Enigma (11 page)

Jericho looked up at the Atlantic, at the yellow discs of the
convoys and the black triangles of the U-boats, sewn like shark’s
teeth across the sea lanes. The distance between the ships and the
wolf packs was roughly eight hundred miles. The merchantmen were
making maybe two hundred and forty miles every twenty-four hours.
Three days was about right. My God, he thought, no wonder Logie was
so desperate to get me back.

“Gentlemen, please, if I may?” said Skynner loudly, bringing the
meeting back to order. Jericho saw he’d plastered on his “come let
us smile in the face of disaster” expression—invariably a sign of
incipient panic. “I think we should guard against too much
pessimism. The Atlantic does cover thirty-two million square miles,
you know.” He risked another laugh. “That’s an awful lot of
ocean.”

“Yes,” said Hammerbeck, “and forty-six is one hell of a lot of
U-boats.”

“I agree. It’s probably the largest concentration of hearses
we’ve faced,” said Cave. “I’m afraid we must assume the enemy will
make contact. Unless, of course, we can find out where they
are.”

He gave Skynner a significant look, but Skynner ignored it and
pressed on. “And let’s not forget—these convoys are not
unprotected?” He glanced around the table for support. “They do
have an escort?”

“Indeed.” Cave again, “They have an escort of—” he consulted his
notes “—seven destroyers, nine corvettes and three frigates. Plus
various other vessels.”

“Under an experienced commander…”

The British officers glanced at one another, and then at the
admiral.

“Actually, it’s his first command.”

“Jesus Christ!” Hammerbeck rocked forwards in his chair and
brought his fists down on the table.

“If I might step in heah. Obviously, we didn’t know last Friday
when the escorts were forming up that our intelligence was going to
be shut awf.”

“How long will this blackout last?” This was the first time the
admiral had spoken and everyone turned to look at him. He gave a
sharp, explosive cough, which sounded as if small pieces of
machinery were flying around loose in his chest, then sucked in
another lungful of smoke and gestured with his cigarette. “Will It
be over in four days, d’you think?”

The question was addressed directly to Skynner and they all
turned to look at him. He was an administrator, not a
cryptanalyst—he’d been vice-chancellor of some northern university
before the war—and Jericho knew he hadn’t a clue. He didn’t know
whether the blackout would last four days, four months or four
years.

Skynner said carefully: “It’s possible.”

“Yes, well, all things are possible.” Trowbridge gave an
unpleasanr rasping laugh that turned into another cough. “Is it
likely? Is it likely you can break this, whatever you call it—this
Shark—before our convoys come within range of the U-boats?”

“We’ll give it every priority.”

“I know damn well you’ll give it every priority, Leonard. You
keep saying you’ll give it every priority. That’s not the
question.”

“Well, sir, as you press me, sir, yes.” Skynner stuck his big
jaw out heroically. In his mind’s eye he was sreering his ship
manfully into the face of the typhoon. “Yes, I think we may be able
to do it.”

You’re mad, thought Jericho.

“And you all believe that?” The admiral stared hard in their
direction. He had eyes like a bloodhound’s, red-lidded and
watery.

Logie was the first to break the silence. He looked at Skynner
and winced and scratched the back of his head with the stem of his
pipe. “I suppose we do have the advantage of knowing more about
Shark than we did before.”

Atwood jumped in: “If Guy thinks we can do it, I certainly
respect his opinion. I’d go along with whatever he estimates.”
Baxter nodded judiciously. Jericho inspected his watch.

“And you?” said the admiral. “What do you think?”

In Cambridge, they would just about be finishing breakfast. Kite
would be steaming open the mail. Mrs Sax would be rattling round
with her brushes and pails. In Hall on Saturday they served
vegetable pie with potatoes for lunch…

He was aware that the room had gone quiet and he looked up to
find all eyes were on him. The fair-haired man in the suit was
slating at him with particular curiosity. He felt his face begin to
colour.

And then he felt a spasm of irritation.

