by Daniel Wyatt
A minute later, the intercom on the Lampert’s desk buzzed. “Yes.”
“Mr. Wesley Hollinger is here to see you, sir,” a woman’s voice explained, politely.
“Send him in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lampert’s eyes fell on the fashionably dressed American as he entered the smoky office. There was definitely something carefree about him when he shuffled in, twirling his wide-brimmed fedora hat in his hand, unconcerned that he was almost twenty minutes late. His medium-green suit was not off the rack. That kind of fit was only obtained by the best tailors. Up close, he was ruggedly handsome with a slender nose and blue eyes — not a pretty boy after all. Average height, he possessed an athletic build with wide shoulders. Interesting though, Lampert thought, that his hands were those of an artist, long and slender. A large diamond ring bulged on a finger. His dark-brown hair was wavy, a neatly defined parting to the left side. Lampert sniffed. Plenty of pomade and brilliantine, too.
“So, you’re Wesley Hollinger,” Lampert said, standing.
“So, you’re Colonel Lampert,” the American replied.
Hollinger flashed a disarming grin and stuck out his manicured hand. Lampert shook his hand and indicated for him to sit down. Hollinger turned and pitched his hat at the coat rack. His aim was perfect. The hat caught the top rung. Then he flopped himself into the leather armchair directly in front of Lampert’s desk.
Gnawing on his pipe, the colonel cocked an eye at his visitor, his smile a tolerant one. If this was a job interview and first impressions were lasting impressions, then Hollinger would have been out on the street in a minute.
“Mr. Hollinger, let’s get down to business.”
“You bet. Sir.”
* * * *
Berlin, Germany
Heinrich Himmler scrutinized the drawings, the numbers, and the detailed items of his latest pet project. It was beginning to take shape. He and the Fuehrer called it the Jewish problem: what to do with all the Jewish dissidents in camps across Germany and Poland.
Himmler was the most feared man in Nazi Germany. He knew it and he relished it. One stroke of his gold pen at his Prinze Albrechtstrasse address, and heads would roll. As leader of the Gestapo and the equally dreaded SS, he kept files on his fellow Germans, including his own agents and the other high-ranking leaders. He knew that Adolf Hitler had once been treated for syphilis, and that Hermann Goering and Josef Goebbels were still running around on their wives. He knew that Hess had homosexual tendencies and that his best friend’s wife was a half-Jew. He knew that Martin Bormann had a criminal background. Information as delicate as all this and more was safely tucked away in a large vault to the right of his desk. It was information that he could use someday, sometime, when he needed it most.
A master filer, Himmler was a stickler for details. He never failed to keep track of his own day in a notebook. What time he woke up, what time he bathed, when he left his house and when he entered his office. Everything was down to the last minute. Himmler also made everything in Germany his business. For weeks he had been hearing rumours of German peace negotiations with the British to end the war, and the names of Hess and the Haushofer family as the mediators kept coming up. He wondered what was in the wind, and why the Fuehrer hadn’t informed him outright of any peace feelers.
Himmler bent over his desk intercom and pressed a button.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” a man said.
“As soon as Captain Geis arrives, send him in to me,” Himmler said, closing the Jewish file.
“Of course, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
* * * *
To Captain Geis, Himmler looked like Satan himself in his black Gestapo uniform at the far end of the eerie office. The spacious room was in darkness except for a bright desk lamp to one side of the SS-Gestapo leader and a fire blazing in the corner.
“Ah, Captain Geis.”
It was Himmler’s smile that bothered Geis the most. A smile of amusing deceit, as if Himmler knew what you were going to say before you could say it. “Good afternoon, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler,” Himmler replied, writing down with his gold pen the hour and minute Geis had ventured into the office. The leader looked up through the small lenses of his silver-framed pince-nez. “Anything new since our last conversation?”
“No, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Himmler’s eyes turned cold and his face muscles grew rigid. He glared at his civilian-dressed Gestapo agent, an expert in communications and explosives. Geis was in his mid-thirties, tall, blonde, blue-eyed; what Himmler would call a perfect specimen of the superior Aryan race. “Well, I have something for you. I want the homes and offices of Hess and Goering wiretapped, immediately. I want to know every word they say of importance within minutes. Do you understand?”
