was looking at him intently, his face set hard in a silent promise: Lange would be called to account for his note.
From the window of the interrogators’ office Lindsay watched the military bus pull away. There were a few things he needed to rescue from his desk but no ‘goodbyes’ he wished to say. Well perhaps one, he thought, a fond farewell to Sassoon’s ghost. It was difficult to take seriously because a small voice kept whispering, ‘This is all a mistake.’ Old notes, German newspapers, military handbooks — he swept them all into the large canvas bag he had once used for his rugby boots. It took just five minutes. He was trying to force the zip together when Charlie Samuels walked into the office.
‘I’ve done that already,’ he said, pointing to Lindsay’s empty desk.
‘I know. Sorry, Charlie.’
‘Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe, Douglas. At least they had the good sense not to try and make a sailor of me.’ Samuels lifted the plain cardboard file he was carrying with the satisfied air of someone preparing to hand over a fine present: ‘I’ve something to show you.’
‘What is it?’
‘Not here,’ he whispered conspiratorially. ‘Come with me.’
He led Lindsay out into the servants’ corridor and to the foot of the back stairs. Then, after checking that no one was about, he began to climb down quickly to the basement.
‘This is very cloak-and-dagger, Charlie,’ said Lindsay, behind him. ‘I feel like Guy Fawkes.’
Samuels did not answer but turned right into a long low badly lit passage way, its walls lined with large cream tiles. Doors to left and right opened on to empty wine racks, boot and dairy rooms, a silver store and an archive, neglected and dusty. It was Lindsay’s first time below stairs.
‘In here,’ said Samuels.
‘Here’ was a dingy barrel-vaulted cellar with whitewashed walls and terracotta floor tiles, lit by a single naked bulb. It was empty but for a rickety trestle table.
‘All right,’ Lindsay’s voice bounced about the room, ‘tell me.’
Samuels took a deep breath: ‘My friend at Oxford sent me this. It will tell you all you need to know.’ And he thrust a file at Lindsay in which there were four or five typed pages. The title in bold at the top of the first page was ‘Administrative and Auxiliary Codes’.
The Administrative Code was brought into force in 1934 and used unrecoded for routine signals…
Lindsay glanced down the page. There was a section entitled ‘Naval Code’, and on the next page, ‘Long Subtractor System’ and ‘Merchant Navy Code’. Lindsay looked at Samuels and down again at the file.
‘How on earth did you get this?’
‘I’ve told you, a friend. It’s a basic guide to the book codes we use. Be careful. My friend would be in very hot water for giving it to me.’
‘A good friend,’ said Lindsay.
‘Yes,’ said Samuels, ‘someone else who likes to break rules.’
There was something in Samuels’ voice that suggested his friend was a woman, perhaps an academic colleague and an old flame. Lindsay knew that the naval codes people had taken over one of the Oxford colleges and recruited some of the university’s dons.
‘You can read it later,’ said Samuels, ‘but for God’s sake look after it. The most interesting stuff is on page four.’ He leant forward to find the page and pointed to a paragraph near the bottom:
The enemy seems to have been able to keep track of British naval mobilisation at the beginning of the war and of our patrols in the North Atlantic and Home Waters. A copy of the Administrative Code may also have been captured when Norway fell in May 1940…
‘Charlie.’ Lindsay’s voice shook a little with excitement: ‘The Germans broke one of our codes at the beginning of the war…’
‘Perhaps two,’ said Samuels.
‘And the Admiralty knows. Then why…’
Samuels laughed and grabbed Lindsay’s arm as if restraining a difficult patient: ‘Steady, you need to read it. Our codes
‘The Germans could have broken that too, Charlie.’
‘It’s history,’ said Samuels, ‘Read it. They changed the codes.’
‘Do you think someone’s deliberately trying to stop us? Trying to hide the truth?’
Samuels pulled a face: ‘Honestly, Douglas, you’re turning this into the plot of a penny dreadful.’ He paused, then said with quiet deliberation: ‘You know, there’s a much simpler explanation.’
Lindsay turned sharply to look at him: ‘All right, what do you…’
But someone in heavy military boots was approaching along the passage. Samuels raised his hand in warning.
‘We should go,’ he whispered, and he slipped through the half-open door. He must have surprised the owner of the boots because a frightened voice squealed: ‘For Christ’s sake,’ and a second later, ‘Oh sorry, sir’.
It was one of the guards, a red-headed corporal with a guilty expression on his face. They could rest easy. He was seeking a secret corner of his own for ‘a crafty fag’.
‘All right, Corporal,’ said Samuels sharply and he brushed past him and began walking briskly back along the corridor. Lindsay followed a few feet behind. Neither of them spoke until they reached the top of the basement stairs, then, after checking that they were alone, Samuels pointed to the file in Lindsay’s hand: ‘History, Douglas, all right. Don’t get my friend into trouble.’
‘You said there was another, simpler explanation?’
Samuels thought for a moment, then shrugged: ‘It was nothing. Forget it. Goodbye.’ And he held out his hand. ‘Perhaps we can keep in touch,’ and there was something wistful in his voice.
‘Yes,’ said Lindsay as they shook hands, ‘we must.’
27
The number 9 London bus was crowded and reeked of sweat and cheap perfume. Mary walked the last two stops. For once, she had made an effort to please and changed into a green summer dress that matched her eyes and showed her figure to great advantage.
Lindsay was waiting beneath a stone elephant at the corner of the Albert Memorial and had just lit a cigarette. When he saw her approaching, he put it out with his foot and dropped down the steps to meet her and wrap her in his arms. They stood for a minute in silence as concert folk drifted and chatted around them. Then Lindsay pushed her gently away and holding both her hands, looked her up and down: ‘You’re looking lovely.’
Mary was struck by the tired shadows about his eyes and she squeezed his hands and moved closer: ‘I’m sorry, Douglas.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Have you spoken to Fleming?’
‘No. Did he mention my report?’
Mary shook her head. Lindsay frowned and said after a moment’s thought: ‘I’ve learnt something more today.’
She tensed a little.
‘No, all right,’ he said quickly, ‘I won’t talk about it now.’
