The Interrogator

by Andrew Williams

  ‘Perhaps I should . . .’

  ‘What?’ And then she turned to look at him, an impish smile on her face.

  He pushed back his chair, walked over to the sink and grabbed both her wrists.

  ‘You witch,’ he said, and kissed her, pushing her body hard against the sink.

  She lifted her arms to his neck and she was laughing so much they had to stop. Lindsay began to laugh too.

  ‘You tease.’

  ‘I’m not. I want to go to bed.’ She was looking at him intently with her twinkling green eyes, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘And I want you to take me there.’

  Lindsay leant forward and whispered: ‘Like this?’ His hands dropped to her hips and he began to lift her woollen skirt and slip. Her lips opened a little and he could hear her short shaky breaths, feel her arms tighten about his neck. And his hands slipped over the top of her stockings on to the soft warm skin of her thighs, and bending a little he lifted her from the ground.

  ‘Still tired?’ he whispered softly in her ear.

  In reply she kissed his neck and whispered: ‘Come on, carry me.’

  Later he watched her sleeping beside him, curled into a ball, her hair loose about her shoulders and the pillow. And he wondered at their lovemaking, a little miracle of forgetfulness in which for such a short time there was only comfort, excitement, joy. But it was over and even there in the stillness of Mary’s room, with her warm body pressed against his, restless thoughts forced their way to the front of his mind. Tomorrow he would interrogate Mohr again. He would be taking a risk, like a sapper pushing into dangerous ground.

  He rolled from Mary on to his back and she whimpered a little, unconsciously pushing herself towards his warmth. Turning back to her, he swept a loose curl from her face then bent to kiss her cheek. Without opening her eyes she reached up to touch him and he caught her hand and kissed it.

  ‘Can’t you sleep?’ she asked dreamily.

  ‘No. Sorry.’

  ‘Why are you always sorry?’

  ‘Mother’s Calvinism.’

  She smiled, her eyes still closed: ‘But you’re of the elect?’

  ‘No. A helpless reprobate.’

  ‘I can help you.’

  ‘You already have.’

  She opened her eyes a little. ‘Kiss me,’ and he did, tenderly.

  ‘Why can’t you sleep? Are you thinking of the ship again?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘It’s tomorrow. Tomorrow I will interrogate the commander of the U-112.’

  Mary groaned.

  ‘I know. I know. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s important.’

  And he told her about the wireless operators, that it was no coincidence they spoke English, that they had both joined the 112 for its war patrol south, and that Mohr had been ‘one of the six’ senior Staff officers at U-boat Headquarters.

  ‘I can’t be absolutely sure but I think it’s something to do with our codes . . .’

  ‘Again,’ said Mary sleepily. ‘Haven’t they ordered you not to get involved?’

  He ignored the question: ‘It’s not proof they’re reading our signals but it’s evidence. Mohr was on the Staff. A word from him and I’d have the proof . . .’

  ‘And if you don’t get some sort of confirmation from Mohr that they’re reading our signals?’

  Lindsay pulled a face. They were lying side by side now and Mary was gazing at him intently, suddenly wakeful and serious. After a long silence she pushed herself up and the sheet slipped from her. He reached up to touch her breast: ‘You’re so very beautiful.’

  ‘Douglas, you must leave this alone. You’re going to get into terrible trouble.’

  ‘You sound like your brother,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Perhaps he’s right about this,’ she said crossly.

  Lindsay rolled away from her: ‘He’s an idiot.’

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘That is his only redeeming feature.’

  ‘And is Rodger Winn an idiot too?’

  Lindsay sighed loudly.

  ‘He wanted you to interrogate Mohr, didn’t he,’ she said. ‘But not codes, he doesn’t want you to question him about our codes.’

  Lindsay turned his head sharply to look at Mary: ‘Did he tell you that?’

  ‘Not in so many words, I just know and so do you. It’s out of bounds. Leave it, Douglas. Promise me you will.’