Geis swallowed. “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I’ll get my people on it right away.”
THREE
Bletchley Park, England — March 31
Wesley Hollinger glanced across at his new boss in the passenger seat. Hollinger wasted no time in getting the two of them to their destination northeast of London. He drove his MG convertible sports car as if it was to be his last time behind the wheel and he wanted to make the most of it. Hollinger chose to disregard the rain, the speed limit signs, and the rough-running engine, which seemed to act up in damp weather. He skidded around turns, ignoring all road signs to slow down through villages. Every roadside object, tree, and bush was a blur. Lampert hung on to the window handle with one hand and on his pipe, which had long ago gone out, with the other.
Hollinger didn’t know what to expect this cloudy afternoon patched with mist, as he flew past the sooty brick kilns and antiquated, dirty railway yards of Bletchley in Buckinghamshire. He looked forward to the challenge of the unknown, and the air of secrecy surrounding his new post whetted his appetite. Just how good was it going to get? He hoped he would find out soon, as Lampert had been particularly silent on what lay ahead at Bletchley.
Suddenly the country road came to a T, and Lampert motioned for Hollinger to turn left. They soon arrived at the checkpoint gate of the sprawling estate of Bletchley Park. The eighteenth-century two-story mansion, Hollinger noticed after clearing security, was made of red brick, with ornate Victorian gables and a grand porch area. The acres of park had cultivated lawns surrounding the house. Mushrooming throughout the property were hastily-erected out-buildings made of corrugated steel. The Secret Service had an ideal location, whatever they were doing here. It was all very private, very secure. Hollinger braked the MG to a halt at Lampert’s direction in a driveway behind one of the large out-buildings.
“Here we are,” the colonel said. “Hut Nine.” He turned to Hollinger after tapping the contents of his pipe against the MG’s side mirror. “With driving like that, you should have been a fighter pilot.”
“I had thought about that very thing, sir. Back in the States, that is. But I didn’t get very far. I’m what you call a service reject.”
“Hopefully, your mind can match the speed of that little machine of yours. By the way, I’d check that motor out if I were you. Sounds like the beginning of a bad wire. Now, grab your suitcase and follow me.”
Once past the door, they waited inside a plasterboard porch that led to a hall and several rooms.
“As of now, Mr. Hollinger, you are the senior officer of Committee B, by special appointment of Prime Minister Winston Churchill. Even though you were personally selected by Winnie, bear in mind you still answer to me. This is an important assignment and I trust you can conduct yourself accordingly.”
“I understand, sir,” the American responded with as much seriousness as he could muster.
Hollinger felt the colonel’s coolness towards him for this assignment. In Hollinger’s opinion, the stuffy Lampert obviously needed some convincing. The American would just have to prove himself with Committee B; prove himself all over again, as he had done in the States. He smiled, thinking that if any m
an could be classified as a soldier’s soldier, it was the grey-haired Lampert. He was a retired British Army colonel who had fought in the First World War — the only war, so Lampert had often reminded those around him, including Hollinger on the trip to Bletchley. Lampert was proud of his trench-fighting experience, for which he had been decorated. Even though the First World War was to his mind the best one to date, Lampert had admitted to Hollinger that this one twenty years later was certainly shaping up to be quite a challenge.
Hollinger heard quick footsteps coming down the hall. A tall young man, with a freckled face and thick round glasses that distorted his eyes, appeared and greeted the two visitors. “Good afternoon, colonel,” he said, cheerily. “Oh, hello there. You must be Wesley Hollinger.”
“Hello yourself,” Hollinger replied.
“I’ve heard a bit about you, already. Glad to have you aboard.” The man shook hands vigorously.
