by Seb Spence
“There’s a meeting room next door. We usually go in there for lunch, if it’s empty. Want to join us? It’ll be a bit quieter than in here.”
Leading Wren Johnson had gone off to the canteen with some of the other Wrens, so she was not there to object. The new girl accepted the invitation with a smile. “OK, then, but just for a little while. I can’t be away from the machines for long.”
They went round into the meeting room and sat down at the large square table that stood in the middle, Evans and Phillips sitting at a corner with the chessboard between them. They started to play, while eating their sandwiches.
“So, Wren Gray–” Phillips began, but she interrupted.
“You can call me Marion if you like, assuming the protocol here permits it.”
“Protocol?” Evans laughed. “There’s no protocol here. It’s all very informal, or hadn’t you noticed? Lots of men in patched, tweed jackets and long hair – it’s like an Oxbridge Senior Common Room.”
“So, Marion, as I was about to say,” Phillips continued, without taking his eyes off the board, “where are you staying?”
“I’m in a temporary billet at Stony Stratford.”
“That’s very handy, practically on the doorstep.”
“Someone said I’ll probably be sent to Woburn Abbey – is that right?”
“Yes, it’s quite likely. A lot of the Wrens who work here are billeted at the Abbey”.
“Where do you come from originally?” Evans enquired.
“I was born in London.”
“Not within the sound of Bow bells, judging by your accent.”
“ Kensington, actually.”
“You’re not one of those debs are you? BP is full of them – they all have their own cars and get weekly hampers delivered from Fortnum and Mason.”
“No, nothing so grand. My father was a partner in a firm of tobacco importers.”
“A very worthwhile trade, if I may say so.”
“Do you mind if I smoke,” Phillips interjected, thinking she might be fond of tobacco reek.
“No, go ahead,” she replied. He took a pipe out of a jacket pocket and lit up.
The two men continued to play their chess game for a while, occasionally addressing a question or comment to her. After about ten minutes, a rather irritable-looking man with spectacles popped his head round the door: “Evans, you’re needed – Hauptmann Becker’s just come through.”
Evans looked at his watch. “Can’t someone else deal with him?”
“They’re all busy. You’re the only one available – come on.”
“Damn and blast!” Evans muttered as he got up. “You’ll have to finish the game for me, Marion. I warn you, though, Phillips is a tough man to beat – he was a boy chess champion, or so he keeps telling us.”
Evans left and Wren Gray moved round the table to sit opposite Phillips. “Who is Hauptmann Becker? Does he work here?”
Phillips moved a piece. “Knight to queen’s bishop four, I think,” he said to himself and then addressed her question: “Hauptmann Becker is one of our cribs.”
“What’s a crib, or shouldn’t I ask?” she said studying the board.
Phillips looked across at her before replying. She had a very attractive mouth: the pale pink lips were delicate without being thin, and they were slightly parted at that moment, revealing a glimpse of very white teeth. “You probably shouldn’t ask, but I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later if you’re working in the huts. If the code-breakers can guess some of the plain text in a message we can use it to work out the Enigma settings. The guessed text is the ‘crib’”.
Phillips noted her long slim fingers as she moved her piece across the board. It was a clever move: she was obviously not a novice at the game. He responded with his own move and continued: “To give you an example of a crib, the Luftwaffe regularly transmit weather reports to their airfields, so a short message from a particular Luftwaffe transmitter at six in the morning everyday is quite likely to be a weather report. We know from our own forecasts what the weather will be so we can guess some of the phrases in the Luftwaffe weather report: ‘cloudy with bright intervals’ or ‘strong winds and heavy showers’, that sort of thing. Knowing what’s in part of the message gives us a toehold for working out the Enigma settings.”
She studied the board intently and opted to move a rook. “So how does Hauptmann Becker fit in?”
“Now that was foolish, Marion, you’ve thrown away you’re queen,” he said, taking the piece. “Hauptmann Becker is with the Afrika Korps. He and his men are in a wadi somewhere in Libya at the moment. It seems to be a very quiet sector of the front because each day, at precisely one o’clock he radios his headquarters with the message ‘Keine besonderen Ereignisse’ – nothing to report. He’s making our job so much easier, God bless him!”