  ‘Of course I won’t. I really can’t understand this. Why is it so impossible?’ he asked. ‘My God. Doesn’t anyone trust Section 11 or is it just me?’

  Mary shook her head and said quietly. ‘Please, please just leave it.’

  Lindsay looked at her, slender and pretty, her dark hair unruly about her face, and he wanted to feel her close again. Reaching up, he pulled her down so that her head was resting on his chest and they lay there for a while without speaking. It was Mary who broke the silence:

  ‘We should go away together.’

  ‘Paris?’

  ‘Very funny. Oxfordshire.’

  ‘Ah. When the war’s over I’ll take you to Berlin.’

  ‘If they win, someone might beat you to it.’

  Lindsay laughed and reached beneath the sheet to gently caress her behind.

  ‘Do you think Germans would be interested in this?’

  ‘You are,’ she said.

  Mary slept there on his chest, a short restless sleep, until at a little before six, he slipped away. He stepped into Lord North Street with her sweet scent on his skin, her words troubling his thoughts.

  22

  N

  one of the other interrogators were in the Trent Park office but the section’s Wrens were busy at their typewriters under their diligent, vigilant chief. Lindsay’s desk was beneath a window on the far side of the room so it was easy for Annie Sherlock to intercept him:

  ‘A busy night, sir, working late?’

  It was clear from her tone that she suspected him of something sinful. Sometimes Lindsay quite liked Annie. She was a formidable figure, a muscular five foot nine with calves shaped on the tennis court – her uniform always looked a size too small for her – dark hair and eyes, strong brown features. She could be funny, flirtatious, although Lindsay found her display a little intimidating, and she cared not a fig for rank.

  ‘You were in great demand this morning, sir, everyone was asking for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Commander Henderson seemed to have some idea where you might be;’ this with a knowing smile.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He was anxious to talk to you. He said, “Ask Lieutenant Lindsay to find me before he does anything else”.’

  There was something in Chief Wren Sherlock’s imperious manner that suggested Lindsay was in some sort of trouble.

  ‘And Lieutenant Samuels wanted you too. He’s left a note on your desk.’

  ‘Thank you, Annie. Anything else?’

  ‘Oh just more business. The survivors from the Bismarck are expected in the next couple of days.’

  ‘Ah. Good,’ he said distractedly. His mind was swirling with unpleasant thoughts. Checkland wanted to speak to him about Mohr, he was sure of it. Had Samuels said something? A note in Samuels’ big round hand was propped on his typewriter, marked rather too conspicuously, URGENT. Lindsay stood and read it by the window:

  Checkland on warpath. Collared me and asked for reports on the wireless operators. Asked about you. Advise softly, softly with Mohr.

  Mohr was lying on his camp bed staring at the low white ceiling when Lindsay stepped into the room. He made no effort to get up. Bright sunshine was pouring through the barred window, casting a long prison shadow on the bare floorboards. Some clothes and a couple of army blankets were neatly folded on a table, Mohr’s boots were beneath it and there was a chair and a toilet bucket.

  ‘Good morning, Kapitän Mohr,’ Lindsay said briskly in German as if urging him to rise.

  ‘What do you want, Lieutenant?’

  ‘I wou
ld like to take you for a walk.’

  ‘A walk?’ Mohr raised himself on to an elbow and glanced at the window. ‘I would tell you almost anything for the privilege,’ he said and he looked as if he meant it.

  Lindsay looked down pointedly at his boots. ‘Well, let’s go.’

  He led Mohr past the guardroom and down the back stairs, pausing at the bottom to consider a discreet route. The hall was always busy and the security desk kept a register of the prisoners taken from the house.

  ‘Are you lost? The entrance is this way.’

  Lindsay turned to look at Mohr. He was pointing towards the long gallery, a dry smile on his face.

  ‘No, there’s another way out.’

  The servants’ corridor was to the right of the old dining room and at the end of it a door opened on to a covered walk that led round the west wing of the house.

