The Interrogator (12 page)

‘Good of you to join us,’ said Checkland with clumsy sarcasm. ‘I was just about to tell everyone about the
Bismarck
. Have you heard?’

‘No, sir.’

The head of Section 11 was perched like a large grey thrush on the edge of a low desk, a heavy fifty-eight, soft brown eyes, jowls, crisp blue uniform. James Henderson was at his side and sitting in front of him were the other four interrogators and the section’s Wrens. Lindsay slumped into a threadbare armchair beside them.

‘The battleship
Bismarck
is out.’ Checkland’s voice shook a little with excitement. ‘The latest report has her somewhere in the Denmark Strait. The
Prinz Eugen
is with her.’

One of the other interrogators, Samuels, caught Lindsay’s eye and gave him a discreet smile.

‘The
Prince of Wales
and the
Hood
are in pursuit.’ Checkland coughed and waited for a response. There was none. ‘Well now you’re all here,’ he said tetchily, ‘the
U-112
. Annie, can you do the honours?’

The section’s Chief Wren, Annie Sherlock, rustled about the room with the preliminary interrogation report. She dropped one with some force into Lindsay’s lap and winked at him.

‘The Admiralty’s very interested in this one, shopping lists from the Tracking Room and the Anti-Submarine Warfare people,’ said Checkland. ‘Commander Henderson is going to take us through what we know already.’

Henderson gazed about the room for a moment as if waiting for
an orchestra to strike up behind him. ‘It will be obvious to all of you by now that the crew has been very well schooled,’ he said at last. ‘Kapitän Mohr was held in a room for a time with one of the stool pigeons, the Jewish refugee Mantel, but he rumbled that he was one of our stooges straight away. Frankly we’ve got bugger all so far. Graham, you’ve been working on the officers.’

Lieutenant Dick Graham coughed nervously, ‘Yes, sir. The First Watch Officer – Gretschel – twenty-two, a Berliner, friendly.’ He was clearly at a loss to think of anything more to say: ‘Not married. Stubborn.’

‘I think that proves my point,’ said Henderson shortly. ‘The little we know of them is on page four of the preliminary report, if you’d like to look.’

Lindsay turned to the page and glanced down it: Mohr, Gretschel and four more. The navigator, Obersteuermann Bruns, born in Zanzibar, aggressive, a fervent Nazi, silent on every subject but the inevitability of a German victory. The second officer, Koch, a prickly character too – a
Handelsschiffsoffizier –
an old merchant seaman. Then there were the younger officers – the engineer, Leutnant August Heine, and a midshipman called Bischoff who was on his maiden voyage and clearly knew nothing.

‘The seamen are a little more talkative – the bosun’s mate in particular. He’s Brown’s prisoner’– Henderson waved his report at a slight, owlish-looking man in his late twenties who was almost lost in a leather armchair. ‘The
112
was operating with three more U-boats. They refuelled at Las Palmas in the Canaries and were to refuel again from a German tanker. Fourteen torpedoes in the body of the boat, six in sealed tubes on the upper deck. Details on page seven of the report. Samuels, you’ve been questioning the wireless operators.’

Reluctantly, Lieutenant Charlie Samuels got to his feet and began to stumble through his notes. Lindsay’s thoughts began to drift about the foggy yellow room, settling for a moment on a clumsy mural of mermaids above the chimneypiece. But Samuels dragged them back: ‘. . . there is one thing that puzzles me. The wireless operators seem to speak a little English, although it’s impossible to be sure how much because they are refusing to speak it to me.’

‘Thank you, Samuels,’ said Checkland without conviction. Lindsay raised a hand to catch his eye.

‘You want to say something?’

‘Yes, sir. Does Lieutenant Samuels have any thoughts about why the wireless operators speak a little English?’

‘Well, is there a “why”, Samuels?’ asked Checkland.

‘Not sure yet, sir. It may be nothing. A coincidence.’

‘It would be useful to know how much they speak, sir.’

‘Of course,’ said Checkland shortly, ‘and Samuels will do his best.’

The Colonel began to work his way through the Division’s shopping list, matching interrogators with prisoners. The
112
’s engineers and torpedo men to Hadfield the section’s technical expert, Charlie Samuels, to press on with the wireless operators Lieutenants Brown and Graham to finish the face-to-face interrogations with the rest of the crew. There was nothing for Lindsay.