Afterwards Jericho was to think about this moment many times.
What made him act as he did? Was it tiredness? Was he simply
disoriented, plucked out of Cambridge and set down in the middle of
this nightmare? Was he still ill? Illness would certainly help
explain what happened later. Or was he so distracted by the thought
of Claire that he wasn’t thinking straight? All he remembered for
certain was an overwhelming feeling of annoyance. “You’re only here
for show, old love.” You’re only here to make up the numbers, so
Skynner can put on a good act for the Yanks. You’re only here to do
as you’re told, so keep your views to yourself, and don’t ask
questions. He was suddenly sick of it all, sick of everything—sick
ot the blackout, sick of the cold, sick of the chummy first-name
terms and the lime smell and the damp and the whale meat—whale
meat—at four o’clock in the morning…

“Actually, I’m not sure I am as optimistic as my
colleagues.”

Skynner interrupted him at once. You could almost hear the
klaxons going off in his mind, see the airmen sprinting across the
deck and the big guns swivelling skywards as HMS Skynner came under
threat. “Tom’s been ill, sir, I’m afraid. He’s been away from us
for the best part of a month.”

“Why not?” The admiral’s tone was dangerously friendly. “Why
aren’t you optimistic?”

“…so I’m not sure he’s altogether fully aut fait with the
situation. Wouldn’t you admit that, Tom?”

“Well, I’m certainly au fait with Enigma, ah, Leonard.” Jericho
could hardly believe his own words. He plunged on. “Enigma is a
very sophisticated cipher system. And Shark is its ultimate
refinement. I’ve spent the past eight hours reviewing the Shark
material and, ah, forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn, but it
seems to me we are in a very serious situation.”

“But you were breaking it successfully?”

“Yes, but we’d been given a key. The weather code was the key
that unlocked the door. The Germans have now changed the weather
code. That means we’ve lost our key. Unless there’s been some
development I’m not aware of, I don’t understand how we’re going
to…” Jericho searched for a metaphor. “…pick the lock.”

The other American naval officer, the one who hadn’t spoken so
far—Jericho had momentarily forgotten his name—said: “And you still
haven’t gotten those four-wheel bombes you promised us, Frank.”

“That’s a separate issue,” muttered Skynner. He gave Jericho a
murderous look.

“Is it?” Kramer—that was it. He was called Kramer. “Surely if we
had a few four-wheel bombes right now we wouldn’t need the weather
cribs?”

“Just stop there for a moment,” said the admiral, who had been
following this conversation with increasing impatience. “I’m a
sailor, and an old sailor at that. I don’t understand all
this—talk—about keys and cribs and bombs with wheels. We’re trying
to keep the sea-lanes open from America and if we can’t do that
we’re going to lose this war.”

“Hear, hear,” said Hammerbeck. “Well said, Jack.”

“Now will somebody please give me a straight answer to a
straight question? Will this blackout definitely be over in four
days” time or won’t it? Yes or no?

Skynner’s shoulders sagged. “No,” he said wearily. “If you put
it like that, sir, I can’t say definitely it will be over, no.”

“Thank you. So, if it isn’t over in four days, when will it be
over? You. You’re the pessimist. What do you think?”

Once again Jericho was conscious of everyone watching him.

He spoke carefully. Poor Logie was peering inside his tobacco
pouch as if he wished he could climb in and never come out “It’s
very hard to say. All we have to measure it by is the last
blackout.”

“And how long did that go on?”

“Ten months.”

It was as if he had detonated a bomb. Everybody made a noise.
The Navy men shouted. The admiral started coughing. Baxter and
Atwood said “No!” simultaneously. Logie groaned. Skynner, shaking
his head, said: “That really is defeatist of you, Tom.” Even
Wigram, the fair-headed man, gave a snort and stared at the
rafters, smiling at some private joke.

“I’m not saying it will definitely take us ten months,” Jericho
resumed when he could make himself heard. “But that’s the measure
of what we’re up against and I think that four days is unrealistic.
I’m sorry. I do.”

There was a pause, and then Wigram said, softly: “ Why, I
wonder.”

“Mr Wigram?”

“Sorry, Leonard.” Wigram bestowed his smile around the table,
and Jericho’s immediate thought was how expensive he looked—blue
suit, silk tie, Jermyn Street shirt, pomaded hair swept back and
scented with some masculine cologne—he might have stepped out of
the lobby of the Ritz. A lounge lizard, Baxter had called him,
which was Bletchley code for spy.

“Sorry,” Wigram said again. “Thinking aloud. I was just
wondering why Donitz should have decided to change this particular
bit of code and why he should have chosen to do so now!” He stared
at Jericho. “From what you were saying, it sounds as though he
couldn’t have chosen any one thing more damaging to us.”