  Beyond the orangery and the icehouse, into the whispering beech-wood, and Lindsay began to breathe a little easier. Mohr caught up with him and the two men walked side by side along a rutted track – still thick with decaying autumn leaves – that climbed gently from the house. Mohr gazed up at the flickering canopy, smiling with pleasure. Broken shafts of sunlight danced across his face, forcing him to close his eyes.

  ‘Did you enjoy your job?’ Lindsay asked him in German.

  ‘Enjoy?’

  ‘Submarine commander.’

  ‘At first.’

  ‘What did you enjoy?’

  ‘The chase. Danger. Success.’

  ‘And by the end?’

  ‘It was my duty.’

  They walked a little further in silence, then Lindsay said:

  ‘You attacked a convoy last September, the fifteenth and sixteenth, do you remember?’

  ‘I sank two ships on the first night – a small freighter and a tanker.’

  ‘The tanker was the Bordeaux. Only a dozen men were rescued and most of them were badly burned.’

  Mohr walked on in silence. There was nothing in his face to suggest that he felt any concern or remorse.

  ‘I was with the convoy, one of the escorts,’ said Lindsay with a nonchalance he did not feel.

  Mohr glanced across and gave him a wan smile.

  ‘Did you celebrate?’ Lindsay asked.

  ‘Perhaps, in a small way, I don’t remember.’

  The hill was a little steeper, the wood thinner. They were almost at the top when with a small cry of excitement Mohr stepped away from the path.

  ‘These are good.’

  He bent down beside the rotting, splintered stump of a tree and began to pull with both hands at the brown flat fungi clinging to its bark.

  ‘What do you call this in English?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Don’t poison yourself.’

  ‘You have some more questions for me then?’ Mohr half turned to look at Lindsay, his hands full of the fungi: ‘You’re wasting your time.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’

  Mohr shrugged and turned back to the tree stump. ‘Do you have a bag?’ he asked.

  ‘Why did you go back to sea, Herr Kapitän? You’d done enough. It wasn’t a challenge any more, you were on the Staff, in a position of trust, responsibility. Safe . . .’

  ‘It was my duty. My crew.’

  Lindsay stepped from the track and walked to where Mohr was squatting by the rotten stump. Mohr looked up at him, then slowly got to his feet:

  ‘Here, a present. You’ll like it. Trust me,’ and he leant forward a little, offering Lindsay the fungi.

  ‘An important Staff officer returns to his boat . . .’

  ‘Important?’

  ‘. . . in the meantime the 112 has acquired two new wireless operators. Almost no one else has been replaced, only the wireless operators. And these two men speak English. Why?’

  Mohr was standing only a few feet from Lindsay, the fungi still in his arms, his face set, expressionless, unblinking.

  ‘I’ll tell you then, shall I?’ said Lindsay. He sounded much more assured than he felt.

  ‘It was a special mission and it was important to have a senior commander, an experienced commander. Was it you or Dönitz who thought of the idea?’

  Mohr was still looking at him, quite impassive, silent. Lindsay continued:

  ‘It’s only a detail. The plan was devised by the Staff. It was considered promising enough to justify sending one of Dönitz’s most trusted officers back to sea, with all the risks that entailed – you might be taken prisoner . . .’

  Mohr gave a small tight-lipped smile.

  ‘. . . and you were given two of the Navy’s best wireless operators – one from the merchant cruiser Pinguin. Did her captain make a fuss about losing one of his best men? I bet he did. But of course this was a special mission.’

  Lindsay paused for a moment and, turning from Mohr, walked a few feet away, head bent in thought. He stopped to lean against the grey trunk of a beech tree and began prodding the carpet of leaves and husks with his shoe. He could sense that Mohr was watching him closely, waiting patiently, quite unruffled. It was warm, the sky a cloudless blue and almost nothing stirred in the wood; even the canopy above them was still.

  ‘The thing is, Kapitän, I am worried, very worried,’ and Lindsay turned to look at him again as if to offer proof of sincerity. ‘You see, I haven’t spoken to your wireless operators. My colleague, the Jewish one, he’s spoken to them and he’s convinced they’re spies, that you were going to land them and they were to report on shipping in and out of Freetown.’