‘Right, thank you,’ said Checkland. ‘Let’s hope we sink the
Bismarck
.’

Lindsay got to his feet and was about to say something when the Colonel raised a hand: ‘Just a minute.’

Then he turned to speak to Henderson. Lindsay stood close by, head bent over the interrogation report. What did Checkland want with him? Things had been particularly frosty between them since his visit to Winn at the Citadel.

When the room was empty at last, the Colonel turned to him with a wry smile: ‘All right Lindsay. Mohr.’

‘Sir?’

‘Jürgen Mohr. I want you to conduct the face-to-face interrogations.’

Lindsay groaned inwardly. He was being handed the poisoned chalice. ‘Just Mohr, sir?’

‘That’s right. The Tracking Room wants something on the shift to the African coast. Any questions?’

Lindsay wanted to ask: ‘Why me?’ But he knew the answer. Checkland was going to take him down a peg or two. There was plenty Mohr could say, especially if he had spent time on the staff at U-boat Headquarters, but he was too careful and clever to say it. Better to
work on the junior officers and other ranks. It was just a pity he would have to spend fruitless hours proving it.

‘No. No questions, sir.’

Beyond the security fence, a warm evening breeze rippled the daffodil stalks on the lawn at the front of the house. Lindsay stopped to light a cigarette. The camp bus was parked on the forecourt close by and a group of confused-looking Luftwaffe prisoners was being shepherded down its steps into the house. He acknowledged the half-hearted salute from the guard at the gate and walked on round the east wing to the garden terrace. For once the stately sweep of lawn between house and lake was deserted. On the hillside above, the last of the sun was creeping up the obelisk Sassoon had erected to mark a visit by members of the royal family. As he watched its steady progress, someone stepped up to the balustrade beside him.

‘The Colonel wants you to start on Mohr tomorrow.’

Henderson had followed him out on to the terrace. Lindsay turned to face him.

‘Fine, tomorrow will be fine,’ he said a little sharply.

Henderson raised his eyebrows and leant forward, an expression of concern on his face: ‘Is something wrong, old boy?’ The gentleman farmer had become the country parson but only for a moment: ‘Is it Mohr? Don’t you think you can handle him? We could ask your friend from MI5, Cunningham, Major Cunningham.’

Why did Henderson dislike him so much? Lindsay wondered, was it to do with his family? They were cast from different moulds but the suspicion he had sensed at their very first meeting had sharpened in recent weeks to something close to hostility. Perhaps it was because of Mary.

‘Be my guest,’ he said coolly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ask the Security Service to interrogate Mohr.’

Henderson sighed impatiently, ‘Well, I would, Lindsay, but you see it’s the Tracking Room. Winn wants you to do it.’

‘Winn?’

‘Yes, Winn.’

‘The Colonel didn’t say.’

‘Of course he didn’t. You weren’t his choice but who can say no to the Tracking Room? Winn is hoping you can break him.’ Henderson paused and smiled: ‘But I can see that’s cheered you up.’

Yes, it made a difference, Lindsay would not deny it. He must have made some sort of impression on Winn. Perhaps the Citadel was beginning to take Section 11 a little more seriously.

‘Let me tell you something else,’ said Henderson, ‘although if you’d read the interrogation reports carefully I wouldn’t have to.’

There was an unpleasantly smug note in his voice. ‘It’s in the notes. Mohr attacked a homebound convoy last September – HX.70.’

HX.70. Lindsay turned stiffly away to gaze across the lawn to the hillside. The entire obelisk was in shadow now. He felt cold, frozen, as if he had plunged into the Atlantic once more.

‘Bit of bad luck,’ said Henderson with a sly smile, ‘That was the convoy the
Culloden
was escorting, wasn’t it?’

Seven, eight, nine minutes passed and the sky deepened to a still blue. Lindsay did not acknowledge Henderson’s complacent ‘goodbye’. At sea, he had hated this hour, the convoy’s ships black against the last of the light like targets at a fairground shy. Perhaps Mohr had enjoyed just that view of HX.70 through the UZO firing binoculars on the bridge of his boat. He noticed that the fingers holding his cigarette were shaking a little and he threw it down in disgust, grinding it into the brick with his foot.

The guards at the security desk in the entrance hall had logged Lieutenant Graham out but Brown was still in the house. No one in the mess had seen him but one of the duty Wrens in the office thought he might be with the RAF. Lindsay found him at the door of the old library, coat across his arm. He nodded coolly and was on the point of slipping past.

