Cairo. It was located in a large and ornate block of apartments right next door to the American legation and only a stone’s throw from “Grey Pillars,” the British GHQ.
The area outside Rostom Buildings was surrounded with checkpoints, barbed wire, and dozens of soldiers. Inside, the atmosphere was of a busy department store. It was here that the whole military effort in the Balkans was centered, most of it related to finding safe places in Yugoslavia where the new missions could be deployed.
“Of course, they’re much more formal than we are,” explained General Donovan as he and I climbed the stairs behind a young lieutenant escorting us up to the office of the SOE’s operational commander. “But I think you’ll see some similarities. They’re mostly academics, like us. Not much regular army. Soldiers are probably not bright enough for this outfit. The fellow who’s nominally in charge, General Stawell, is a good example. He has absolutely no experience of running a secret organization. Which is why we’re seeing his number two, Lieutenant Colonel Powell. Quite an interesting fellow, this Powell. I think you’ll like him. Like you, he was a professor before the war. Of Greek, at the University of Sydney.”
“Is he Australian?”
“Good grief, no, he’s as English as they come. Stiff as a board to look at. But as bright as new paint.”
Carrying Donovan’s Louis Vuitton suitcase, I trudged up the steps like a man ascending the scaffold.
Colonel Enoch Powell was a curious man. Donovan and I looked like a pair of wilted wedding cakes in our white tropical suits, but unlike his two junior officers and in spite of the heat, Powell was wearing full service dress: a collar and tie, long trousers (not the more usual shorts), tunic, and Sam Browne belts.
Donovan made the introduction. Noting my quizzical look, Powell felt moved to explain his appearance in a reedy, almost musical voice that spoke sentences as precise as any Mozart concerto.
“It’s a curious fact but I find that wearing full uniform keeps up my morale,” Powell explained. “By temperament I am something of a Spartan, you see.” Powell lit a pipe and sat down. “I wonder. Are you the Willard Mayer who wrote On Being Empirical?”
I said I was.
“In many ways it was an admirable philosophical work,” said Powell. “But quite wrong. I hope you will forgive me when I opine that your chapter on ethics was the most puerile piece of logic I have ever read. Sheer casuistry.”
“Well, Colonel,” I said, “I am an Athenian by temperament. I doubt that an Athenian and a Spartan are ever destined to agree about very much.”
“We shall see,” smiled Powell.
“Besides, I was describing not a first-order ethical theory but a theory of the logic of moral language.”
“Indeed so. I merely question your implied assertion that our moral and aesthetic convictions are separable from our empirical beliefs.”
Donovan cleared his throat, loudly, to stifle this philosophical debate before it could really get started. “Gentlemen,” he said. “If I could ask you to postpone this debate until another time.”
“By all means,” agreed Powell. “I should like a chance to debate you, Professor Mayer. Perhaps over dinner this evening? At the Gezira Sporting Club?”
“I’m sorry but I have a prior engagement. Another time, perhaps.”
“Then let us talk of your Russian transcripts,” said Powell. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but cipherenes are in rather short supply right now.”
“Cipherenes?” frowned Donovan.
“Cipherists, if you prefer,” allowed the colonel. “Or even decipherers. Either way, there is a huge backlog of important signals traffic that has yet to be decoded. German signals to which, per-force, a greater degree of urgency is due. They are our own bread and butter, General Donovan. Since we are not yet at war with the Soviet Union, but with Germany, I am afraid that I cannot grant your material a greater priority, with or without the facility of a Russian codebook. You do understand, gentlemen?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, I understand, perfectly,” I told him.
“However,” added Colonel Powell, “our Major Deakin believes he may have a somewhat unorthodox solution to your problem.” Powell turned to one of the two majors who were sitting on either side of him. “Major Deakin taught history at Wadham College, Oxford,” added Powell, as if this were some kind of recommendation for the British major’s solution to our problem.
Major Deakin was a tall, genial man with a dark, clipped mustache and a wry sort of smile. He was handsome in a second-feature movie kind of way, except that he had a long scar over one eye. He picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and smiled awkwardly. “Colonel Guy Tamplin would have been your best bet, of course,” he said. “He used to be a banker in the Baltic states and was an expert on all things Russian. Unfortunately, he’s dead. Heart attack, most probably, although there’s a lot of guff going around that he was poisoned. Poison was one of Guy’s pigeons, you see, for using on Jerry. It’s Guy’s death that has left us a bit shorthanded on the deciphering side of things.”
Donovan nodded patiently, hoping that Major Deakin was about to come to the point.
“Anyway, it’s my understanding that you, Professor Mayer, speak fluent German.”
“That’s right.”
“All right. A couple of days ago one of your B-24s with an antisubmarine squadron in Tunis shot down a long- range Focke Wulf over the Gulf of Hammamet and picked up a German officer swimming for it. It’s possibly because he’s so keen not to be taken for a spy that he’s actually being quite talkative. Claims that until recently he was working for the Wehrmacht War Crimes Bureau in the Ukraine.”
At the mention of war crimes in the Ukraine I felt my ears prick up.
“I’m not sure how that helps us,” Donovan said stiffly.
“Before joining the Jerry War Crimes Bureau, this chap claims he was a signals and intelligence officer, on the Russian front. The chances are he might know something about Russian codes. Well, put simply, my idea is this. That we persuade the Jerry to see if he can shed some light on deciphering Bride.”
“What makes you think he’ll cooperate?” I said.
“As I said, he’s rather keen that we don’t think he’s a spy. In case we should decide to shoot him. He’s not a bad egg, really. Quite intelligent. Major Max Reichleitner’s his name. I reckon we could play him a little. What do you Americans call it? ‘Good cop, bad cop’?”
“I’ll scare him with talk of a firing squad, and you, Professor Mayer, you can do your friendly American thing. Sweeten him up with some cigarettes and chocolate and a promise to square me. I’m sure you know the kind of thing I’m talking about.”
“Where is he now?” asked Donovan.
“Sitting in a cell at number ten,” said Deakin.
“Can we meet him right away?” asked Donovan. “There’s not much time before we have to hand these onetime pads over to the Russians.”
“Yes, by all means,” said Powell. “See to it, will you, Deakin?” Donovan stood up and I followed, collecting the suitcase as I left the office.
Outside Rostom Buildings, Donovan said good-bye to me, much to my relief.
“You go on with Major Deakin,” he said. “I’ve got to get over to Mena House for a lunch with the president. Good luck with your kraut. And keep me posted on your progress. Remember, we’ve got just five days before we have to hand these onetime pads back to the Russians.”
He handed me a large manila envelope containing the Russian codebooks. I smiled thinly. But Donovan was too busy looking around for his staff car to notice the probably insubordinate look on my face. Deakin noticed it. Deakin noticed a lot. I decided it was probably why he was in intelligence.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Deakin told Donovan. “I’m sure the professor and I can crack it.”
Once Donovan was gone, Deakin lit a pipe and indicated the way. “It’s not far,” he said. “Just around the corner. Bit of luck really. That we didn’t have time to send him back to BTE last night.”
“What and where is BTE?”
“British Troops in Egypt. They’re in the Citadel. Bit of a hike getting over there, so those prisoners we do get for interrogation, we try to do it here. In Garden City. I say, can I help you with that case?”
“No, it’s okay. This is my cross. I can manage it.”
“You know, it’s a lucky break, you turning up like this, Professor.”