Lampert turned to the door. “Be a good fellow and brief him, won’t you, Winslow? I’m due back in London shortly. Would you be so kind as to arrange to have someone drive me to the train station in an hour or so?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Glaring pointedly at Hollinger, Lampert went on. “Someone slow and methodical, perhaps one of the older fellows. In the meantime, is there somewhere I can sample a brandy and have a smoke?”
“In the lounge, sir. Third door on the left,” Winslow said.
“You are on your own now, Mr. Hollinger,” Lampert said mechanically, disappearing down the hall.
The man with the thick glasses turned his attention to Hollinger. His eyes were friendly. “Glad you’re going to be a part of the team. I’m Spencer Winslow, the Hut Nine Chief Duty Officer of Committee B. I must say, it’s quite nice to see another young face. For a while I thought it was like a war veterans club here. You might spice up the place a little. However, it’s work, work, work, twenty-four hours a day here.”
Hollinger liked Winslow’s honesty. He was sure they would get along. He dropped his suitcase on the floor, clumsily catching the toe of his right shoe.
“Did the colonel fill you in on what we’re up to here?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll get into it straightaway. You must be aware of Enigma?”
“Sure, at least the Japanese version of it. Only the back-room stuff.”
“For us, it happened this way. In late 1939 we acquired a copy of the German Enigma cipher machine. After much painful toil we cracked their system, thanks to Robbie Langford, our number one cipher expert. Remember the receiving station you were sent to when you arrived in Britain, Mr. Hollinger?”
“Maggie. Blonde dame, about five-four.” Smiling recklessly, Hollinger indicated with his hands a robust figure. “Yes, I definitely remember that station, Spence.”
“Can’t say I’ve met her, Mr. Hollinger.”
“Too bad, Spence. She’s a knockout. Maybe I can fix you up with her one day.”
“Maybe. Bring your suitcase down the hall and I’ll take you to your office. Anyway,” Winslow continued as they walked, “the Morse Code your people copied down was sent here by courier and deciphered, then sent out to the appropriate intelligence services of the military branches. You were working with our Enigma intercepts, as you well know from your background in America. Our handling of the deciphered traffic is what we call Ultra. If the Japanese ever declare war on America, then your secret services would operate in like manner. Without our own code breaking, we might have lost the war by now. In the near future we hope to make a significant contribution by providing our military commanders with advanced insight into enemy movements and strongholds. Ah, here we are.”
They stopped at an open door. Hollinger looked in and saw what he had expected — bare walls, ordinary furniture, well used. The word “chintzy” came to mind. “Spare no expense,” he mumbled.
“Pardon me?”
“Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Would you like a brief tour of the place before dinner?”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
They stood outside on a stone roadway before Winslow spoke again. He looked around at the peaceful surroundings. The bushes and trees broke up the expanse of lawn, all a subdued green. He pulled a cigarette from a pack in his breast pocket and fired it with a butane lighter.
“Let me try to give you a good example of what I was trying to say before. The German Blitzkrieg through Europe required perfect timing to deploy. Radio signals from unit to unit were absolutely vital. Dive bombers and tanks, followed by troops, were all controlled by what they believe to be unbreakable radio signals. The secret was speed. Britain, France, and the Low Countries could not decipher the enemy’s radio traffic at that time. I hope that for the rest of the war we will anticipate Germany’s every move, perhaps before their own generals will. The Enigma people are in that hut over there,” Winslow said, pointing over a slight rise. “As you know we have housed some Americans here, and will continue to do so, I understand.”
“So, our East Anglia Morse Code was put to good use.”
“Very good use, indeed. Bletchley is deciphering secret German wireless traffic every day.”
“So, why am I here and what is this Committee B?”
“We are a special as well as the newest section of Bletchley. The Germans are using another machine, a more complex one called Enigma II that we have not been able to decipher. Yet. Lucky for us they are in short supply and are quite possibly used only for diplomatic purposes for the time being, not in the battlefield. However, that scenario could change quickly. We have one here in Hut Nine, stolen from the German forces in Norway. This took some doing.”
“I bet.”
