Eileen didn’t even crack a smile. “I don’t want tea,” she said, hugging her arms to herself against the cold. “I want to go home.”
Oh, you’ve come to join us? Good. Have you a pencil? We’re cracking ciphers.
—DILLY KNOX
Bletchley—December 1940
MIKE STARED AT TENSING, STUNNED. “THIS IS THE CHAP I was telling you about, Ferguson,” Tensing said. “The one who served as lookout for me when I was in hospital.”
“The American?” his companion said.
Christ, if he’d gone ahead with his plan to pose as an Englishman …
“Yes,” Tensing said. “I’d still be lying in that wretched hospital bed in Orpington if it weren’t for his unique talent for deception.”
“It’s a distinct pleasure to meet you, Mr. Davis,” Ferguson said, shaking Mike’s hand and then turning back to Tensing. “I do hate to hurry you, but we really should be going.”
Thank God he can’t stay and ask me what I’m doing here, Mike thought, because he’s obviously connected to Bletchley Park. Mike suddenly remembered Sister Carmody saying that Tensing worked at the War Office. He should have realized he was in Intelligence.
“No, we’ve enough time,” Tensing said. “You go settle the bill while I catch up with Davis. This is lucky, running into you! I’m just on my way to London. I can’t believe you’re here in Bletchley, of all places. When did you get out of hospital?”
“September. Let me get you a chair,” Mike said, to stall.
“That’s all right, I’ll get it,” Tensing said, waving him back down and looking around for a vacant chair. “Hang on.”
Hang is exactly what I’ll do if I don’t come up with a plausible reason for being here, Mike thought. “I’m here on special assignment” was out of the question.
Should I say I’m visiting a friend?
Tensing was back with a chair. “Mavis told me there was an American here,” he said, sitting down, “but I never imagined it was you. I understand you had an unfortunate encounter with a bicycle. I must warn you, this place has some very bad drivers. But you still haven’t told me what brings you here. It’s not an assignment for your newspaper, I hope. Bletchley’s deadly dull, I’m afraid.”
“I’m finding that out. No, actually, I’m here about my foot. I came to see Dr. Pritchard,” he said, calling up the name of the doctor the old ladies on the train had said had a clinic in Newport Pagnell. “He has a clinic in Leighton Buzzard. He’s supposed to be an expert at reattaching tendons. I’m hoping he can fix me up enough to get back in the war.”
“A sentiment with which I can completely sympathize,” Tensing said. “I thought I’d go mad in hospital, listening to the bad news on the wireless day after day and not being able to do a damned thing about it.” He looked down at Mike’s newspaper. “Still interested in crosswords, I see.”
Mike shrugged. “It passes the time. As you say, Bletchley isn’t particularly exciting.”
Tensing nodded. “It’s a good deal like the sunroom. All that’s wanted is a potted palm and Colonel Walton, rattling his Times and harrumphing.” He tapped the crossword. “You were quite good at these, I recall.”
“As I recall, I had help.”
“Still, though, most Americans find our crosswords completely unintelligible.”
His tone had changed. Did I say something to give myself away? Mike wondered. What? He’d purposely said Dr. Pritchard was at Leighton Buzzard instead of Newport Pagnell to make it harder for Tensing to track the doctor down if he checked up on Mike’s story. Had Tensing by some horrible coincidence gone to see Dr.
Pritchard, too?
No, Tensing had hurt his back, not his foot. But something had made him suspicious.
Could it be the crossword puzzle? Mike wondered, remembering the story Polly’d told him about D-Day and the suspicious clues. Could Tensing suspect him of sending messages to the Germans?
But he was solving a crossword, not constructing one. And Tensing had seen him doing the same thing countless times in the hospital.
Ferguson was working his way back toward them between the tables. Good, this conversation couldn’t end too soon. “All set,” Ferguson said.
“In a moment,” Tensing said over his shoulder, and then to Mike, “Were you serious? About wanting to get into the war?”
I’m already in it, Mike thought, and can’t get out. “Yes.”
“How long will you be here seeing this doctor—what was his name?”
“Pritchard,” Mike said. “I’m not certain. It all depends on what he says. He thinks I may have to have surgery.”
“But you’ll be here for a week at the least?”
So you can check and see whether I’ve been to see Dr. Pritchard, or if the Omaha Observer exists? “Yes, I have another full month of treatments.”
“Good. I must go down to London for three or four days, but when I get back, there’s something I want to have a chat with you about. Where are you staying?”
“I haven’t found a room yet. Every place I’ve tried so far is full.”