  Mohr bent down and placed the fungi at his feet. When he lifted his head to look at Lindsay again there was a small but disconcerting smile on his face.

  ‘I don’t agree, in fact I’m convinced it’s nonsense,’ said Lindsay.

  ‘Ha! Jews!’ Mohr shook his head theatrically.

  ‘You don’t believe me? You don’t think we make mistakes? What touching faith you have in us. We’ve hanged at least five men in the last six months. I’m certain one of them was innocent.’

  ‘And I’m certain you did your best to save him.’

  Lindsay ignored the scepticism in Mohr’s voice: ‘No. He could and should have proved his innocence. Things are not what they were. We’re fighting for survival. You’ve taken tea with the First Sea Lord. I’m sure he was impressed, but if I shoot you, here, now, would he care? Of course not. The Red Cross would be told, “Shot while trying to escape.” It’s the same with your wireless operators. When people open their newspapers at breakfast they will read of two more spies hanged at Wandsworth Prison and they will say, “Thank God for our intelligence people”.’

  ‘And you want me to help you prove they’re not spies by telling you what?’ asked Mohr.

  ‘I want you to tell me what they were doing.’

  Mohr shook his head slowly as if incredulous that Lindsay should think him so naive.

  ‘I know they’re innocent, I know why they were there,’ said Lindsay. ‘You needed English-speaking wireless operators so you could intercept and decode our signals.’

  Mohr glanced down and for just an instant Lindsay saw a heavy frown cloud his face, but the timbre of his voice when he spoke was as steady and confident as ever: ‘That’s what the Americans call a hunch. Not a good one. Not even your Jewish friend seems to believe you. Perhaps he doesn’t trust you?’

  ‘Don’t you want to help your men?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mohr with a short barking laugh. ‘Of course, I understand. None of your comrades trust you.’

  He was so pleased with himself that he did not notice he was trampling the fungi he had placed at the bottom of the rotten trunk. ‘They don’t trust you because they think you’re German,’ he said in English. ‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re German.’

  ‘No.’

  They walked on in silence until they reached the crest of the hill where the ride forked west towards Sassoon’s obelisk. Through the trees they could see the house below them and a small group of prisoners
kicking a football about on the lawn by the lake.

  ‘My men,’ muttered Mohr.

  Beyond the Park the quiet ordered streets of Cockfosters and Southgate were lost in a summer haze. At the edge of the wood Lindsay stopped. The other arm of the ride led down the hill across the old golf course to the lake; it would take them just twenty minutes to walk back to the house.

  ‘How long have you been reading our signals for?’ he asked Mohr suddenly.

  ‘Are you still trying to break me?’

  ‘How long have you been reading our signals for – more than six months, less?’

  Mohr did not reply.

  ‘More than six months?’ said Lindsay forcefully. ‘More or less?’

  ‘You must have a low opinion of me.’

  ‘Some of my colleagues are more direct. They might use other methods.’

  Mohr laughed harshly: ‘No walks in the park?’

  ‘I am very, very serious. It would be better for you to answer. More or less?’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘More or less?’

  ‘I know your cousin Martin . . .’

  Lindsay tensed a little. So he knew; well, there was nothing more to say. He had been half expecting something of the sort. It was awkward but in a way it changed nothing. He was not going to persuade Mohr to talk to him. But he knew he was right, right about the codes, quite sure.

  ‘There’s a certain something, an expression you share. And Martin often spoke of a cousin in the Royal Navy reserve. You were close, weren’t you?’ There was a discreet but unmistakable look of satisfaction on Mohr’s face: ‘Martin laughed about it, a small joke. He would laugh now if he could see us here together. What a coincidence.’

  Lindsay wondered if he should refuse to listen, but it was too late and he had to admit he was curious.

  ‘We shared a mess for a time. The U-bootwaffe was very small before the war, as I’m sure you know. Martin is a good officer.’

  Lindsay nodded.

  ‘But you, Lieutenant, you could have been fighting alongside us.’