Brusque orders and the clump of heavy boots forced Jurgen Mohr from a satisfyingly deep sleep back to the close darkness of his room. Someone was rattling keys at the door, cursing loudly.
‘Get your trousers on.’
A guard shone a torch in his face.
‘The switch is in the corridor, to the right of the door,’ said Mohr tartly.
Blinking sleepily in the light, he swung his legs off the bed and reached for his shirt and trousers. It was a little after midnight. His interrogator was hoping that in the stillness before morning the threats would seem more real. Mohr wondered whether it would be the uncertain Jew or that effete academic, Graham? Perhaps, this time, the lieutenant he had met in Liverpool. He smiled at the thought.
They led him down the back stairs and halfway along a dimly lit corridor on the first floor. The bare white walls of the interrogation room were lit by a single shadeless bulb, there was a plain wooden table with a metallic green ashtray at its edge and just one chair.
‘The prisoner stands in front of the table,’ said the sergeant, addressing a spotty youth in a private’s uniform. ‘Make sure he doesn’t move.’
The door slammed shut and Mohr was alone with his guard. He walked slowly over to the barred window at the far end of the room.
‘Come away from there,’ said the soldier nervously, but Mohr ignored him.
Through a crack in the blackout shutters, he could see the moon, white and full and uncomfortably bright. He had been betrayed by just such a moon. The British escort ships had seen the silhouette of U-112 slip into the convoy. In four minutes, HMS White had been upon them, running over the top, pounding the boat, tossing men about like rag dolls, a blind pitiless barrage. The boat had surfaced for a moment then plunged hundreds of fathoms to join the enemy ships it had sent before it, a broken grey shell on the ocean floor.
‘Herr Kapitan Mohr.’ Lieutenant Lindsay was standing by the desk.
‘Sorry, Lieutenant, I was dreaming. I often dream at this hour.’
Lindsay said nothing but sat down and took a notepad from the briefcase on his knee, opened it and began to write. For a full minute, the silence was broken only by the scratching of his pencil.
‘Your crew has been very helpful,’ he said at last in German. ‘There are just a few small points to clear up, some biographical details.’
He glanced up from his notebook: ‘You’re thirty-two, single, from East Prussia — your family owns a small estate near Tapiau. Correct?’
Mohr stared down at the lieutenant impassively.
‘You were educated in Germany and for a time in England too — Bristol. You joined the Reichsmarine in 1929 and served on the light cruiser Karlsruhe. You must have met Admiral Donitz for the first time then?’
Mohr smiled.
Lindsay paused for a second and ran his forefinger down his notebook: ‘You transferred to the U-boat arm a few months before Donitz took command of it and saw active service in Spanish waters during the Civil War and at the beginning of this one. You’ve had a good war, haven’t you — until now. The Knight’s Cross from Hitler himself.’
‘A good war,’ said Mohr thoughtfully. ‘Have you had a good war, Lieutenant?’ He nodded at the ribbon on Lindsay’s chest.
‘How many ships have you sunk?’
‘A lot.’
‘And there was a dinner at the Reich Chancellery in your honour.’
‘A bad dinner. The Fuhrer is a vegetarian,’ said Mohr with a shake of the head.
Lindsay smiled weakly, then, half turning to the door, shouted:
‘Chair for the prisoner.’
A guard stumbled in and placed one in front of Mohr.
‘How kind,’ said Mohr drily, ‘My reward?’
‘For what?’
He shrugged. They were the table’s width apart now, close enough for their knees to touch beneath it. Lindsay took a packet of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket and pushed them across to him. Mohr took one, lit it and inhaled gratefully.
‘Was Admiral Donitz with you?’
Mohr directed a thick stream of smoke away from the table: ‘At the Fuhrer’s dinner, you mean? Of course.’
Their eyes met for just a moment, but long enough for Mohr to register the shadows about Lindsay’s eyes: ‘You look tired, Lieutenant. You’re working too late.’
‘You know the Admiral well, don’t you? Did you visit U-boat Headquarters often?’
Mohr gave a small smile and drew on his cigarette.
‘Did you visit the Admiral at U-boat Headquarters?’ This time there was a hard edge to Lindsay’s voice.
‘Let me ask you a question.’ Mohr leant forward a little, his hands on the table. ‘Where did you learn to speak German?’
Lindsay frowned and picked up his cigarettes. He took one out slowly, tapping it deliberately on the packet. ‘I think you’re forgetting yourself.’
Mohr laughed, shifting in his chair excitedly: ‘How can I? I’m your prisoner. But what do you think — a game? The rules are simple. Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours. Where did you learn to speak such perfect German?’
‘University. What were your operational orders?’ Lindsay snapped back at him.
‘You know those — to sink British ships off the African coast.’
‘And how did you plan to do it — your personal tactics?’