“I see,” she said moving one of her knights.
“Check mate, I’m afraid,” Phillips announced, moving his piece. “Care for another game?”
“Some other time perhaps; I have to get back to the teleprinters now.” She stood up and smiled at him: “That was a rewarding game – one can learn a lot form a good player.”
#
The next incident to occur on this eventful day was rather less welcome to Morgan than the arrival of the new teleprinter operator had been. At 2pm, Leading Wren Johnson knocked at his office door, entered and announced: “There’s a Brigadier Vaughn here from Military Intelligence. He says he needs to see you urgently on a security issue.”
Morgan was in the middle of preparing a crucial report on staffing requirements for Hut 6B operations and the pressing need to recruit more personnel, so it was not a convenient time to receive a visitor. However, as the Brigadier’s matter sounded serious, he felt he could not refuse to see the man. He wondered if the visit might concern Carrington. “Very well, show him in.”
A stocky man wearing army uniform and carrying a briefcase entered. His tunic had red collar tabs and there was a red band around his cap. Morgan recognised him as someone he had seen a few times about the BP site and thought that, with his round-rimmed spectacles and plump face, the man had a rather avuncular look.
“Vaughan, MI5,” he said, introducing himself and shaking hands. “I take it you’re the head of Hut 6B?”
“Yes, Harry Morgan.”
Without being invited to, the brigadier pulled up a chair and sat down in front of Morgan’s desk. He narrowed his eyes and regarded Morgan: “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”
“Not formally, but I think you’ve probably seen me around the Park.”
“Yes, no doubt – I’ve been here on a few occasions recently. Anyway, to get to the point: bad news I’m afraid. I regret to inform you that we believe there has been a breach of security in this hut. Two days ago we took into custody a man who we have had under surveillance for some time on suspicion of working for the Germans.” The Brigadier opened up his briefcase and produced a large manila envelope. “On searching his apartment we found this – it contains photostat copies of blueprints. Under interrogation, he eventually admitted that he had bought these from someone who worked in Hut 6B at Bletchley Park and who had recently copied them from documents in a safe here.”
Surely it could not be Carrington, Morgan thought – the man was undisciplined, to be sure, but he would not have gauged him to be a traitor. “Can I see the photostats?”
“I’m afraid not. If it turns out they’re not from this hut then you’re not authorised to see them. Moreover, you understand that in this matter we can’t just take your word for things. We don’t know who passed on this information, it might even have been you.”
Morgan was annoyed by this remark, but realised that the Brigadier could not rule out anyone at this stage. “What do you propose to do, then?”
“I need to see the contents of the safe.”
“That’s impossible. I can’t let you do that.”
“I just need to compare the contents of the enve
lope with what’s in the safe now, so that I can establish that the documents originated from Hut 6B. It won’t take long and I won’t be taking any of the material away.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist.”
“It would require authorisation at the highest level.”
Vaughan shrugged. “Ring whoever’s in charge, then. Who is it these days – Denniston?”
“Commander Denniston is on sick leave at the moment; I would have to clear it with Commander Travis.”
“Jumbo Travis, eh? I’m sure he’ll approve. Call him now.” Vaughan seemed confident of a positive response; smiling, he took off his spectacles and sat cleaning the lenses with a handkerchief.
Morgan hesitated but then picked up the phone on his desk and rang Travis’s office. The phone was answered by his assistant, who asked Morgan to hold. A few seconds later, a familiar voice came on the line: “Travis here.”
“I have a Brigadier Vaughan with me from Military Intelligence. He says there may have been a security leak in 6B and insists on seeing the contents of our safe; he wants to compare some blueprints taken off an agent with what’s inside.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Apparently everyone in 6B is a suspect at the moment. It seems I can’t be trusted.”
“How sensitive is the material in the safe?”
“A lot of it is fairly routine stuff, but there are some research documents, though these relate to work at a very early stage.”