Jericho didn’t have to reply; Logie did it for him. “Routine.
Almost certainly. They change their code books from time to time.
Just our bad luck they did it now.”

“Routine,” repeated Wigram. “Right.” He smiled once more. “Tell
me, Leonard, how many people know about this weather code and how
important it is to us?”

“Really, Douglas,” laughed Skynner, “whatever are you
suggesting?”

“How many?”

“Guy?”

“A dozen, perhaps.”

“Couldn’t make me a little list, could you?”

Logie looked to Skynner for approval. “I, ah, well, I, ah…”

“Thanks.”

Wigram resumed his examination of the ceiling.

The silence that followed was broken by a long sigh from the
admiral. “I think I gather the sense of the meeting.” He stubbed
out his cigarette and reached down beside his chair for his
briefcase. He began stuffing his papers into it and his lieutenants
followed suit. “I can’t pretend it’s the happiest of messages to
take back to the First Sea Lord.”

Hammerbeck said: “I guess I’d better signal Washington.”

The admiral stood and immediately they all pushed back their
chairs and got to their feet.

“Lieutenant Cave will act as Admiralty liaison.” He turned to
Cave: “I’d like a daily report. On second thoughts, perhaps better
make that twice a day.”

Yes, sir.

“Lieutenant Kramer: you’ll carry on here and keep Commander
Hammerbeck informed?”

“I sure will, sir. Yes, sir.”

“So.” He pulled on his gloves. “I suggest we reconvene this
meeting as and when there are developments to report. Which
hopefully will be within four days.”

At the door, the old man turned. “It’s not just one million tons
of shipping and ten thousand men, you know. It’s one million tons
of shipping and ten thousand men every two weeks. And it’s not just
the convoys. It’s our obligation to send supplies to Russia. It’s
our chances of invading Europe and driving the Nazis out. It’s
everything. It’s the whole war.” He gave another of his wheezing
laughs. “Not that I want to put any pressure on you, Leonard.” He
nodded. “Good morning, gentlemen.”

As they mumbled their “good morning sirs”, Jericho heard Wigram
say quietly to Skynner: “I’ll talk to you later, Leonard.”

They listened to the visitors clatter down the concrete stairs,
and then to the crunch of their feet on the path outside, and
suddenly the room was quiet. A mist of blue tobacco hung over the
table like smoke rising after a battle.

Skynner’s lips were compressed. He was humming to himself. He
gathered his papers into a pile and squared off the edges with
exaggerated care. For what seemed a long time, nobody spoke.

“Well,” said Skynner eventually, “that was a triumph. Thank you,
Tom. Thank you very much indeed. I’d forgotten what a tower of
strength you could be. We’ve missed you.”

“It’s my fault, Leonard,” said Logie. “Bad briefing. Should have
put him in the picture better. Sorry. Bit of a rush first
thing.”

“Why don’t you just get back to the Hut, Guy? In fact, why don’t
you all go back, and then Tom and I can have a little chat.”

“Bloody fool,” said Baxter to Jericho.

Atwood took his arm. “Come on, Alec.”

“Well, he is. Bloody fool.”

They left.

The moment the door closed Skynner said: “I never wanted you
back.”

“Logie didn’t mention that.” Jericho folded his arms to stop his
hands shaking. “He said I was needed here.”

“I never wanted you back, not because I think you’re a
fool—Alec’s wrong about that. You’re not a fool. But you’re a
wreck. You’re ruined. You’ve cracked once before under pressure and
you’ll do it again, as your little performance just now showed.
You’ve outlived your usefulness to us.”

Skynner was leaning his large bottom casually against the edge
of the table. He was speaking in a friendly tone and if you had
seen him from a distance you would have thought he was exchanging
pleasantries with an old acquaintance.

“Then why am I here? I never asked to come back.”

“Logie thinks highly of you. He’s the acting head of the Hut and
I listen to him. And, I’ll be honest, after Turing, you probably
have—or, rather, had—the best reputation of any cryptanalyst on the
Park. You’re a little bit of history, Tom. A little bit of a
legend. Bringing you back, letting you attend this morning, was a
way of showing our masters how seriously we take this, ah,
temporary crisis. It was a risk. But obviously I was wrong. You’ve
lost it.”