“As was the case with the first Enigma, our foreign agent had to make the Germans think that their cipher machine was destroyed, or else they would have gotten rid of all their machines and switched to another system. We had to blow up a Gestapo office building in Oslo where this particular Enigma II was stored. We left behind parts of another cipher machine in its stead to make the Germans think the machine blew up with it.”
“Clever. I’d like to see this Enigma II right now, if I may?”
“Don’t you want that tour first?”
“Nah, there’s plenty of time for that.”
“Right you are. I’ll see to it.”
Minutes later, they found themselves in Hollinger’s office. A new piece of furniture was added, a metal stand in the middle of the room. On it was what appeared to be a large, clumsy typewriter, much larger than a regular Underwood. Hollinger threw his hat on top of the filing cabinet, his eyes never leaving the machine. Although he had helped in breaking the Japanese version of Enigma, he had not actually seen one of the objects up close. He had only done the back-room cryptography. The keyboard, he realized, resembled a universal typewriter, but the numbers, punctuation marks, and other extras were missing. Behind the keyboard was a plate with another alphabet repeated in the same order, and above that a set of six wheels attached to what seemed a long roller.
“I’ll go get Langford.”
“Do that, Spence. I’d like to meet him.”
Winslow opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and left instead, returning in a few seconds. Hollinger, his back to the door, continued to study the machine, oblivious to a striking redhead in a dark-blue skirt and white blouse entering the office with Winslow.
“Wesley Hollinger,” Winslow declared after a few moments. “I would like you to meet Langford, our head cryptographer.”
Hollinger spun around.
“Roberta Langford,” Winslow said distinctly.
“How do you do, Mr. Hollinger? Welcome to Bletchley,” she said confidently, extending her hand. She blinked, opening deep-brown eyes, smiling at the same time.
Wesley extended his hand slowly, as if partially paralyzed above the waist. The last thing he expected was a woman. So young and so pretty. The two exchanged glances, and he examined her with a tou
ch of curiosity. Her clothes and hair set her off from most of the badly dressed English women he had encountered in their mousy business attire. She was in her mid-twenties with a slender face and long legs. Her brilliant long red hair, tied in the back, had sausage curls on the sides, which waved and bobbed, creating an aura-like frame about her pretty face. Except for her speech, she could have been easily mistaken for a high-class New Yorker.
“Wesley Hollinger is our new senior officer sent by the London Secret Service,” Winslow informed the cheery woman. “He’s a cipher analyst coming to us from the Office of Naval Intelligence in America. And this is Enigma II, Mr. Hollinger. By the way Robbie, keep in mind that Mr. Hollinger has some prior knowledge of cryptography.”
Winslow offered Langford a cigarette, which she accepted with a nod. He lit hers, then his own.
“Thanks, Spencer.” Langford cleared her throat. Blowing out a thick cloud of smoke after a deep, breathy puff, she folded her arms and began. “The original version of the Enigma machine was invented and patented by the Dutch in 1919,” she said in a Yorkshire accent. “Enigma is—”
“Just a minute, here,” Hollinger interrupted. Winslow and Langford shot a glance at each other. “There is a new rule I’d like to establish right off the top. There will be no smoking in my office.” He approached the two smokers with the desk ashtray. Winslow butted his smoke out, but Langford wavered. It was the ammunition Hollinger needed. He snatched the cigarette from her mouth and butted it out himself.
Langford pressed her lips tightly together, her cheerful disposition gone. Her eyes flickered to Winslow then back to the American. “I could have done that myself, thank you.”
“Now, let’s hear what you have to say,” Hollinger said, sitting on the edge of the desk nearest her, looking down at the machine.
Langford glanced over at Spencer, who shrugged and moved closer. Her cheeks were an intense red. She slowly removed her glasses. “Enigma is the Greek word for puzzle. And it has been that, a puzzle. This machine was a Polish invention, later developed to a higher degree by the Germans. They further altered it to a point where it became more complicated than the original. Basically, Enigma is a transposition machine, which means that every letter typed is turned into another letter on paper.” She stopped to see that Hollinger was nodding, as if he understood. “It has a regular keyboard, backed up by another set of letters in the same order, just as you see before you.”