“It sounds to me as if we would not be taking a big risk if we allowed him to have a brief look at the contents. I know Vaughan. I’ve sat on several committees with him. He’s a reliable fellow.” There was a pause. “Very well, Morgan, you have my authorisation to allow him to see the contents but with the following provisos: he is to be thoroughly searched beforehand for photographic equipment and weapons; he is not to be left alone with the contents of the safe under any circumstances – call in a couple of MP’s to help you keep an eye on proceedings; and he is not to be allowed to take any of the contents away with him. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Morgan put down the receiver. “Travis has given his permission, but I’m afraid we’re going to have to search you first.”
“That’s fine by me,” Vaughan said, smiling. “I’ll strip down to my underwear if it will make you any happier, but I must inspect the contents of that safe.”
Morgan picked up the receiver again and phoned the guardroom to request that they send two MP’s immediately to his office. They arrived in a matter of minutes and after being briefed by Morgan, carried out a thorough search of Vaughan’s person and the briefcase he had brought.
Satisfied that the Brigadier was not carrying anything suspect, Morgan opened the safe and took out the contents, placing them in a pile on the large table that sat in the centre of his office. There were three folders, a box file and a large white envelope. Watched closely by Morgan and the two MP’s, Vaughan placed the five items in a row on the table in front of him, and at the end of the row he set down the envelope he had brought, taking the photostats from inside and placing them on top. He started his examination by opening the box file.
“That contains material relating to decryption. You won’t find any blueprints in it,” Morgan informed him. Vaughan quickly rifled through the stack of documents it contained without taking them out and then closed it. Next, he took the contents out of the first folder and placed them on top, repeating this operation for the other two folders and also the white envelope. Having arranged everything to his satisfaction, he began to examine the first of the photostatted blueprints he had brought but then looked up. “Do you have a magnifying glass? Some of the details in these photostats are not very distinct.”
Morgan picked up his phone again. “Shirley, could you drop what you’re doing and see if you can find a magnifying glass. Brigadier Vaughan needs it to inspect some documents. Bring it to me straightaway, please.” While he was waiting for it to be fetched, Vaughan started to leaf through the contents of one of the folders.
Less than a minute after Morgan made the request, Leading Wren Johnson, as efficient as ever, knocked and entered, carrying a magnifying glass. She left the office door open as she brought the magnifier over to the brigadier, and Morgan noticed that in the anteroom outside, Wren Gray was standing at one of the teleprinters, removing a sheet from it. She glanced into the office momentarily but then turned and continued with her work. Shirley Johnson left, closing the door behind her.
Vaughan continued his meticulous examination of the paperwork, extracting every sheet that had a figure or diagram and comparing it with his photostats. Suddenly, there was a loud crashing sound in the anteroom outside and Morgan felt the floor of the office vibrate.
“Christ, what was that? Go and see what’s happened out there,” he told the MP standing nearest to the door.
The MP went to the door and looked out. “Are you alright?” Morgan heard him ask, but could not make out the reply.
“A filing cabinet has fallen over, sir. Nothing serious,” the MP reported.
“There’s too much paper in this place – it’s becoming a danger,” Vaughan quipped and then went on with his examination. “Well, it looks as if you’re off the hook,” he announced eventually. “The photostats don’t match anything in the safe. It seems our source is mistaken, or has been deliberately leading us astray.”
As a precaution, Vaughan’s briefcase was searched again before he left and Morgan insisted that the photostats were spread out face down on the table so that he could check that none of the documents from the safe was among them. Everything appeared to be in order.
“You run a tight ship, Morgan. I’m pleased to see it. Sorry I’ve had to trouble you with this, but – as I’m sure you understand – these leads have to be followed up.” With that, Vaughan left, accompanied by the two MP’s.
Morgan went out to the anteroom. “What happened to the filing cabinet?” he asked the new Wren.
She smiled and looked slightly embarrassed: “I had the top two drawers pulled out at the same time. The whole thing overbalanced; it’s so full of documents. Sorry about the commotion.”
