For once all the interrogators were in the office, swapping stories and smoking. Lieutenant Dick Graham was holding up a prophylactic the guards had taken from one of the prisoners. Lindsay tried to avoid catching his eye. He failed.
‘You’ve come at the perfect time, Douglas. Tell me, what should I do with this? The girls won’t give me a sensible answer.’
Lieutenant Graham’s little audience giggled appreciatively.
‘Would you like it?’
More laughter. Graham was a history don in Civvy Street, a greying thirty-six with pince-nez spectacles, a slight lisp and a taste for the bizarre. He was indulging it now, swinging the French letter like the pendulum of a clock.
‘You’re a member of the master race, of course, but I’m sure it will fit.’
It took Lindsay most of the afternoon to two-finger-type a presentable copy of his report. Two flimsy sheets. He sat back in his chair and stared at the lines above the ribbon:
To conclude: the U-112 was on a special mission to African waters under the command of one of Admiral Donitz’s most trusted officers. The mission required highly trained English-speaking wireless operators. Evidence and SR transcripts taken during the interrogation of other U-boat crews suggests the enemy is obtaining intelligence from wireless traffic. Kapitan zur See Mohr may have been using this intelligence to co-ordinate attacks on convoys in and out of Freetown. One or more of our codes has been broken.
Short and thin. But there were those little signs that meant so much to an experienced eye that never made it into a report. He wondered if he should have included a few:
… the prisoner Brand kept touching his lip…
… Kapitan zur See Mohr lost his composure when codes were mentioned and refused to make eye contact…
All this was evidence too but it counted for nothing because the Section’s work was not respected in the Division. You had to have friends to put your case. He would send Winn a copy and Fleming too.
‘How was it?’ Charlie Samuels was standing beside his desk: ‘You’ve been hammering that typewriter without mercy.’
Lindsay glanced beyond him into the body of the room: even Dick Graham was busy.
‘I’m preparing my defence,’ said Lindsay quietly.
‘I thought you might be. Checkland wants to see me again,’ Samuels looked at his watch, ‘in ten minutes.’
His eyes were roving restlessly in every direction but Lindsay’s, and he was nibbling a thumbnail like an anxious schoolboy summoned to his headmaster’s study.
‘Rest easy, Charlie, it’s my fault, he knows that,’ said Lindsay.
‘Yes, well…’ He sounded uncertain.
‘Here.’ Lindsay pulled the sheet from the typewriter and offered it to him: ‘Read it, it might help.’
Samuels smiled weakly and shook his head: ‘Not on your Nelly. Surrender followed by an abject apology. Section 11 suits me very well. I hate the sea, and I have family to look after in London.’
‘You’ve never mentioned them.’
‘You’ve never asked.’
It was true. Lindsay felt a little ashamed.
‘Time up,’ said Samuels. ‘Wish me luck.’
Lindsay was still at his desk an hour later, his thoughts flitting from Mohr to Winn to Mary to Mohr. Rich golden light was streaming low through the south-facing windows, casting twisted shadows across the floor as the trees swayed in the gentlest of evening breezes. The office was empty but for the duty Wrens. The other interrogators were sipping pink gins in the mess. The late courier had taken Lindsay’s report to the Admiralty and by now Checkland would have his copy too. He wanted to ring Mary but she would be at her desk in Room 41. Better to ring later and from the privacy of his home.
Turning to the window, he was struggling into his jacket when the door opened behind him. With strange certainty, he knew the person he least wanted to speak to had just stepped into the room.
‘Lindsay, a word.’ There was an ominously satisfied note in his voice.
‘Here?’ asked Lindsay, turning to face him.
Henderson looked at the Wrens; one was bent low over her desk, no doubt keen to impress with her industry, the other busy at a filing cabinet by the door.
‘I say, would you mind leaving us alone? We’ll answer the telephones.’
Lindsay settled into his chair and concentrated on appearing more relaxed than he felt. The last thing he wanted was another unpleasant encounter. The Wrens swept a few personal things into their bags and left without saying a word.
‘You know why I’m here?’
Lindsay leant forward and shook a cigarette from the packet on his desk.
‘Samuels is going. The Director is sending him to a POW camp in the north, an old racecourse. He can’t do much harm there.’
Poor Samuels. Lindsay had the uncomfortable feeling he had presented Checkland with the excuse to get rid of him. He drew deeply on his cigarette, then said: ‘Pleased?’
Henderson coloured a little: ‘Not at all pleased. Two officers in the Section disciplined, intelligence sources put at risk…’
‘Are you sending me to the races too?’
‘I knew that first week you were shadowing me that we had made a mistake.’ There was something like a triumphant ‘told you so’ in Henderson’s voice.
Lindsay could not help smiling; he had begun to find the man’s unrelenting hostility grimly amusing. It was an unfortunate smile. The expression on Henderson’s face changed in an instant from complacent triumph to fury. He made a noise like a bull, half grunt, half moan, and slipped from the edge of the desk he was leaning against as if preparing to charge. Rough words tumbled from him instead: ‘You’re arrogant. You think your decoration allows you to behave just as you like. You’re wrong. You see only a small part of the picture. I wish my sister…’ He was struggling for something sufficiently insulting; ‘… you’re an arrogant German bastard.’
‘Finished, sir?’ Leaning forward a little, Lindsay ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. He did not feel anger, he felt contempt.
‘And what was the Colonel’s message, sir?’