“I feel fine.”
“What were we talking about?”
“My tooth.”
“It will be tender. So be careful what you eat. No toast or hard things.”
Walker nodded, stood up, walked over to the bookshelf, removed a book and walked back with it, handing it to Symons.
“You’ll need something to read I expect.”
“Thanks. How about you call in and see me tomorrow at about noon? I’ll fix it with your CSM.”
“OK.”
When Walker had left Symons looked at the title of the book as he slid it back into place on the shelf. It was Brideshead Revisited. There were daily sessions with Walker until Symons was satisfied that he was fully under control and the memory block solidly established. And after three weeks Maclaren, Sturgiss and Symons took him down to the static caravan on the perimeter of the SAS camp in Hereford.
It took only ten days to get Walker down to the next level. At that level he was an SAS sergeant and they gave him short courses on the firing range and a few hours’ practice on the assault courses. Sturgiss was responsible for the training and it was done when the camp was between intakes and there was only a skeleton staff for routine cooking and cleaning. Symons and Maclaren watched the last two days’ training. He didn’t have to be anywhere near the real SAS level. It would all be close-up work and mainly in a confined space.
Symons took readings of Walker’s body and brain functions in his role of Dickens and as Sergeant Madden of SAS, and he made detailed notes of his extensive chats with Walker in his two hypnotic states. Six weeks from the first interview in Hut Seven Walker was ready for Maclaren and Sturgiss to use.
It was a new model Merc and Maclaren drove it with professional skill, taking no risks but using the power of its engine and the ratios of its gearbox to keep them moving fast. He deliberately avoided the direct motorway route under the Elbe, preferring the old route that took them through Wilhelmsburg. There was a hold-up when they approached the bridge over the Lower Elbe where an articulated lorry had jack-knifed half-across the centre verge, but they were on the Hamburg city boundary between Harburg and Ehestorf before seven.
Walker sat with Sturgiss in the back seat and Symons was in front with Maclaren. Walker was already in level one hypnosis and when they spoke to him they addressed him as Mr. Dickens. He had been Dickens from the fourth session in Hut Seven, and Symons was concerned at the long state of hypnosis that the SIS operation required. He consoled himself that in a few more days he could bring Walker back to his normal state for a week or two until the next operation.
The grey Merc pulled into the driveway that was signposted “Bauernhof Leidermann” and headed up the roadway to the house. Despite calling itself a farm it wasn’t a farm, and had never been a farm. Until it had been bought through several intermediaries by SIS it had been a small-holding that supplied fruit and fresh vegetables for many of the top Hamburg hotels. But a year’s neglect had left an acre of waist-high weeds and four good-sized glasshouses with bindweed and Creeping Jenny where tomatoes and early lettuce had once provided a handsome profit. Maclaren and Sturgiss were both wearing British army battle-dress with Grenadier Guards flashes.
They ate together and then Symons walked with Walker and the two SIS men to the brick building that had once housed the boilers for the glasshouses. It was divided into two now by a breeze block wall with a metal door at the right-hand side. In the middle of the room was a small wooden table. Plain and solidly built it was bolted to the concrete floor with angle-iron clamps. There were three heavy wooden chairs, two of which were also clamped to the floor. And a man in a roll-neck sweater and khaki slacks stood swinging a bunch of heavy keys from his hand.
Maclaren nodded to the man who turned and unlocked the metal door, beckoning them inside. Two men stumbled out from the darkness inside the back room screwing up their eyes against the not very bright light over the table. Sturgiss pointed silently to the two chairs and the men sat down clumsily. They were both wearing crumpled battle-dress, the jackets unbuttoned and the khaki shirts torn and stained.
Symons stood in the corner alone, leaning back against the wall, his eyes on the two soldiers.
Maclaren was wearing a captain’s three pips and Sturgiss the single pip of a second-lieutenant. Maclaren stood in front of the two men.
“Are you ready to talk now?”
Neither man responded. Maclaren addressed the man on the left. Ginger-haired, sweaty-faced and about twenty years old.
“I’ll start with you again, Fox. How did you pay her?”
The man named Fox shook his head, and Sturgiss moved silently to stand behind him.
“I’ll ask you again. How did you pay her?”
Almost before the man could have responded Sturgiss’s hand had grasped his hair and wrenched his head back until the man was gasping, reaching up in vain to free his hair from Sturgiss’s grasp. Sturgiss smiled and pulled the head back to what seemed an impossible angle and the man gave a strangled cry.
“You gonna talk, Fox?”
The man tried to nod and held up one hand. Sturgiss released his head and the man put up both hands to rub his neck.
“How did you pay her then, Fox?”
“Cigarettes from NAAFI.”
“How many?”
“Two hundred. A carton.”
“What brand?”
“It didn’t matter. Any kind would do.”
“What brand did you usually bring?”
Fox hesitated. “Generally Benson and Hedges.”
“How much did you pay for a carton?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Oh come off it, soldier. You mean to say you screwed her without checking how much it cost you?”
“It wasn’t much. I didn’t bother.”
“That wasn’t what she told me.”
“What did she say?”
“She said
