the court?’ Lindsay asked him softly.

‘I will say I am not guilty.’ His voice shook a little. The defiant teenage scowl on his face was not enough to hide the fear growing deep inside him.

‘I feel the court should know the full facts, Georg. Would you like to write a statement?’

‘I have nothing to say.’

‘Your comrade Oberleutnant Dietrich had plenty to say. I have his
statement here,’ and Lindsay opened the file to show him the confession written in a round childlike hand. ‘Yes. Listen to this:
Bruns found the rope in the yard at the camp. It was his idea to use it on Heine . . .

Oh and here’s another bit:
we talked about what we should do. Bruns was for executing Lange as a traitor, he had confessed to betraying us . . .

‘You see. Oberleutnant Dietrich has been very frank with us.’

Bruns was biting his bottom lip nervously, his dark skin a shade paler. He was clearly at a loss to know what to say: was it possible that Dietrich had betrayed him to the enemy?

‘Sit down here,’ said Lindsay, patting the bed. ‘It must be a shock. Yes, he has told us everything and not just about Heine and Lange. He’s answered all our questions. He could see it was in his best interests.’

Bruns did not move but stood with his back to the wall, clenching and unclenching his big hands. Always at the edge. And schooled by Mohr to say nothing. A simple order. Duty and loyalty to the Fatherland. Yes, a simple order to be followed even if he was left swinging from a rope.

‘Think about it,’ said Lindsay, slipping Dietrich’s confession back in the file. ‘Help me and I can help you. Your life depends upon it.’

He got to his feet and rapped on the door. It opened at once. Standing outside was the Security Service man, Robbins, his muscular frame a little too snug in his dark suit, black shoes polished with military perfection. The door clanked shut and he stepped forward to shake Lindsay by the hand.

‘We’re ready for you. The room’s on ‘C’ Wing where we keep the troublemakers.’

‘Thank you, Captain. One by one, starting with Bruns. Leave them for half an hour before you fetch Dietrich.’

‘And Lieutenant Samuels?’

Robbins’ knowing smile brought the colour to Lindsay’s face: ‘No. Lieutenant Samuels doesn’t need to be informed.’

There was a Sunday church hush in the Tracking Room and those not important enough to be at the table were bent over their desks in something very like prayer. The First Sea Lord was standing at the plot. His entourage was stirring the smoke into a restless pea-souper that lent mystery and a strange urgency to every small movement. Admiral Sir Dudley Pound did not visit the Citadel often. He preferred its product to drop into his in-tray on neatly typed sheets of yellow paper. But the Prime Minister was not as patient. The Admiral was expected in Downing Street with an explanation for the disaster within the hour. Winn was taking him through some lines at the plot, his arm planted just south of Iceland, gesturing at a cluster of black flags.

‘Dönitz deployed a pack of fourteen U-boats here to the south-west of Iceland at the end of August . . .’

At her desk, Mary picked up a pencil and ran it down a report on something rather technical in an effort to appear busy.

‘Of course we were tipped off by Bletchley. We knew their boats were in a search line somewhere here,’ and Winn’s hands swept across the flags again. ‘We were able to use that intelligence to route our convoys away from the pack.’

But after a time Dönitz had drawn a new search line on the big wall chart at U-boat Headquarters. They had learnt that from the special intelligence too. The first little piece of rip-and-read with fresh orders to the U-boats had landed on Mary’s desk.

‘. . . unfortunately Slow Convoy 42 was forced south by a storm and the ice. It was picked up by the
U-85
five days ago. Of course, once contact was made Dönitz was able to direct the rest of his pack to the convoy and the rest is . . .’ Winn did not feel he needed to say more. The details had already begun to appear in the papers. The pack had set upon the convoy and sunk twenty ships loaded with timber and steel, wheat and sugar and flour. A third of the convoy was lost and with it hundreds of seamen.

The awkward silence was filled with the shuffling of feet and the ringing of a telephone at the far end of the room. All heads were turned to Pound. He was standing on Winn’s right, small, stooped and grey, resting on a stick, his eyes almost lost beneath his heavy brow. The clock ticked on and Mary began to wonder if he had fallen asleep on his feet. It was the Director, Admiral Godfrey, who came to his rescue: ‘Perhaps, sir, Winn can tell us if there is anything to suggest the enemy knew of the convoy’s movements from our signals?’

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.

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.’