‘That’s your second question.’
Lindsay ignored him: ‘You spent time ashore last year, where?’
Mohr felt a frisson of anxious excitement. Simple biographical details were unimportant, most of them were to be found in newspaper cuttings, but this was of a different order. It was an ambush.
‘You haven’t been very truthful,’ he said with a deliberate shake of the head. ‘You must have been to Germany many times…’
Lindsay cut across him again: ‘Where were you last year, in France or Berlin?’
‘Berlin.’
‘No,’ snapped Lindsay. ‘You were in Paris and then at the Chateau Kernevel in Lorient.’
He looked pointedly at his notes: ‘A senior Staff officer, one of the six in charge of operations at U-boat Headquarters. You see, I know about your work.’
Mohr was concentrating on his smile but his face felt hot and his heart was beating uncomfortably fast. He had said nothing to his men about his time at headquarters but it was an open secret none the less. After all the preparation, the briefings, one or more of them had been weak.
‘Let’s not pretend,’ said Lindsay sharply. ‘It’s your game, so tell me, what were your responsibilities at Kernevel?’
Mohr shook his head reflectively: ‘It was foolish of me to suggest it. We weren’t going to play by rules, were we? You see, I know you didn’t learn your German at a university.’
Lindsay’s neck and cheeks were a little pink and for a second he glanced down at his notepad, When he looked up again his gaze was steady and dispassionate. Without taking his eyes off him, Mohr leant forward and said in a confidential whisper: ‘I know a few of your, how did you put it, a few of your “biographical details”.’
‘Do you?’ said Lindsay shortly, and he turned smartly towards the door. ‘Guard. You can take the prisoner away.’
‘Is this goodbye?’ Mohr asked in English. ‘Goodbye so soon?’
Lindsay gave a short hard laugh: ‘Oh no, Kapitan Mohr. No.’
The corridor was empty, the house silent. A full five minutes passed before Lindsay pushed back his chair and got wearily to his feet.
He had summoned Mohr for a skirmish in the middle of the night, intent on securing his authority over him. Interrogation was a confidence trick. You had to use the five things you did know to tease the five you needed to know from a prisoner. But timing was everything and Lindsay had given away too much too soon. Mohr had wriggled free of his hook and he had been uncomfortably close to being caught himself.
He glanced down at his watch; it was half past one. The note on Mohr for the Section could wait until the morning. It would need to be carefully worded. He collected his things, then made his way down the grand staircase into the entrance hall. Lieutenant Charlie Samuels was standing by the security desk, struggling into his coat. Short, pasty-white with tight black curly hair, Samuels was every inch the Ashkenazi Jew, quiet and formidably clever. He gave Lindsay a tired smile: ‘Haven’t you got a home to go to either?’
‘I’ve just made an ass of myself with Mohr.’
‘I’m sure it’s no consolation but no one expects you to get anything from him.’
‘You’re right, that is no consolation,’ said Lindsay. ‘And you?’
Samuels pulled a face: ‘Doing my rounds — the wireless operators. I mentioned them at the briefing, remember? I could see from your face that you didn’t think it was a coincidence.’
‘A coincidence?’
‘They speak some English.’
Lindsay grabbed Samuels’ forearm: ‘Charlie, I’d forgotten. No, I don’t think it can be.’
It was too improbable. Only prisoners like Mohr spoke English. None of the petty officers or ratings Lindsay had interrogated could manage more than a few broken phrases: ‘What do you know of their histories?’
‘Please let go of my arm, Douglas, you’re torturing me.’ Samuels gave him an aggrieved look. ‘They’re too frightened of Mohr to say anything. I don’t even know how well they speak English.’
‘Work on their histories, Charlie, find out when they joined the U-112. If you can’t get it from them, try other members of the crew, they may have told a friend.’
‘Only if you tell me why,’ said Samuels.
Lindsay gave a tired shrug: ‘They may have been brought together especially for this war patrol.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
There were only confused possibilities, questions. Samuels glanced wearily at his watch: ‘I have to be here again in seven hours.’ And taking Lindsay by the elbow, he led him into the fresh night air.
They passed through the security gate and began to walk up the gently curving drive towards the old stable block. Behind them the guards on the perimeter fence ambled heavy-footed from one pool of light to another. The house was shuttered tight as if closed for business at last. Lindsay could see from the clock in the little tower above the stables that it was almost at 2 a.m. No matter; he was tired but his mind was too busy to rest. He would borrow a jeep and make the slow journey home through the blackout.
At the stable gates he stopped and turned quickly to face Samuels:
‘A bottle of whisky says they joined the 112 for this war patrol.’
‘Don’t touch the stuff,’ said Samuels, wrinkling up his nose.
‘But find out, Charlie. Find out. I know it’s important.’