‘May I have a word, Brown?’

He frowned and glanced deliberately at his watch: ‘Can’t it wait until the morning?’

‘No. The
112
prisoner, Heine, I need something from him.’

Lieutenant Brown rolled his eyes upwards: ‘Not now.’

Lindsay grabbed his arm and squeezed it very firmly: ‘Yes, now.’

It was unfortunate that Brown and Graham were the designated interrogators. Lindsay did not care for either of them – the feeling was entirely mutual. Brown was a fussy little man with thin, wispy red hair and thick round glasses. Before the war, he had worked on
The Times
and someone in the Division had considered this a sufficient reference to recommend him to the Section. But Lindsay was amazed that a journalist could be so credulous – lazy too. He treated the Section like a bank with business conducted across a table in office hours only.

Brown shook his arm free: ‘What’s so important that it can’t wait until the morning?’

‘Heine has let something slip about Mohr. He spent time at U-boat Headquarters. I need to know what he knows.’

Brown snorted irritably and shook his head: ‘It could take days to break Heine down.’

‘If you’re not prepared to do it, I will.’

Brown blinked at Lindsay uncertainly: ‘The Colonel wants us to speak to Heine?’

‘Yes, at once,’ Lindsay lied.

The microphone amplifier room was hot and cramped with barely space for a chair between the equipment stacked high along its walls. At one end, a jack field connected the cells and interrogation rooms to the ‘mapping’ positions further down the corridor. Lindsay slipped into a chair behind the duty operator who handed him a set of headphones, then leant forward to push a plug home on his board. There was a rustle of paper and the sound of distant but heavy footsteps. Then Lindsay heard a door open and the prisoner was ushered into the room. Brown offered him a chair.

‘Don’t try to make friends,’ Lindsay muttered.

Heine was the sort of German who would respond best to commands.

Brown cleared his throat: ‘Just a few small things, Herr Leutnant. Some details to clear up . . .’

Yes, Heine had been a member of the
Marine-Hitler-Jugend
, the Wandervögel hiking club too. No, he would not describe the
112
’s
operational orders or give details of his commander’s service history. After forty minutes, he was comfortable, still calm. Brown was no breaker. The interrogation was going nowhere.

Lindsay slipped off his headphones and got stiffly to his feet. Sometimes an interrogator needed the patience of Job but not with a prisoner like Heine.

‘Truth in the shortest possible time.’

The duty operator turned to look at him inquiringly.

‘Forget it,’ said Lindsay as he stepped out into the corridor. Brown was going to hate him.

The interrogation rooms were on the same floor in the west wing of the house. A couple of bored-looking guards were posted at the door of Number Three. Lindsay stood between them for a few seconds, breathing deeply, then he reached for the handle and walked inside. A draught of cold air swept into the room with him, stirring the cigarette smoke above the table.

Brown glanced over his shoulder: ‘What is it?’

Lindsay said nothing but pulled the door to with a heavy clunk and leant against it, arms folded. Brown was half out of his seat, a dark frown on his face: ‘What on earth . . .’

‘We’re going to blow hot, blow cold,’ said Lindsay calmly.

‘What?’

‘Just sit down.’

He looked across at Heine and said in German: ‘Herr Leutnant, you are going to tell me everything you know about your commander – Kapitän zur See Jürgen Mohr.’

Heine shook his head slowly.

‘Oh yes you are,’ said Lindsay coldly. ‘I know he was on the staff at U-boat Headquarters.’

Heine gave another nervous shake of the head.

‘Don’t deny it. I know. And I’m sure Kapitän Mohr would like to know how I know.’

Silence. Heine knew he was being threatened, but with what? Then his shoulders dropped and he crumpled over the table, his face in his hands.

‘Not me.’ His voice was shaking.

Unfolding his arms, Lindsay walked to the edge of the table and leant across it until he was only a foot from him:

‘Look at me, Herr Leutnant. Look at me. It was you. You know it was.’

‘I . . . please . . .’ He was very frightened.

‘Tell me and he will never know. But you must tell me, tell me now.’

Heine was hugging himself, rocking to and fro on his chair, close to tears.

‘Herr Leutnant, tell me at once.’

It was an order.

‘I can’t . . .’

‘Was Kapitän Mohr on Admiral Dönitz’s staff?’

Heine said nothing but gave the slightest of nods.