‘You know I found Lindsay and introduced him to the Division…’ Fleming settled into the chair beside her, his back to the door. ‘Has he told you anything about his work?’
Mary shifted a little uncomfortably. ‘Only what I need to know. Rodger asked him to brief me,’ she said cautiously.
‘Brief you?’ He gave a short laugh, ‘I see. And what have you told him about your work?’
‘Only what he needs to know.’
Fleming’s eyes narrowed as he scrutinised her face for a moment, then said: ‘Section 11 wants rid of him. Colonel Checkland doesn’t trust him and I suppose you know what your brother thinks?’
Mary frowned angrily and opened her mouth to speak but he held up his hand: ‘…the Colonel says he has a bee in his bonnet about our codes, that he asks dangerous questions. It hasn’t gone down well here. He might give away more than he discovers. You know how careful we have to be. Has Lindsay discussed this fellow Mohr with you?’
‘No,’ she lied.
Fleming drew on his cigarette, the tip rasping and glowing, then he blew a sceptical stream of smoke at the ceiling: ‘And his family?’
‘What about them?’
He looked a little haughtily down his nose at her: ‘The Director doesn’t want to take any chances. He wants to send Lindsay back to sea. I’m going to try and persuade him not to. There are things a clever German speaker can do for me. But you should both be careful…’
She interrupted him crossly: ‘Careful?’
‘Yes, very, very careful,’ he said firmly, ‘and you most of all. You are one of the few who knows of special intelligence. Listen to me, it’s good advice.’
Mary looked down at her hands, tightly balled in her lap. Were pieces of paper marked ‘Very’ or ‘Most Secret’ circulating in the Division, their pillow talk a subject for comment?
‘Did we meet by chance?’ she asked, and her voice shook a little.
‘Yes. But I’m glad we did.’ Fleming smiled and leant across to give her hand a gentle squeeze.
Mary stayed for only a couple of minutes more, to exchange a few strained pleasantries. Then Fleming’s door clicked shut behind her and she stood outside it, breathing deeply. She was cross with him but crosser still with Lindsay. He was fighting his own little war, careless of orders and the opinions of others. And now their relationship was a security matter, their conversation a subject for speculation, what was private and special between them common currency. She shuddered at the thought. A phone began to ring in Fleming’s office. It was almost eight o’clock and she was expected at her desk.
Slowly, with a distant smile for familiar faces, she made her way down brown lino-covered steps into the dim corridors of the Citadel, Fleming’s ‘careful’ playing roughly through her mind. Outside Room 41, she hesitated then walked a few steps further to stand at a different door. It opened almost at once and a large bundle of files began to totter unsteadily out. Mary could see just enough short dark hair to be sure that one of the watch-keepers, Lieutenant Sutherland, was somewhere beneath them.
‘Is that you, Dr Henderson?’ There was a note of desperation in his voice. ‘Are you coming in?’
‘Yes, yes, I want to try…’
But Sutherland was concentrating too hard on his files to care what she wanted. And what did she want? It was a foolish notion — certainly not what Fleming meant by ‘careful’ — but it had taken hold of her in the corridor. She wanted to speak to Lindsay.
‘Well, go on, take the door,’ said Sutherland sharply.
Mary held it open for him then stepped inside.
Room 30 was a little larger than its neighbour across the corridor but just as smoky, with the same droplights and shabby office furniture. It had its own plot table too and on it a mad cat’s cradle of thread and cardboard arrows tracked the enemy’s small fleet of ships. A clerical assistant at the plot smiled warmly at Mary, another looked up from her desk for just a moment, but neither said anything to her. The room was unusually quiet. That was unfortunate. Personal telephone calls were strictly forbidden but at busy times no one noticed you, or wanted to be noticed.
In the far right-hand corner, an anonymous blue door led to the Teleprinter Room — the home of ‘the secret ladies’. One of them, dumpy in brown lambswool and tweed, was standing over a teleprinter coiling a coded message around a spool. She was too lost in her world of printer’s ribbon and tape to notice Mary enter and there appeared to be no one else in the room. At times, it was full of the harsh mind-numbing chatter of a dozen teleprinters sending and receiving signals. The ladies would hover about them like acolytes of a strange mechanical oracle, ready to rip, read, and distribute. To the right of the door, a long table was subdivided into six desks and on a shelf above there were a number of heavy black telephones. After just a moment’s hesitation, Mary walked to the far end of the table, picked one up and placed it on the desk in front of her. The Admiralty switchboard connected her without question.
‘Lindsay.’ He sounded very weary.
‘It’s me.’
‘Darling, I was hoping you’d ring.’
‘Were you?’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘You’re such a fool, Douglas. Why didn’t you listen to me?’
‘You know then? Thank you for your support,’ he said frostily.
‘Ian asked me what I know about your work and what I’d told you about mine.’
Lindsay said nothing.
‘Well?’ asked Mary.
‘Well what?’
‘Say sorry.’
‘For what? No please don’t answer that. Sorry. Satisfied?’
‘No.’
The tense silence was filled by the brutal rhythm of a teleprinter.
‘Where on earth are you?’
‘Never mind. What’s going to happen to you?’
Lindsay must have caught the note of anxiety in her voice because his tone softened too:
‘I don’t know. Your brother says I’ll be sent somewhere I can’t cause trouble.’
‘Ian says we have to be careful and…’
There was a flash of tweed between desk and shelf — one of the ladies was on the move.
‘I have to go, Douglas.’
A round and very stern face appeared above the telephone shelf: ‘Miss Henderson, what are you doing?’
Mary cupped a defensive hand over the mouthpiece: ‘Dr Henderson, if you please.’
It was time to insist on full academic dignity. She raised the phone: ‘I’m sorry, Lieutenant, we can discuss this tomorrow. Please send me a note.’
And without waiting for a reply she put the receiver down.
The clerical assistant’s face was pink with confusion: ‘Dr Henderson, no one is supposed to make calls from…’ And after a deep breath: ‘I’ll have to report this to the Officer of the Watch.’
Pushing her chair back smartly, Mary stood to face her. The clerical assistant was clearly younger than she looked — no more than twenty, with a minor public school voice, too finely cut.
‘You must do as you see fit, Miss…?’
‘Barnes.’
‘…I was looking for a clerical assistant and the room was deserted.’
‘But I was here —’
Mary broke in: ‘Really, you must be more careful. I won’t mention it this time, Miss Barnes.’
And with a short prayer for forgiveness, she stepped briskly from the room, across the next and into the corridor.