“A beginner’s mistake,” he thought to himself. “Where do they get these girls from?”
#
Shortly after 4pm, Morgan opened the safe in his office for the second time that day and withdrew the large white envelope that he had taken out earlier for Vaughan. He sat down at his desk and laid the envelope on the surface in front of him. He then unlocked one of the desk drawers and took out a file marked ‘Adamson’. Placing it alongside the envelope, he opened it up. It contained the personnel record of a Mr John Adamson, Junior Clerk, Stationery Supplies Section, Room 47, Foreign Office. Morgan had never met the man but had read his file. Adamson did not work in the huts: instead, he was based in Bletchley Park mansion, the red-brick, Victorian edifice that was the original building on the site. Morgan flicked through the file again to remind himself of the man’s details and then examined the photograph that was pinned to the document: it was a head-and-shoulders shot of a thin-faced, fair-haired young man with spectacles. Also in the file was a small sheet of paper on which the words of a poem had been written by hand. The sheet had been cut down the middle in a zig-zag manner, like a chirograph, and only the words in the first part of each line were visible:
On either side
Long shelves
That burn
And cigarettes
And pipes
Morgan knew the poem though, for he had made it up himself. He went over it in his head.
At precisely quarter past four, Shirley Johnson knocked and entered: “Your 4.15 appointment is here – Mr Adamson. Shall I show him in?”
Morgan nodded and she ushered in a slight, fair-haired man in his early twenties and then left, closing the door behind her. The man came forward and stood silently in front of Morgan’s desk.
Despite his rather undernourished and delicate appearance, he seemed eager, Morgan thought; he glanced down at the photograph in the file to make sure it was the same person. “I believe you have something for me,” he said eventually, looking up.
The man handed him a piece of paper with writing on it, which Morgan placed against the piece in the file. The two pieces married up perfectly and revealed the poem. Morgan turned them face down on the desk.
“Please recite it for me, and remember: it must be word perfect.”
The man launched off without hesitation:
On either side the aisle there lie
Long shelves of whiskey and of rye
That burn the throat and red the eye
And cigarettes that you may buy
And pipes of briarroot.
“Excellent.” Having verified the man’s credentials, Morgan handed him the white envelope. “You know what to do with this?”
“Yes, Mr Cheyne has briefed me: I rendezvous with my contact this evening and pass the envelope on to him.”
“That’s all then. Good luck.” Morgan shook hands with him and showed him out into the anteroom. As he turned to go back into his office, he noticed that one of the hut’s usual complement of Wrens was manning the teleprinters.
“Where’s Wren Gray?” he asked her.
“She’s gone – her shift finished at 4 o’clock.”
“Oh yes, of course.” Feeling slightly disappointed he went back to his desk.
#
Just after 6pm, Cheyne entered the busy refreshment room at Bletchley station and took up position on a stool at the counter. He ordered a gin and tonic and sat filling in the Times crossword. It had been an eventful day for him too, as there had been a moment of panic earlier on when it looked as if some of his quarry had flown the coop. The Kingsmead Players were staying at three different boarding houses in Northampton, all within walking distance of the Lyceum Theatre. He had arranged for each house to be put under surveillance and after several days of observation his team had established the daily routine of Cobalt’s cell. In particular, Vivian Adair herself, along with John Elliott and Bob Mitchell (or Elliot de Johns and Mitch Robertson as they were now calling themselves) were in the habit of leaving their lodgings about 1pm and walking together to the theatre, just 15 minutes away, to get ready for their performance at 2.30pm. However, that afternoon they had not appeared at the usual time. Alarmed by this, Cheyne had immediately sent Maxwell to the theatre to find out what was going on. It seemed, though, that his fears had been groundless, for Maxwell had reported back that there was a notice up on the theatre door saying: ‘Today’s performance cancelled due to illness’. Later on in the afternoon, Mitchell had emerged from the house and gone down to the corner shop for a paper, and other members of the cell had been seen out and about. Everything appeared to be in order after all.