The Interrogator

by Andrew Williams

  Why did Henderson dislike him so much? Lindsay wondered, was it to do with his family? They were cast from different moulds but the suspicion he had sensed at their very first meeting had sharpened in recent weeks to something close to hostility. Perhaps it was because of Mary.

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said coolly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Ask the Security Service to interrogate Mohr.’

  Henderson sighed impatiently, ‘Well, I would, Lindsay, but you see it’s the Tracking Room. Winn wants you to do it.’

  ‘Winn?’

  ‘Yes, Winn.’

  ‘The Colonel didn’t say.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. You weren’t his choice but who can say no to the Tracking Room? Winn is hoping you can break him.’ Henderson paused and smiled: ‘But I can see that’s cheered you up.’

  Yes, it made a difference, Lindsay would not deny it. He must have made some sort of impression on Winn. Perhaps the Citadel was beginning to take Section 11 a little more seriously.

  ‘Let me tell you something else,’ said Henderson, ‘although if you’d read the interrogation reports carefully I wouldn’t have to.’

  There was an unpleasantly smug note in his voice. ‘It’s in the notes. Mohr attacked a homebound convoy last September – HX.70.’

  HX.70. Lindsay turned stiffly away to gaze across the lawn to the hillside. The entire obelisk was in shadow now. He felt cold, frozen, as if he had plunged into the Atlantic once more.

  ‘Bit of bad luck,’ said Henderson with a sly smile, ‘That was the convoy the Culloden was escorting, wasn’t it?’

  Seven, eight, nine minutes passed and the sky deepened to a still blue. Lindsay did not acknowledge Henderson’s complacent ‘goodbye’. At sea, he had hated this hour, the convoy’s ships black against the last of the light like targets at a fairground shy. Perhaps Mohr had enjoyed just that view of HX.70 through the UZO firing binoculars on the bridge of his boat. He noticed that the fingers holding his cigarette were shaking a little and he threw it down in disgust, grinding it into the brick with his foot.

  The guards at the security desk in the entrance hall had logged Lieutenant Graham out but Brown was still in the house. No one in the mess had seen him but one of the duty Wrens in the office thought he might be with the RAF. Lindsay found him at the door of the old library, coat across his arm. He nodded coolly and was on the point of slipping past.

  ‘May I have a word, Brown?’

  He frowned and glanced deliberately at his watch: ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

  ‘No. The 112 prisoner, Heine, I need something from him.’

  Lieutenant Brown rolled his eyes upwards: ‘Not now.’

  Lindsay grabbed his arm and squeezed it very firmly: ‘Yes, now.’

  It was unfortunate that Brown and Graham were the designated interrogators. Lindsay did not care for either of them – the feeling was entirely mutual. Brown was a fussy little man with thin, wispy red hair and thick round glasses. Before the war, he had worked on The Times and someone in the Division had considered this a sufficient reference to recommend him to the Section. But Lindsay was amazed that a journalist could be so credulous – lazy too. He treated the Section like a bank with business conducted across a table in office hours only.

  Brown shook his arm free: ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait until the morning?’

  ‘Heine has let something slip about Mohr. He spent time at U-boat Headquarters. I need to know what he knows.’

  Brown snorted irritably and shook his head: ‘It could take days to break Heine down.’

  ‘If you’re not prepared to do it, I will.’

  Brown blinked at Lindsay uncertainly: ‘The Colonel wants us to speak to Heine?’

  ‘Yes, at once,’ Lindsay lied.

  The microphone amplifier room was hot and cramped with barely space for a chair between the equipment stacked high along its walls. At one end, a jack field connected the cells and interrogation rooms to the ‘mapping’ positions further down the corridor. Lindsay slipped into a chair behind the duty operator who handed him a set of headphones, then leant forward to push a plug home on his board. There was a rustle of paper and the sound of distant but heavy footsteps. Then Lindsay heard a door open and the prisoner was ushered into the room. Brown offered him a chair.

  ‘Don’t try to make friends,’ Lindsay muttered.

  Heine was the sort of German who would respond best to commands.

  Brown cleared his throat: ‘Just a few small things, Herr Leutnant. Some details to clear up . . .’

  Yes, Heine had been a member of the Marine-Hitler-Jugend, the Wandervögel hiking club too. No, he would not describe the 112’s operational orders or give details of his commander’s service history. After forty minutes, he was comfortable, still calm. Brown was no breaker. The interrogation was going nowhere.

  Lindsay slipped off his headphones and got stiffly to his feet. Sometimes an interrogator needed the patience of Job but not with a prisoner like Heine.

  ‘Truth in the shortest possible time.’

  The duty operator turned to look at him inquiringly.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Lindsay as he stepped out into the corridor. Brown was going to hate him.

  The interrogation rooms were on the same floor in the west wing of the house. A couple of bored-looking guards were posted at the door of Number Three. Lindsay stood between them for a few seconds, breathing deeply, then he reached for the handle and walked inside. A draught of cold air swept into the room with him, stirring the cigarette smoke above the table.

  Brown glanced over his shoulder: ‘What is it?’

  Lindsay said nothing but pulled the door to with a heavy clunk and leant against it, arms folded. Brown was half out of his seat, a dark frown on his face: ‘What on earth . . .’

  ‘We’re going to blow hot, blow cold,’ said Lindsay calmly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just sit down.’

  He looked across at Heine and said in German: ‘Herr Leutnant, you are going to tell me everything you know about your commander – Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr.’

  Heine shook his head slowly.

  ‘Oh yes you are,’ said Lindsay coldly. ‘I know he was on the staff at U-boat Headquarters.’

  Heine gave another nervous shake of the head.

  ‘Don’t deny it. I know. And I’m sure Kapitän Mohr would like to know how I know.’

  Silence. Heine knew he was being threatened, but with what? Then his shoulders dropped and he crumpled over the table, his face in his hands.

  ‘Not me.’ His voice was shaking.

  Unfolding his arms, Lindsay walked to the edge of the table and leant across it until he was only a foot from him:

  ‘Look at me, Herr Leutnant. Look at me. It was you. You know it was.’

  ‘I . . . please . . .’ He was very frightened.

  ‘Tell me and he will never know. But you must tell me, tell me now.’

  Heine was hugging himself, rocking to and fro on his chair, close to tears.

  ‘Herr Leutnant, tell me at once.’

  It was an order.

  ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘Was Kapitän Mohr on Admiral Dönitz’s staff?’

  Heine said nothing but gave the slightest of nods.

  Is that yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The break. It had been easy. Heine would answer their questions. Lindsay took a deep breath then glanced reluctantly across at Brown. His face was very pale, his jaws clenched tight with fury. Without losing eye contact, he pushed a scrap of paper across the table. Two words were written on it in pencil: ‘You bastard.’

  16

  B

  rusque orders and the clump of heavy boots forced Jürgen 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 Kapitän 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 Dönitz 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 Dönitz 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 Führer 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 Dönitz with you?’

  Mohr directed a thick stream of smoke away from the table: ‘At the Führer’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 Château Kernével 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 Kernével?’

  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, Kapitän 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: